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We Baby Boomers remember that Kool-Aid was always king, but once had some pretty serious competition.

Back in the late 1950’s, an artificial sweetener called Cyclamate was legalized for use within the USA. Adoption was slow at first, but soft drink manufacturers soon figured out that in addition to low calories, its benefits included having none of the energy rush that sugar did. ergo, moms could allow their children to imbibe prodigious amounts of Cyclamate-sweetened drinks with no fear of the kids bouncing off of the walls afterwards.

Pillsbury decided to give Kool-Aid a run for their money in 1964. Funny Face drink mixes were pre-sweetened with Cyclamates, and advertising made the benefits to harried mothers very evident. The result was big sales.

Kids loved the advertising too. The drinks came with names like Goofy Grape, Loudmouth Lime, Rootin’ Tootin’ Raspberry, and Freckle Face Strawberry. Oh, there were also two very politically incorrect flavors, Chinese Cherry, and Injun Orange. (gasp!)

It didn’t take long for protests to render the ethnically-named flavors verboten. So Choo-Choo Cherry and Jolly Olly Orange were quickly brought in as replacements. By the way, the featured commercial shows the original group, complete with Chinese Cherry’s gong, which I had forgotten about.

As the 60’s wore on, more flavors were added. These included Rah-Rah Rootbeer, Chilly Cherry-Cola, Captain Black Cherry, Loud Mouth Punch, and Tart ‘N’ Tangy Lemon. Then came the Cyclamate ban.

I’m planning on writing a future piece about Cyclamates, so I won’t go into too much detail. Let’s just say that some controversial tests were conducted that indicated that the artificial sweetener MIGHT cause cancer in quantities that were unimaginable.

With that, they were banned in the US. And a soft drink and artificial sweetener industry that had come to depend on the substance was sent into a whirlwind of activity to try to compensate for the loss of its cash cow.

At first, Funny Face switched to saccharine. The kids of the nation reacted with a common “ecch!” So Pillsbury swiftly switched to an add-sugar business model. They were able to shave the price of the packets of flavor in half, but sales still suffered in comparison to the grand old days.

However, Funny face wasn’t giving up yet. They aggressively advertised throughout the early 70’s, and also offered premiums in exchange for empty packages that included pitchers, cups, Hot Wheels cars, pillows, kites, iron-on patches, records, and plush dolls and plastic miniature toys in the fruits’ likenesses.

It was a valiant fight, but one that Pillsbury was destined to lose. Kool-Aid weathered the Cyclamate ban much better, largely due to the fact that they already offered an add-sugar product. There was no massive paradigm shift for Kool-Aid customers. As the 70’s progressed, Funny face ads as well as the product itself became less and less seen. By 1980, Pillsbury had sold the brand, and it vanished shortly afterwards.

So here’s to Funny face drink mixes, yet another Boomer memory that vanished when you weren’t looking.

Ah, those sweet, laid-back decades of the 1960’s and 1970’s. We were worried about things like Russian missiles, inflation, getting our butts kicked by the Commies in the Olympics, and what smoking might be doing to our health.

So the key thing to do was to mellow out. And what was a better way to relax than with a fondue pot full of aromatic cheese, and a bevy of friends with whom to dip one’s bread into the pot?

The blissful ignorance of the times helped the proliferation of fondue pots. After all, cheese was this nice natural food that was GOOD for you. And what could be healthier than homemade bread? Well, it turned out that cheese was loaded with nasty saturated fats. And bread was loaded with carbs, which would later be declared to be a bad source of girth.

But in the cigarette-smoke-laden-decades of the 60’s and 70’s, fondue was a nice, slightly exotic way to have good food and good fellowship.

Fondue was a tradition that arose among the Swiss in the 17th century. They discovered that combining wine with good Swiss cheeses and dipping crusty bread into the mixture made for some delightful eating on cold evenings.

The poor mountain folk of Switzerland couldn’t afford the pricey cheeses and wine that went into the pot, so fondue was a delicacy reserved for the privileged classes for many years.

But as economic differences between the classes shrank with more modern times, fondue spread all over Europe, becoming a hit in places as diverse as France and Sweden.

