In Quest of the Perfect Malted

From What Do You Say to That? by Walt Bodine
Westport Publishers, 1988

I write, my friends, with feeling — feeling for the vanishing, honest-to-God chocolate malted milk.

What do I mean?

First, imagine a nice big chilled glass, filled to the brim with a beige-colored concoction, seductive to the taste buds, not so thick as to require a spoon, but not really thin, either, topped with a fluff of real whipped cream. Beside it a gleaming silver malt can, containing more of the same delicious beverage, perhaps even another full glass of it.

Alongside this beauty should be placed a can of nutmeg, to be applied to taste by the consumer. For total perfection, a long silver soda spoon, a straw encased in a paper sheath and a couple of small cookies complete the picture.

Alas, it is no more. The sins committed in its name are without number.

It was at my father's drugstore that my virginal tongue forst tasted the ecstatic flavor of a good malted. Like some unlucky cocaine users, I was hooked after the very first use. I like 'em thick and I like 'em thin and I like all the gradations in between.

As a youth, I spent several of my high school years working behind the soda fountain of my dad's drugstore, Bodine's All-Night Drug Store. I am sure the fountain never made a dime of gross profit when I was on duty. As a malt lover myself, I always had empathy for people needing a malted milk fix.

The standard way to make a good malt is to put in a couple of dips of vanilla ice cream, a squirt or two of chocolate, a spoonful of malt, and then a swish of milk sufficient to fill the can up to about the three-fifths level. The mixture goes on the malt mixer, a short time for people who like them thick and a long time for the thin malt fanciers.

By contrast, I usually popped in four dips of vanilla, a spoon and a half of malt, and milk up to the five-sixths level. As my father used to note when he caught me at it, "This is a malt fit for a king, but we don't get much royalty though here."

This passion for the malted has always made me more understanding of all other addictions. The poor alcoholic who is drawn into the saloon because, walking by, he picked up the scent of beer, is someone I can understand. For me it is the whir of the a malt mixer that makes me cancel whatever plan was in hand and settle at the counter, eager to see whether this encounter will be a disappointment or a full-blown high.
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