This is a story about eating. Specifically, it has to do with eating in old fashioned saloons. The eating I refer to took place in St. Louis which used to offer perhaps a dozen breweries and hundreds of saloons. It has nothing to do with heels on shoes or boots, although St. Louis was also renowned for its production of footwear. It is a given that you will remember the slogan about St. Louis: First in Shoes; First in Booze; and last in the American League. The last part of that slogan was an evaluation of the lowly St. Louis Browns, a major league baseball club that tried its best, but usually fell short.
Before we get to Eating Heels, you may wish to know a little about St. Louis and this old essayist who actually confronted and consumed those heels served by old fashioned saloons. I am quite resigned to the thought that you may consider my conduct in this essay in eating heels as plebeian and probably peasant-like. I accept that evaluation. Never have I denied that plebeian and peasantry definitions should apply to me. I sort of welcome those designations. I will call your attention to the fact that my only redemptive quality is that I drink only four to six bottles of beer per year. When St. Louis preachers occasionally sober up, I’m sure they will comment favorably on that abstemious fact.
It is fortunate that I was not born a Swede. Nearly every meal in Sweden seems to start with beer. When I was in Sweden, it was my pleasure to join with my good friend Sven Lernevall and other Swedes to down a glass of Tuborg. The Swedish Council of Churches (Lutheran) may well start nearly all their meals with beer. If so, my congratulations are offered. I will think about becoming a Swedish Lutheran as judgment day approaches.
As life worked out for me, my parents lived in Clayton, Missouri. Curiously, for the first eleven years of my life, the U. S. Government enforced Prohibition which meant that nearly all alcohol and alcoholic beverages were banned, which gave rise to bootlegging operations. Life for me started in Clayton and continued there to 1942 when an enlistment in the United States Army Air Corps intervened.
Clayton is a suburb which adjoins St. Louis on its western borders. Clayton was and is a wealthy town with the merchant and professional classes of St. Louis having many of their residences in Clayton. The school system was considered excellent under the direction of John Bracken, its superintendent. When the school system counted me on its rolls for nearly 12 years, the demographics of the grade and high school were pretty close to 55% Jewish. That was fine with me. It was generally believed that the parents in such a system would insist on excellence in the schools. And that’s what John Bracken delivered.
The fact that the town was wealthy and that the school system had ample funds made very little difference to me. From late 1929 when the Depression started, my father was often out of work through no fault of his own. For all of my high school years, it was usual for me to have an after school job, even if it was only babysitting or repairing flat tires at Schroth’s Flying Red Horse Mobil Gas Station. My recreation was often with boys from the County Orphan’s Home.
Growing up in this atmosphere did me a world of good. The value of a dollar was clear to me from the beginning. Working was a normal part of my life. Army life presented no problems when at age 19, it came into my life. And most importantly, my upbringing equipped me to deal with big folks and with the “little people”, as hotel queen Leona Helmsley once called them. The little people – the people who work in grocery stores, the people who pump my gas, the man who fixes my roof – are my friends to this day.
And this essay is about some more little people, namely the sandwich makers who worked in a saloon in downtown St. Louis.
St. Louis used to be a somewhat more important city than it is today. With more than 800,000 population, it ranked eighth among American cities in the 1940’s and 1950’s. The city today is somewhere around 400,000 in population. As people got older and gained more affluence, many of them moved to St. Louis County, a different jurisdiction. As a matter of direct honesty, there are neighborhoods that used to be thriving. Today, when driving through those same St. Louis neighborhoods, the car doors must be locked. Leaving as soon as possible becomes urgent. The top executives of Southwestern Bell Telephone Company erected a brand new headquarters building from which to guide their multi-state company. It was soon followed by their move to San Antonio, Texas. The new building was abandoned. The
St. Louis Post Dispatch which was a leading paper in the country in the 1930’s, 1940’s and into the ‘50’s, is seldom quoted these days. It has become a local paper printing AP dispatches instead of having correspondents on the scene. The St. Louis Cardinal baseball organization has not won a National League pennant since 1987 and seems content to muddle through while making enough money to satisfy the current owners. The symphony orchestra under the direction of Vladamir Golschmann, was one of America’s finest. It continued under Golschmann’s successor, Leonard Slatkin. But now, Slatkin has left for the Washington National Symphony. The Grand Opera Association is a thing of the past, I am afraid. I am sorry about all this. St. Louis could probably still be a top flight city. Right now, however, it has a long way to go.