During the 60’s, fondue pots began being seen in the US, particularly in California. Fondue parties were held in the Golden State from 1967 onwards. These parties would commence with classic cheese/wine fondue, followed by delightful dessert versions that might include melted chocolate and fresh Hawaiian pineapple chunks. YUM!

Fondue pots hit their peak of popularity about the same time we declared the wethead to be dead and the blow dryer was found in men’s bathrooms in prolific numbers. By 1980, fondue pots were as rare as bright blue shag carpet.

But they never completely disappeared, and in today’s computer age, you can get yourself a fondue pot that plugs into your PC’s USB port.

It’s the perfect companion to your USB Lava Light and your peace sign desktop wallpaper.

We’re all in this together. That was the message of Falstaff commercials I used to hear on the radio in the 70’s. Well, we may all continue to be in this together, but it’s sadly without Falstaff.

Falstaff beer had its start way back in 1840. That’s when German immigrant Adam Lemp established the Western Brewing Company in St. Louis. Lemp created a beer he called Falstaff. Eventually, Lemp’s brewery went out of business. In 1920, during Prohibition, a brewer by the name of Papa Joe Griesedieck stepped in and purchased the Falstaff brand name.

Papa Joe, possessing one of the most instantly recognizable names ever pronounced, was struggling, as were most other brewery and distillery owners. His brewery (which was officially renamed the Falstaff Corporation in 1920) produced de-spiked beer, soft drinks, and smoked hams. The mob was giving the public all of the hootch and beer that they wanted, so near-bear was a pretty sad performer in the marketplace (even though I now buy a case of Busch NA every couple of weeks ;-).

In 1933, the government finally repealed Prohibition, and the Falstaff brewery began a period of success that would peak in the mid 60’s, my beloved era of childhood memories.

Falstaff was all over the place during that decade. Billboards proclaimed its great taste. Cream sang its praises on radio commercials. A baseball or football game wasn’t watched on the idiot box or listened to on the radio without a Falstaff commercial or two.

I don’t know how to explain my fascination with Falstaff. Neither parent drank it. Mom was a Coors gal, dad preferred Miller. But there is a magical quality to the Falstaff name. It sounds good. It is majestic. It is SHAKESPEAREAN!

Ironically, I don’t think I ever drank a Falstaff. Back in the day, my parents would risk modern-day charges of child abuse by letting me sip a bit of their preferred libation on occasion, including, as I recall, while sitting at a traffic light in my current hometown of Bentonville, Arkansas during a visit back in 1968. How wrong is THAT?

And once beer started tasting good, at about the age of 18 (1978), Falstaff was confined to the section of the display case which contained Ballentine ale, Hamm’s, and Blatz. These once-proud brands were relegated to shells of their former selves by the the all-too cruel whims of the business world, and were now being brewed by companies which had bought them out and were no longer concerned with the tender care which their founders had given the original products.

Falstaff’s demise could be pinned on an ill-conceived acquisition. The company had a history of acquiring smaller breweries, but in 1965, they pushed their luck a little too far when they bought out a firm that you’ve probably never heard of: Narragansett Brewing Company of Cranston, R.I. Immediately, for some reason, the state of Rhode Island filed antitrust charges. Their attempt to block the sale would fail in court seven years later. It would also cause financial ruin for Falstaff.

The company had to pour lots of stockholder dollars into the legal battle. It also had to face the uncertain economy of the 70’s. And there were the advertising blitzes by rivals Anheuser-Busch, Miller, and Coors. The result was that by 1975, they were in dire financial straits. The company was sold to General Brewing, which also controlled Stroh’s, PBR, Olympia, and Pearl.

Thus began a slow death of the Falstaff brand which ended in 2005. That year, the General Brewing Company announced the end of the Falstaff brand name due to low volume of sales.

If you Google Falstaff, you’ll find that the beer still has a passionate following.

You’ll also find sites that pine for the brand, and pray for its resurrection. And I would like to see that myself. Not because of the long-lost taste, but because the name Falstaff was a treasured Boomer memory.

Some of my memories hit home with most Boomers. Some of them are only related to by a few. Today’s recollection could go either way.

