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captainsblogOne of the more nostalgiac sights I got to take in on both of my recent NYC trips was a preserved-in-amber old fashioned Howard Johnson's restaurant on the edge of Times Square. No orange roof or weathervane, of course, but the logo and the Simple Simon sign and the all-you-can-eat fried clam special were right out of the deepest recesses of my brainpan.
When I took my Southern California Criminal Jaywalking Tour a quarter century ago, I had a similar epiphany seeing an urban HoJos at, or at least very close to, the otherwise anticlimactic corner of Hollywood and Vine. To be honest, it's about the only feature of that over-hyped intersection I remember from back then, even though I'm pretty sure it's long gone.
"Long gone" is definitely the flavor of the month down under the weathervane, as this once-proud chain circles the drain in the middle of the orange-tiled kitchen floor. For word came in yesterday's paper that the current owners of the franchise had just closed one of the last of their roadside HoJos, this one in Springfield, Vermont. The surviving locations are down to a mere eight- and soon, apparently, to be seven, since the article went on to note that the Times Square location is doomed to die next month. To be replaced, no doubt, by yet another Applebee's or Chili's or Starbucks, making this location the same as any other in America- or perhaps the world.
Memories flooded back from reading about this. Not so much from local trips to all-you-can-eat night; if there were any HoJos on Long Island, they were far removed from our home. No, my recollections are of vacations as a kid and long-hauls between college and points south, where the sight of orange meant something predictable and welcome. The food was mainstream and unhealthy, and the drinks (at least for the kids- I do remember lounges where the traveling salesmen and trysting couples had their martinis) were always that hideous house brand of HoJo cola- never "Coke." Maybe not excellent or adventurous, but in a day when the current chains did not exist anywhere near their current ubiqituous levels, there was comfort in that food.
Some of the locations still stick with me. Just north of Binghamton on I-81- a mainstay of college "home for Thanksgiving" buses stopping for a potty and smoke break before the final haul into Ithaca. One just off the Newburgh-Beacon bridge, another similarly close to the Delaware Water Gap on I-80. And most memorable of all, the one in Middletown, New York- that traditional college student Mos Eisley Cantina of a town between "upstate" and "the City," as I then knew them. To this day, I still tend to stop in Middletown even though it isn't anywhere near halfway to my current home. Sadly, the 28 flavors are a mere memory in that town, and it's Olive Garden or Wendy's as you turn off the highway. Just like everywhere else.
The hotels by the HoJo name are separate and have been for decades. Likewise the former Met third baseman. One of my high school buds went to Harvard with "the" Howard Johnson, the IVth or Vth or whatever his suffix was, but it doesn't sound like he's ready to resurrect the family business anytime soon. Before you know it, even the memory of "Howard Johnson's- One Flavor" from Blazing Saddles will be better than reality gets- and a joke our kids and their kids will never get.
So if you're in Bangor, Maine, or some unspecified odd corners of Jersey, Connecticut or Michigan- or perhaps if you're heading up Broadway near Seventh Avenue in the next month- have one last order of chicken-in-the-basket and a two-scoop fudge ripple cone. Savor things as they once were for one last time, knowing you're doing something millions did before you and nobody will soon be able to do at all. And don't forget to tip your waitress.
When I took my Southern California Criminal Jaywalking Tour a quarter century ago, I had a similar epiphany seeing an urban HoJos at, or at least very close to, the otherwise anticlimactic corner of Hollywood and Vine. To be honest, it's about the only feature of that over-hyped intersection I remember from back then, even though I'm pretty sure it's long gone.
"Long gone" is definitely the flavor of the month down under the weathervane, as this once-proud chain circles the drain in the middle of the orange-tiled kitchen floor. For word came in yesterday's paper that the current owners of the franchise had just closed one of the last of their roadside HoJos, this one in Springfield, Vermont. The surviving locations are down to a mere eight- and soon, apparently, to be seven, since the article went on to note that the Times Square location is doomed to die next month. To be replaced, no doubt, by yet another Applebee's or Chili's or Starbucks, making this location the same as any other in America- or perhaps the world.
Memories flooded back from reading about this. Not so much from local trips to all-you-can-eat night; if there were any HoJos on Long Island, they were far removed from our home. No, my recollections are of vacations as a kid and long-hauls between college and points south, where the sight of orange meant something predictable and welcome. The food was mainstream and unhealthy, and the drinks (at least for the kids- I do remember lounges where the traveling salesmen and trysting couples had their martinis) were always that hideous house brand of HoJo cola- never "Coke." Maybe not excellent or adventurous, but in a day when the current chains did not exist anywhere near their current ubiqituous levels, there was comfort in that food.
Some of the locations still stick with me. Just north of Binghamton on I-81- a mainstay of college "home for Thanksgiving" buses stopping for a potty and smoke break before the final haul into Ithaca. One just off the Newburgh-Beacon bridge, another similarly close to the Delaware Water Gap on I-80. And most memorable of all, the one in Middletown, New York- that traditional college student Mos Eisley Cantina of a town between "upstate" and "the City," as I then knew them. To this day, I still tend to stop in Middletown even though it isn't anywhere near halfway to my current home. Sadly, the 28 flavors are a mere memory in that town, and it's Olive Garden or Wendy's as you turn off the highway. Just like everywhere else.
The hotels by the HoJo name are separate and have been for decades. Likewise the former Met third baseman. One of my high school buds went to Harvard with "the" Howard Johnson, the IVth or Vth or whatever his suffix was, but it doesn't sound like he's ready to resurrect the family business anytime soon. Before you know it, even the memory of "Howard Johnson's- One Flavor" from Blazing Saddles will be better than reality gets- and a joke our kids and their kids will never get.
So if you're in Bangor, Maine, or some unspecified odd corners of Jersey, Connecticut or Michigan- or perhaps if you're heading up Broadway near Seventh Avenue in the next month- have one last order of chicken-in-the-basket and a two-scoop fudge ripple cone. Savor things as they once were for one last time, knowing you're doing something millions did before you and nobody will soon be able to do at all. And don't forget to tip your waitress.