Now we get to eating and drinking, which in St. Louis always seemed to go together. As I mentioned earlier, about a dozen beer breweries called St. Louis home. For a three or four year period, my wife and I rented a flat at 2916A Wyoming Avenue in nearby South St. Louis. The “A” in the address indicated that we lived on the second floor.
Within easy walking distance, there were three breweries in our neighborhood. There was Alpen Brau, Falstaff and Griesedeich, which distributed their beer to saloons, taverns, restaurants and liquor stores within a 100 mile radius of St. Louis. Nearby on Broadway, was the giant Budweiser plant. The breweries were very good neighbors. Their premises were kept spotlessly clean. And every day, they offered a tour of the plants ending up by offering as much free beer to the tourers as they needed.
My brother Earl, whose insurance debit included the brewery neighborhoods, shamelessly took the plant tours at lunch time and ate the beer company’s sandwiches and drank the breweries free beer on many occasions. Earl was acquainted with my thoughts about his shameless conduct. Even though I was 26 or 27 years old and a veteran of the big war, Earl who was 12 years my senior, dismissed my thoughts as the mumblings of a kid brother. He simply kept up his shameless tours of the beer plants for several more years.
At this point, I feel obliged to state my opinion on beer. If someone else drinks it, that is fine with me. But I personally consume only four to six bottles – per year. This has nothing to do with a health problem nor is it the result of some religious proscription. About once each quarter when my wife, Miss Chicka, offers a dish for dinner that seems made for beer, we drink a bottle of beer.
This is not a late blooming reaction on my part. During the war years, it was often my lot to serve on British bases. Some were on the Adriatic side of Italy and others were found through the many possessions that Great Britain held in Africa and the Middle East. The Brits have a reasonable attitude toward alcohol on their bases. They permit it to be rationed and sold by their military system called NAAFTI – which is Navy, Army, Air Force Trade Institute. On American bases, alcohol is almost always forbidden which means that soldiers who are stationed near a town, will often get drunk when they have a leave or a pass to leave the base. By all means, the Brits are many kilometers ahead of the United States Military in the field of alcoholic consumption.
Overseas, upon being paid by the Quartermaster, the soldier would also receive his monthly ration card for beer at the NAAFTI store. In every case, my ration card was given to other U. S. soldiers. For the last six or seven months in the Gold Coast, now Ghana, my bunk was located on top of a bunk occupied by another sergeant named Sylvester Liss. In civilian life, he was a worker at the giant Budweiser plant in St. Louis. Because I had enlisted, my serial number began with a “one”. 17077613. So I was paid first. Liss had been drafted and his serial number began with a “three” and he was paid after all the enlisters had been paid. On pay day, old Sylvester became my shadow. He wanted no other soldier to claim my beer ration card.
Maybe I am making a bigger deal out of my consumption of beer than it deserves. The point I want to make is that I absolutely do not oppose drinking beer. It just doesn’t cause me to perform handstands at the thought of beer. In the St. Louis that I grew up in with a dozen breweries and hundreds of saloons, my casual attitude toward beer was probably considered un-American at the least and probably bordering on Communist treason. But those thoughts did not make me a beer lover.
Two more pertinent thoughts. During Prohibition, starting in 1920, my Aunt Nora made home brew that, to my underdeveloped taste buds, was nothing short of absolutely repulsive. She also cooked ducks and geese. To this day, I don’t eat foul of any kind. I don’t blame it on Aunt Nora; there have been many years when I could have developed a taste for American, or European or Japanese beers. It just did not happen.
