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"Some Cynical Guy" No. 9: August 18, 2000 Vanishing Act Even a professional naysayer likes to take a vacation and stop saying "nay" now and then. Too much bile can be bad for the digestion, not to mention the soul. I fully confess to a lingering affection for dogs and most children -- as long as they're not YAPPY dogs and children. I'm fond of Mozart, summer evenings with fireflies, fresh-squeezed lemonade, "The Great Gatsby" and old Popeye cartoons. God help me, I even like George M. Cohan and "Mr. Ed." When I go out to eat, I enjoy discovering vestiges of old-time authenticity amid all the chi-chi nouvelle-yuppie restaurants that serve everything encrusted, drizzled, seared or infused. When did capers, fennel, pesto, dill and balsamic vinegar become major food groups? And what exactly is coulis, anyway? I'm tired of feeling that I should be carrying a glossary on my person every time I sit down at a restaurant table. Sorry, sorry -- I'm turning bilious again; old habits die hard. As I was about to say, I enjoy discovering surviving remnants of authentic local cookery, preferably served in authentically old dining halls with darkly varnished wood panels and a mounted swordfish or two on the walls. I still beam inwardly at the recollection of individual meals I consumed in places like Nags Head, North Carolina and Ogunquit, Maine, though the names of the eateries have faded from memory. Even the big urban centers still provide a handful of unspoiled oases for hearty, unpretentious eating in historic settings, like Boston's Olde Union Oyster House or the Napoleon House in New Orleans. (Maybe the word "house" in the name is a tipoff that the place is genuine.) My home for the past fifteen years has been Allentown, Pennsylvania, a provincial burg that teems with authentic early twentieth-century atmosphere. The city's westward sprawl culminates in some majestic manses and dazzling parks, but throughout most of the town you'd think the clock stopped sometime around 1931. If you walked into a barber shop you'd expect to see Herbert Hoover's face on the calendar and hear Rudy Vallee's lethargic voice droning from the Philco radio. Amid the hundred-year-old brick row homes and long back alleys, the antique storefronts and stout old industrial buildings, a few vestiges of American culinary authenticity have managed to survive intact into the Age of Arugula. There's Yocco's, a vintage hot dog emporium founded by relatives of Lee Iacocca, who was born here. (The local Pennsylvania Dutchfolk pronounced "Iacocca" as "Yocco," and the name stuck.) Though Yocco's chili-coated hot dogs are without parallel in the known universe, the establishment itself sports a disappointingly bland Early McDonald's look. For an authentic taste of pre-suburban America you had to go to a place like the Roundhouse. The Roundhouse wasn't a typical lunch counter -- mainly because it was, well, ROUND. Maybe not round, precisely -- the building appeared to be more of a hexagon, though I can't vouch for the exact number of sides. What made it so congenial was that when you entered, you noticed that everyone was seated around the central cooking pit with its ever-sizzling mounds of meat and onions. While the cooks and waitresses bustled about, you could look across the pit to your neighbors huddled on the far side of the counter; you could just as easily strike up a conversation with your neighbors on either side. The Roundhouse was a Harry Truman kind of place: neighborly, efficient, unglamorous, unpretentious. Most of all, it was authentic. Their steak sandwiches -- even the chicken steaks -- satisfied the deepest, most repressed cravings of a former meat-junkie who had been bullied into semi-vegetarian submission by the tyranny of medically correct low-fat diets. The smoky aroma that wafted from the sizzling beef, chicken and onions carried with it the promise of honest, uninhibited gustatory ecstasy. I couldn't eat there often, since it was a long haul from my workplace. But I made a point of lunching at the Roundhouse whenever I'd drop off my car for an oil change. Seated on my stool at the counter, I could banish all thoughts of work for half an hour, along with most of the contemporary world. I eased myself into a time when people still aspired to be decent rather than "edgy," when neighbors were people you welcomed rather than avoided. The mailman seated on the next stool told me about his job, his son, his years in Allentown. He was naturally eloquent and thoroughly good. I don't remember the details so much as the general effect of his conversation: a stranger had became an instant neighbor. If I had seen him again he might have become a friend. Everyday life should be a