The Keys to the Neighborhood: Trust, Produce, and Powdered Sugar
Uncle Tony and the Waffle Man
As summer approaches, I think of my youth when our neighborhood was replete with peddlers. Though competitors they coexisted as one large family trying to make a living.
My Uncle Tony was one of them. He was a fruit peddler --- not in my neighborhood but on the East Side of Providence where his clientele was trusting, loved him and basically adopted him.
On occasional Saturdays, I was his “striker” delivering goods to his customers at his experienced directions. I loved it.
By the time he picked me up, he had already been to the wholesale market where he procured what he needed for the day.
“Edward, I always get to the market early to get the best and freshest produce. It’s for my customers.”
Uncle Tony was possessive of them, and they were just as fond of him. They invited him to their children’s religious celebrations, to weddings and even funerals. He was part of their families.
“Tony, is that you?” they asked as he tapped on the back door.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Come in come in! Look In the refrigerator, see what I need. I’ll pay you next week.”
What trust. Uncle traipsed to the refrigerator, opened the door, looked up, down and around and closed gently. Down we trundled to his truck where he‘d hand me a basket. Along the narrow aisle we sidestepped as he selected the produce.
The wooden crates of vegetables gave off a layered aroma ---- a combination of sweet, sugary and earthy notes Yes, that was it. It smelled of my grandfather’s garden. Sometimes, when he kept the truck running, those garden smells married the warm exhaust fumes of the engine.
“Edward, hold this basket carefully. It’s important.” As we squeezed along, he loaded it. “Here, Edward, bring this in and put it on the table.”
His love of his business and his customers showed in his care. They trusted him. No wonder they invited him to their kids’ weddings.
Decades later, I find myself thinking of those days during breakfast with a weekly klatch—a group of knowledgeable retired gentlemen of humor and wit. Waffles are a popular item for us, particularly because our mouthwatering maple syrup is unique, made especially for our group.
We like education. One morning, one of our members spoke of the different types of Belgian Waffles; a more complex, emotionally charged subject than I realized.
Technically, there is no such thing as a Belgian Waffle. There is the Brussels Waffle, a large crispy, light, crunchy rectangle often eaten with toppings.
Then there is the Liege Waffle; softer, doughier, denser, sweeter and flavorful enough to be eaten plain.
As I listened, my mind drifted from our breakfast table to the old neighborhood.
When I write about these peddlers, I usually receive an abundance of nostalgic responses, all sharing a common refrain: “I wish those neighborhood peddlers could return.” I believe it is because those men—the ice man, the milkman, the rag man, and my uncle—became extensions of our families. They were reliable, interesting, trusted fixtures who brought anticipation along with their products, bringing our streets to life every day.
We had a Waffle Man.
The Waffle Man wore a white apron and a tall white hat tipped to the side. He drove a polished, red truck with smooth round fenders and small wheels, brandishing a wooden sign, “Waffles.”
When he pulled up, we kids scooted ahead. After parking close to the curb, he arose from his squat bucket seat and stepped onto the raised rear platform behind his grille. As he slid open the service window, the aroma of hot oil and frying dough drifted out.
“Yes?” he’d ask.
We chirped like baby robins. “Two waffles!” “I’ll take three!” “Just one for me—extra powdered sugar, please!”
By tiptoeing and pulling myself up on the window frame, I could watch him crafting his waffles. He dipped a ladle into the creamy mix, poured it onto a ribbed machine, closed the lid and stood back.
A puff of steam hissed. In a moment that seemed an eternity, the golden-brown waffles, each a perfect rectangle with small, sunken squares, were done.
He placed them on waxed paper that wrinkled from the heat. Then, with a wave of a time-worn tin can, dressed each of them with snow-white powdered sugar.
The heat of the griddle wafted down to us. A maestro, he presented our waffles with care.
I reached into my pocket for ten cents, gathered my prize, sat against a nearby oak and bit into the soft warm treat, savoring the slight crunch of the waffle, eating slowly, licking the sugar off my fingers, brushing the powder from my shirt.
The Waffle Man was a key player in the orchestra of my neighborhood’s everyday life.
And my Uncle Tony, on the other side of town, held one of those very same keys.
Look . . .
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