The second point is that all those smaller breweries in St. Louis are now seemingly out of business. What is left is the giant Budweiser plant which is more giant than ever. Earl is gone now. I hope the Anheiser-Busch people miss him for the tours and the free lunches.
All of this foreplay about breweries is to set the stage for Eating Heels. Before the First World War, I am told that nearly every top flight saloon had a free lunch counter. The food costs were often underwritten by the breweries in exchange for the saloon owner making a favorable remark to his customers about the brewery. By the time I started to work in downtown St. Louis in 1941, the free lunch counter was just a memory. In its place, saloon keepers sold generous sandwiches on freshly baked bread with lots of side orders such as potato salad also being offered at reasonable prices. By the time I showed up after the war, there was no compulsion to drink beer or any other alcoholic beverage with the sandwiches.
That sat well with young people like me. Working for AT&T after the War, there simply was not enough room in the budget to indulge in a beer with lunch. On top of that, the management of AT&T would have frowned on anyone coming back from lunch with beer on his breath. So it was coffee or cokes or some other non-alcoholic beverage every day for lunch.
Following the end of World War II, the men on military leaves began to return to work in St. Louis. I was among the first to be discharged because my discharge point total was almost twice the prescribed total, and most importantly, I was not on a foreign assignment. So on about November 10, 1945, I reported back to work in the St. Louis Plant Division of AT&T. By Christmas, my old pal Lloyd Rockamann, who had also been in the Italian campaign, came back. Before long after that, Gordon Gintz and Tom Laflin started to work. They were also veterans.
One way or another, the four of us found each other at the one hour lunch period. For a time, we didn’t know where we should eat because so much had changed during the war. Lloyd and I missed the four AT&T men, Ashby Vaughn, Bernie Wheeler, Dave Weiss and Don Meier, who had been killed. I suggested a cafeteria recommended by my wife at the time. It was greatly favored by the women in the office. That was my downfall.
The cafeteria was Miss Hulling’s. It served pretty good food and everyone was very polite. The Miss Hulling’s staff tolerated no boisterous conduct of any kind. It was run, it seemed to me, on New England Puritan standards of conduct. The food was nutritious and the serving sizes would cause no one to deal with obesity. Miss Hulling’s ran a sterile cafeteria.
Before long, my other luncheon companions made it obvious that we ought to go to a place that permitted more relaxed eating. All of my companions had served overseas in the military and when they could get a meal, it was often consumed standing up. Perhaps when it was consumed, it was accompanied by raucous words and gestures. That sort of conduct would be proper in the Army, but would not be tolerated in the prim confines of Miss Hulling’s Cafeteria.
My recommendation of Miss Hulling’s cost me dearly. When the four of us were considering where to find another place to eat lunch, the other three men ignored me. It was absolutely clear that prim eating establishments were not to be considered and I was not to have the chance to recommend one. That was fine with me as I thought Miss Hulling’s place was largely for elderly, female members of the clergy.
So the four of us began to eat in saloons, of which, there were hundreds in downtown St. Louis in 1945 and 1946. Before long we more or less settled on a non-descript place on 11th Street two or three blocks north of our office. It had some saw dust on the floor, but the janitor swept the place fairly often. On the floor in front of the long bar, were spittoons. Few people chewed tobacco anymore, but cigar smokers needed the spittoons.
At the end of the bar, there was a station where a man made sandwiches. A second man offered potato salad and coleslaw and helped make sandwiches when the first man fell behind. The customer would walk up to the sandwich maker and place his order. There were no women as I recall it. The second man would ask if side orders were desired. I have forgotten who got paid, but someone took our money and then we went to the bar to order our beverages. It was absolutely unheard of, at that time, to ask for a dessert of any kind. That would be tantamount to standing up in Miss Hulling’s Cafeteria and shouting an obscenity. Do I make myself clear – there were no desserts. If that was on your mind, you should have gone to one of the many Busy Bee Bakeries and Soda Fountain places that could be found all over St. Louis. You go to a saloon to eat serious food without any frills.
