The Classics

I bought a can of Vienna cocktail wieners today.

When my sister was 7 and I was 5, my mother slammed a ban on all snack food. Our house would harbor no chips, Doritos, M&M’s. No Oreos, Little Debbie’s, no Sarah Lee. “Have a lovely carrot,” my mom would say, or “Mmm, this apple looks delicious.”

In our school lunch sacks, we slogged thick slabs of Slavic-sounding goodness topped with roast beef, horseradish, and country cheddar. No one would trade with us, of course.

My mom’s moratorium lasted until my brother made it to solid foods and he refused anything but Ho-Ho’s and Ding-Dongs. “He’s so thin; I can’t let him starve.”

But my sister and I, we grew up prisoners of the pumpernickel.

Except once every other month.

My parent’s bi-monthly cocktail party featured canapés, candies, little puff pastries filled with creamy seafood. My sister and I were trotted out early on to pass the Planter’s. “Oh, honey, why don't you have just one,” someone would say. “Oh no,” we’d reply, loud enough for our mom to hear. “We’re not allowed. These are for you.”

“Aren’t you just the sweetest thing,” they’d sigh.

Soon my sister and I would retire to our bedroom and fall asleep listening to the waves of cocktail chatter. Bah-bah-bah-AHHHH HA HA HA HA-bah-bah-bah.

Early Sunday morning, we'd hit the ground running, straight to the living room. First on the menu was anything in a gray cocktail glass. The metallic glasses held the sweet drinks. In retrospect, I suppose the drink was a combination of gin and cherry liqueur, made particularly for ladies who didn’t like the taste of alcohol. We’d drain whatever was left in any glass, and find the tray with the reserves and drain those, too. Then, grabbing two fist fulls of cocktail nuts, we’d search for the holy grail: Vienna cocktail wieners.

How to describe a Vienna cocktail wiener? It’s almost baby food, shaped like a tiny sausage, about the size of a child's big toe, smooth as silk and full of salt and grease that melts in your mouth. You don’t even have to chew it, you just projectile it down your throat.

We'd wind up the morning with a digestif. The caramel drinks with fruit in them were pleasantly sweet and sour; the trick was to take a sip, hold it in your mouth and chomp the maraschino cherry before you swallowed. We had to hurry because it was getting late. We weren’t sure which would get us in greater trouble – eating snacks, or drinking from glasses that had other people’s germs.

During one of our orgies, our infant brother started to cry. Danger, danger. We rushed to his room. My sister knew her way around a diaper and began the changing process. But this time, his whatzit pointed directly to the ceiling and spewed like a fountain. I left the clean-up to her, because for some reason I was giggling and hiccupping at the same time and couldn’t stop either.

I imagine, stuffed with the goodness of Vienna and Kentucky and Scotland, we went back to bed to sleep it off. I can’t say for sure though, because my recollections get a bit fuzzy at this point.

Proust never had that problem, but then, all he worried about was one soggy French cookie. Just think what he could have done with a tiny weenie.