Our Waffle Man – Dr. Edward Iannuccilli

Our Waffle Man – Dr. Edward Iannuccilli

I regularly breakfast with a group of knowledgeable retired gentlemen of humor and wit.

Waffles are a popular item, particularly since the topping of mouthwatering maple syrup is unique — having been made especially for our klatch. At a recent breakfast (we follow COVID guidelines), one of our members spoke of the different kinds of Belgian Waffles. It is a more complex, emotionally charged subject than I realized, and thus a reason for my non-scholarly, simple definitions.

Basically, there is no such thing as a Belgian Waffle. There is the Brussels Waffle, a big crispy rectangle, light and crunchy, larger than others, pleasing to the eye, and often eaten with a topping.

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And there is the Liege Waffle, softer (no crunch), doughier, sweeter and of a different shape. Denser and more filling, it is flavorful enough to be eaten without a topping.

My waffle review reminded me of days of my youth when the waffle man came to the neighborhood. Yes, we had a waffle man.

When I write of our neighborhood peddlers, I usually get quite a number of responses that lean hard to nostalgia, as I waken an abundance of memories with a common refrain. “I wish those neighborhood peddlers could return.”

I believe it is because those peddlers, like the ice man, the milkman, the rag man, etc., became part of our families; reliable, interesting, trusted people who brought anticipation with product while bringing our streets to life every day.

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.” We scooted. After parking close to the curb, he arose from his squat bucket seat and stepped to the raised rear platform, locating behind his grilles.  As he slid open the window, the aroma of oil and frying dough drifted. “Yes?” 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 see 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 with the heat of the waffle and, with a wave of a time-worn tin can, dressed each of them with snow-white powdered sugar.

As he opened the window, the heat of the griddle wafted down to us. He presented our waffles with the care of a specialist. I reached into my pocket for ten cents, sat against a nearby oak and bit into the soft warmed 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.

Dr. Ed Iannuccilli is the author of three popular memoirs, “Growing up Italian; Grandfather’s Fig Tree and Other Stories”, “What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner” and “My Story Continues: From Neighborhood to Junior High.”  Learn more here.