Soon, the four of us became friendly with the two sandwich makers who were also veterans. When I was a young child, my mother baked bread on Mondays in the winter when she could put the dough on the furnace heat pipes to make it rise. When I got home from school, she offered me first crack at the newly baked bread. None of my siblings, who were at work, had come home yet. Always – always it was my desire to eat the end of the bread – called the heel. If my mother had permitted it, I would have eaten the other heel as well.
The heels are more tasty and probably, more nutritious. They have staying power. In my mind, heels are what bread is all about.
As we got to know the sandwich men at the saloon better, I asked them what they did with the heels of the sandwich bread. I could see that they were in a pile at the end of the sandwich station. They told me that the heels were to be thrown away. That included white heels, rye heels and whole wheat heels. At that early point, no one in St. Louis had ever heard of sourdough. Most of the sandwiches were served almost exclusively on white, rye or whole wheat bread.
So I said to the first sandwich man, “Would you make my sandwich with a heel, please?” He asked me to repeat what I said and again, he was asked the same question. Well, the sandwich man cleared his throat and said he would get fired if he put a heel on a customer’s sandwich. So this was very serious business.
I pointed out to the sandwich man that he said the heels were to be thrown away so it made economic sense to offer one or two to me on my sandwich. He said he agreed with my instant economic analysis, but the bottom line was he would be fired if he made a sandwich with a heel. At this point, it appeared to me that an even greater economic incentive would apply if I asked that two heels be used for my sandwich. The sandwich man must have thought that he would not only be fired, but instantly condemned to hell if he complied with my request for TWO heels. This required an appeal to the supreme authority who directed the fortunes of the saloon.
So, somewhere in this friendly colloquy, the owner of the saloon showed up. I explained that under the theory that the customer is always right, he should be glad to offer heels to sandwich customers. I believe my argument was clinched when I rolled out my economic analysis. The owner of the saloon would have to pay to have the heel output hauled away each day. The saloon owner at that point, told the sandwich man that his proscription against heels on sandwiches was hereby lifted. When a customer asked or demanded that one or two heels be used for his sandwich, the sandwich maker was to happily comply. I felt vindicated.
While all of these discussions with the sandwich men and the owner were taking place, the other three men in our group were offering gratuitous comments and insults, and making raucous noises as my absolutely convincing points were made. When I sat down with them, the good natured razzing continued. So every day we ate at the saloon, my sandwiches were made with two heels. Clearly, they were the best sandwiches in St. Louis!
After a short period of time, Gordon Gintz and Tom Laflin got curious. One day, they ordered their sandwiches to be made using one heel. I said nothing as my hopes were to hold out until Lloyd Rockamann was converted. My argument with the one heel eaters was that if one heel made the sandwich better, it was obvious that two heels would improve it by another 50%. Finally, Lloyd Rockamann wanted to see what the enlightened eaters had discovered, so he agreed to try one heel on his sandwich.
For part of 1950, and from April to July in 1951, I was involved in wage negotiations for the Communications Workers of America in New York. So it was impossible for me to check on how the heel eating business was going. When I came back to St. Louis, I was quickly summoned by the General Manager, Vernon Bagnell, to the newly created AT&T Western Area offices in Kansas City. Bagnell offered me a management job that paid an atrocious salary of $475 per month. I took it because it might lead to better things, which it did.
When I told my luncheon companions about the job in Kansas City, they were genuinely happy for me. Naturally, nothing would do but to have lunch at the saloon two or three blocks north of the office. They insisted on paying for my lunch. What really impressed me, however, was that the former cynics each ordered their sandwiches with two heels. The sandwich men said that they were now offering heels and encouraging customers to try them. The owner of the saloon sat with us for awhile and said that such a sandwich innovator, a pioneer in eating, would be missed. Even without a drink, I believed him implicitly.
