You’ll Never Guess My Favorite Neighborhood Vendor - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

Of the many vendors who came to our neighborhood . . . fish man,  rag man, grocery man, ice man, clothes man, and a bakery man, guess which one was my favorite.  No, not the ice cream man even though the ring of his truck meant that he cared, believing that we deserved an after-supper treat. Even though he was dependable, rushing through our neighborhood with his bell screeching every evening, he was second. My favorite? Why The Waffle Man of course.

The Waffle  Man was unpredictable, never on a schedule, often arriving out of nowhere. He was independent and comfortable, I guess.  Notwithstanding his irregular appearances, that man in the red truck brought something special.

No bells. Rather, his beautiful, upright truck was his calling card. We spotted it blocks away. Or if not,  someone broadcast from a third-floor window, “ The Waffle Man is coming, I can see his truck! He’s coming.” He seeped slowly to the curb, straddled its corner and stopped. We scrambled like lead to a magnet. What we thought was unreliable was dependable. It was his product, the waffle.

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He drove a polished, red truck with smooth round fenders and small wheels. On its side was a hand-carved sign, “Waffles.” After parking close to the curb, he twirled and rose from his squat bucket seat and stepped to the raised rear platform located behind his grille. The truck’s square roof was tall enough to accommodate his proportions. The Man wore a white apron and a tall white hat tipped to the side.  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.

I stood on tiptoes and pulled myself up on the window frame, I could see him crafting his waffles. “Careful, son.” He dipped a ladle into the creamy mix, poured it onto a ribbed machine, closed the lid, and stood back. A puff of steam came alive with a  hiss. 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.

The heat of the griddle wafted down to us on the warm summer day. He presented our waffles palm up with the care of a specialist. I reached into my pocket for ten cents, spun on the ball of my foot and headed to the nearest oak and sat. I looked at my waffle. Finally, I bit into the soft warmed treat, savoring the slight crunch of the waffle, eating slowly, licking the powder off my fingers, and brushing the bits from my shirt.

The vendors became part of us; reliable, interesting people who brought our streets to life every day. The Waffle Man was a maestro in the orchestra of our neighborhood’s everyday life.

429 Too Many Requests

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