Also serving the communities of De Luz, Rainbow, Camp Pendleton, Pala and Pauma

Remembering memorable meals

Most people living in the U.S. have had the good fortune of eating three meals a day for most of our days – a lot of meals. But how many do we remember? The remembered meals have been something special – something different. We remember where we were, who we were with and, sometimes, what we ate.

Two meals I remember for their similarities and their differences were at the Yacht Club in Chicago, Illinois, and the Navajo Café in Compton, California.

I was an inexperienced small-town boy in the big city. The 5-foot-tall, dark-haired Chicago girl was always vocal, always in motion and always in charge. And that worked out well. We had seven wonderful weeks together.

Back in Compton – in my home territory – I made an effort to impress the quiet, but exciting, 5-feet-10 girl with blond hair to convince her that I was the one. I thought I was in charge.

And that worked out well. We had seven delightful decades together.

The Yacht Club

On a Sunday morning in August 1944, Joy Morton, my Chicago girlfriend, charmed our way into the members-only Champagne brunch at a Lake Michigan yacht club. She was wearing a simple, but elegant black suit, a small, black-veiled hat, ankle strap high heels and a single strand of pearls – attire appropriate for a morning Mass or an exclusive club. And my naval uniform was welcome at any venue.

The maître d' escorted us to a marina view table, held Morton's chair as he seated her, then placed a large linen napkin across her lap. A white-jacketed server appeared with Champagne and crystal stemware. I worried about the cost, but she touched a fingertip to her lips and silently nodded: "Don't ask."

With each sip of Champagne, we made a toast to each other and to us, marveling at the chiming bell tones when crystal met crystal. When leaning across the table, in a toasting gesture, a teasing bit of red lace and cleavage was revealed at her jacket's neckline. I wondered if her lacy red bra was color coordinated to another garment and asked, "Matched set?"

Her dark eyes sparkled beneath the small black veil. She leaned lower and closer, winked and touched her glass to mine.

That girl could make even "basic black" exciting.

We made several trips to the bountiful buffet, filling gold-trimmed china with exotic foods – kiwis, squid, sausages and such – artistically and appetizingly displayed on silver platters.

We were happily sampling desserts from one another's plates when the server refilled our glasses, then nodded toward a white-haired couple, in matching blue blazers, who'd asked that our brunch be put on their account. After a final sip, we walked to their table and thanked them.

"You're more than welcome," the lady replied. "We noticed you two when you first entered. It was a pleasure watching a young couple so obviously in love."

"We... we're... we're," I stammered.

"Yes, we are!" Morton exclaimed, "And have been since the instant we met!"

She put her arm around my waist and pulled me close.

"We're grabbing every second we can before the Navy – and this damn war – takes him away from me!" she said.

Once out the door, she offered an explanation of her exclamation.

"I just wanted the nice old folks to feel they'd gotten their money's worth," she said.

But her arm was still around my waist, and mine was now around hers. We knew the Champagne, the unaccustomed alcohol, was not the only reason for our giddiness.

We continued down the lakeside pathway. The morning sun glistened across the blue water. The city's skyline reflected a brilliant gold.

It was a beautiful day in Chicago.

The Navajo Cafe

On a Saturday afternoon in April 1945 – Bertha Anna "Ann" Rollo was sitting close beside me in my 1938 Plymouth convertible. We'd had a couple of dress-up dates, but that day I was taking the new girlfriend to meet my parents.

She was wearing her basic, everyday wardrobe – plaid skirt, sweater, bobby sox and saddle shoes. I was stationed at the Naval Air Station in Los Alamitos and wearing my dress blue uniform.

I turned into the parking lot of Compton's Navajo Café, a hometown favorite I wanted to share. We entered through the rear door, directly into the small kitchen. I exchanged greetings with the proprietor, who was also the server, chief cook and bottle washer of the usually one-man operation. He was standing at a home-style stove stirring a pot of the secret sauce he would apply to every food item on the menu.

I seated Rollo in a window booth, a booth with a view across Long Beach Boulevard to "Dave's Home of Chrome," a shop that featured bright, shiny automotive accessories. I walked to the red, chest-type cooler, embossed with white Coca Cola script, dipped my hand into the refrigerated ice water, and returned to the booth with two dripping Pepsis.

She sipped from the 12-ounce bottle as she studied the menu, but I ordered for the lady. Spaghetti, covered with steaming secret sauce, arrived on platters with chipped edges and accompanied by a basket of salted soda crackers – not individually enclosed in airtight, sanitary, cellophane packets, but a handful plucked from a bulk container.

I fed nickels into the glass-fronted Wurlitzer jukebox that stood tall, multicolored and brightly illuminated beside the Coke cooler. We talked and listened to swingin' big-band records as we ate.

The second course, the Navajo Special, was my longtime favorite. A grilled hamburger patty, formed to fit a large hot dog bun, was sprinkled with grated cheese, pickle relish and chopped onions – all blended with a dripping covering of secret sauce. I made another trip to the cooler and returned with a second pair of Pepsis.

We finished eating, wiped our fingers and faces with paper napkins from the tabletop dispenser and gulped down the last of our Pepsis. The chef, in his checkered trousers and sauce splattered apron, handed me the check, but was looking at Rollo when he asked, "Where'd you find this beauty?"

I introduced him to Rollo and told how she and her two girlfriends had picked up three sailors on Huntington Park's Pacific Boulevard. He smiled and wished me luck, then rang up our tab on the big brass cash register, at the four-stool counter and returned with my change.

We slid from the booth and left by the front entrance, burping, laughing and wondering if we really should have had those second Pepsis. But the tall girl's hand was tight in mine as we strolled up the boulevard.

It was a beautiful day in Compton.

 

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