So I hope this little 50 plus year old story offers you strength to face the future and to eat some heels.
Post Script:
After the four of us ate lunch together, we began to socialize. When Lloyd Rockamann and Gordon Gintz were married, all of us had a part to play in the wedding activities. I hope it is obvious that we cared a lot for each other.
Lloyd Rockamann who was a Signal Corp Sergeant in combat in Italy, wound up in California. Tragically, he died from cancer around 1982 or 1983.
The last I heard of Tom Laflin, he was the Chief of a large AT&T installation in Hillsboro, Missouri. I have been unable to determine if Tom died because AT&T severely restricted the names of deceased employees. I hope Tom is alive and well. One way or another, my mind has led me to believe that Tom has cashed in his chips. I hope I am wrong on that point.
Gordon Gintz did not want to move from St. Louis. He transferred long ago to the Southwestern Bell Company. Several years ago, it came to my attention that he had been promoted to the title of Engineer. That was good news.
They were all good men and good friends. I wish them and their wives well.
I hope that this little essay conveys the thought that these were happy times at the end of World War II. The United States led the world’s democracies. All of the old GI’s who ate saloon lunches with me had, in one way or another, survived the war. At the same time, Lloyd Rockamann and I frequently remembered our four fellow employees who were killed during that war. If they had survived the War, they would have joined us for our saloon lunches.
We were not only alive, but we no longer had to deal with mess kits and the dubious food provided by the United States Army. That was an enormous plus.
These happy times at lunch and in our after hours socializing were often marked by good natured ribbing and insults. For example, at lunch, if one of us ordered any kind of sandwich, it would be a good bet that another old GI would say, “I hope you’re not going to eat that (obscenity)! Sometimes the old GI making sandwiches for the saloon would whisper, “Could you guys help me out? This meat loaf is getting mold on it.” That was probably his best offering for the day. Comments such as these would not have been welcomed in the prim and proper confines of Miss Hulling’s Cafeteria.
As I say, these were happy times. I am glad to commemorate them in an essay called, “Eating Heels.” The old time saloons may be gone, but this commemorative essay lives on.
E. E. CARR
June 23, 2003
Lagniappe
Lagniappe is a French Cajun word which means providing something extra and/or something unexpected.
I am offering this epic poem by Gordon Gintz’s grandfather as lagniappe. When I met the grandfather in 1948, he was between 75 and 80 years of age. That age had not slowed down his wit or his desire to bond with other males regardless of age. When I met the poet laureate of South St. Louis, I was 26 years of age. The poem for the ages is called, “Hot Tamales.”

HOT TAMALES*
John and Molly went to the beach,
To enjoy some noontime frolics,
The sun was hot to John’s bare ass,
The sand was hot to Molly’s.

I last spoke go Gordon Gintz in 1951 when I was transferred to Kansas City. After a 52 year pause, I called the Gintz household in St. Louis last week. When I inquired of Dorothy, his wife, she told me that Gordon had died in 1996 of a heart attack at age 73. A year later, she lost her 45 year old son, also to a heart attack. I told Dorothy we would send this essay as well as some others with the thought that they may bring back a pleasant memory or two.
* A tamale is regarded as a food of Mexico, although I suspect that it is probably produced in many places in the U. S. It is ground meat seasoned with chili, rolled in corn meal dough; wrapped in corn husks and steamed. It has been many years since I heard anyone ask for a hot tamale, but there is the recipe, assuming that you will be entertaining the King and Queen of Mexico.
~~~
Man, the end of this one was a rollercoaster. A cheerful essay full of good memories, then a postscript, a lagniappe with a dirty poem, and a tamale recipe to boot. I never knew Pop liked bread heels. Maybe I should give ’em a try sometime.