little more like this and a little less like "Just Shoot Me." The next time I went to have lunch at the Roundhouse, the old place had been boarded up. I was stunned, because this particular lunch joint was always jumping. The sign in front of the building mentioned "renovations," so I hoped for the best. Well, I drove past it today and discovered that the Roundhouse has been completely renovated -- as an ITALIAN restaurant! Not a cozy, authentic Mom-and-Pop style restaurant, either -- the new place boasted terra cotta tiles on the roof and white plaster statues of lions and cherubs out front. The new owners obviously took great pains to simulate the look of an Italian villa, even though their restaurant was about the size of a beach bungalow. I wish them well, and I hope the plaster lions attract hordes of hungry patrons. But the Roundhouse is gone forever, and I'll miss it. Why all the fuss over a vanished restaurant in a provincial city? Because it represents all those friendly, quirky businesses that get replaced by something less congenial, less authentic. The family-owned grocery stores that sold penny candy in jars by the cash register. The hole-in-the-wall independent bookstores with titles only a devout reader could love. The old Art Deco movie theaters that once showed "Public Enemy," "42nd Street" or "It's a Wonderful Life" -- on a single dream-sized silver screen. Call me a sentimentalist, but this cynic would like to think there's a heaven for all the good things that can't survive in a coldly cost-efficient world. © 2000 by Bridget Petrella Media Relations. "Some Cynical Guy" appears here by permission of the publisher.  "Some Cynical Guy" column archive: 2002 81 -- A Brisk Walk Through the Ruins 80 -- The Fountain of Futility 79 -- Farewell to the Big House 78 -- The Cynical Guy Contemplates Cell Phones 77 -- Rich and Poor in Paradise 76 -- Dead Ducks: A Tale of the Food Chain 75 -- Old Comedians Just Fade Away 74 -- Suburbia Comes to Manayunk 73 -- When Nestlings Won't Leave the Nest 72 -- The Curse of High Standards 71 -- Inside the House of Horrors 70 -- The Post-Yuppie Handbook 69 -- Spring Reflections 68 -- Priestly Perversions 67 -- British Teeth: An Apology 66 -- The Sniffling Snout 65 -- Bullies with Social Skills 64 -- Supermarket Rage 63 -- Is the U.S. Really the Greatest? 62 -- The Holes in Our Armor 61 -- A Breath of Used Air 60 -- The Cynical Guy Has Sex 59 -- Let's Abolish the Seven-Day Week! 2001 58 -- Why Worry About the Future of Books? 57 -- The Friendly Face of Evil 56 -- Why We Live Where We Live 55 -- The Cynical Guy Discovers Talk Radio 54 -- Kite-Flying and Other Crimes 53 -- My Night as a Socialite 52 -- Gardening Is Not for Sissies 51 -- Invaders of the Honeysuckle 50 -- To Be a Cat 49 -- The Upside of Terrorism 48 -- The Vanishing Nerd 47 -- Anger Management for Cynics 46 -- Let's Level the Playing Field for Disadvantaged WASPs 45 -- First Impressions, Lasting Impressions 44 -- Close Encounter with a Go-Getter 43 -- Cheering for a Perennial Loser 42 -- The Cynical Guy Reads the Tabloids 41 -- When Does the Good Part Begin? 40 -- Confessions of an Internet Addict 39 -- The Decline of Punctuation and Civilization 38 -- Oh Baby, What a Nightmare! 37 -- The Cynical Guy Watches 'Xena: Warrior Princess' 36 -- A Night-Stroll into the Void 35 -- In Search of the Elusive Wild Tomato 34 -- Getting in Touch with Your Inner S.O.B. 33 -- The Lure of the Lurid 32 -- Black Tie and Beard Stubble 31 -- In Heaven There Is No Pez 30 -- Did You Make the Forbes Celebrity 100 List? 29 -- Redesigning Mt. Rushmore 28 -- On Listening to Dead Voices 27 -- Selling Your Soul on eBay 26 -- Sympathy for Colonel Klink 25 -- Democratic Celebrities in Exile 24 -- High School Revisited 23 -- A Farewell to Bachelorhood 2000 22 -- Requiem for a Middleweight 21 -- Is There a Gene for Tackiness? 20 -- How the Beautiful People Entertain Themselves 19 -- The Cynical Guy Gets Behind the Wheel 18 -- The Fickle Finger of Fame 17 -- Adventures in Bodybuilding 16 -- Some Don't Like It Hot 15 -- The Cynical Guy Watches Oprah 14 -- Sports Parents: Menace to Society? 13 -- Airfare Is No Fair at All 12 -- There's No Such Thing as 'New and Improved' 11 -- Celtomania! 10 -- The Naked Pate 9 -- Vanishing Act 8 -- Bush vs. Gore: It Could Be Worse 7 -- Who Wants to Be a Survivor? 6 -- Adventures in Heart Attack Prevention 5 -- Where Men Are Men 4 -- Thoughts While Listening to the Car Radio 3 -- History Is HISTORY 2 -- The Great Casino 1 -- Greetings from Your New Cynical Guy

Bayan, who claims to be a "kinder, gentler cynic," currently lives in Allentown, Pennsylvania. His weekly column, "Some Cynical Guy," is published and syndicated by Upbeat Online. 

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