Growing up in the 60’s we ate at cafeterias all over the country. When we traveled, dad would keep his eye out for a cafeteria in strange towns. When we went to Tulsa, it meant eating at a local cafeteria there called Borden’s. I have countless memories of standing in a line very similar to the one in school and telling the lady on the other side what I wanted.

And the fact that I see cafeterias today loaded with folks in the same generation as that of our parents, I suspect that the orderly eateries were a big hit with many WWII veterans besides my father.

Though I ate at many, many cafeterias growing up, they never cast the spell of intrigue over me that they did to my dad. There’s something about picking out items of food with prices attached to them that is unappealing to me. Now all-you-can-eat buffets, that’s another matter.

But the classic pay-as-you-go cafeteria was the ultimate eating spot for my father, surprising to me seeing how he was so thrifty. I mean having your bill get larger with every selected item must have HURT!

Cafeterias arose in California, being a popular dining facility in Mexico. Immigrants founded and frequented the serverless restaurants in their new country, and they caught on with everyone else.

They became a big hit in the South in the 50’s and 60’s. Once upon a time many chains existed, including Morrison’s, Blue Bear, and Britling. I was surprised in researching this piece that the Borden’s Cafeteria in Tulsa was apparently a stand-alone eatery. It sure seemed like a chain to me. I grew up assuming that they were affiliated with Borden’s dairy products. I learn something new every day!

Indeed, my father’s passion for cafeterias may well have been planted by his parents, because they were a growing phenomenon from the 20’s onward.

Nowadays, the classic cafeteria I remember is becoming less and less common. They still have their ardent supporters, though, although it seems they are getting older and thinner in numbers.

Oh well. It’s happening to us, too.

Some day, my son may be writing in his “I Remember the Exxon Valdez” blog about how his old man always had a passion for Olive Garden, the dwindling chain known for its elderly customers ;-).

Dining out on a budget in the 50’s and 60’s involved jumping in the car and heading to the drive-in.

And you had lots of choices for food to be delivered to your car via roller-skate-wearing-carhop. For example, there was A&W. In Oklahoma, we had Sonic. And there was yet another chain in the Midwest that once had over 750 franchises: Dog n Suds.

People had cars. People got hungry. People couldn’t afford to spend much. That all added up to the need for drive-ins. And they could be found everywhere. A small town with a population of 5,000 or so might have three or four drive-ins doing a brisk business.

Reading all of that writing on the wall, two music teachers from the University of Illinois, Don Hamacher and Jim Griggs, decided in 1953 to get in on the fun. They opened a drive-in in Champaign and called it Dog n Suds. It was a hit, so much so that they were approached by a sweet old lady with a bank account full of cash to build her one just like it.

Hamacher and Griggs soon had a tiger by the tail. The time was perfect for franchised drive-ins, and Dog n Suds had a lot to offer potential entrepreneurs. They quit teaching and became restaurant magnates in short order.

Dog n Suds began springing up all over Illinois, as well as nearby Indiana, Michigan, and Ohio. A rave review of their business plan in a trade magazine added to the furor, and by the 1960’s they had reached the southern United States. They were averaging fifteen new restaurants per month during the height of their success. By 1970, it seemed that every town big enough to have more than one stoplight also had a Dog n Suds.

We had one in Rogers, Arkansas in the early 1970’s. It was a simple affair, a small building with carport-covered areas for parking. Once you decided what you wanted (often it was a dog and suds), you pushed the button to let them know inside. Soon, a cute young lady would appear with a tray full of food that smelled heavenly. Life was good.

But unfortunately, a lot of sweet memories bit the dust in the 70’s. The economy took some seriously bad turns, and then there were those blasted Arabs and their oil embargo. The times were changing fast. We didn’t go to as many drive-ins as we used to.

The glory days for Dog n Suds were over. Instead of fifteen new restaurants opening each month, now they were closing. The founders sold out, and it appeared that Dog n Suds might well go the way of so many other beloved memories that we grew up with.

But a funny thing happened. Some Dog n Suds’ survived. The brand name had a fierce loyalty among its customers, and many restaurants weathered the storm. It was a curious case of the Dog n Suds name almost outlasting the Dog n Suds franchise.

Nowadays, Dog n Suds are down to, ironically, fifteen in number. But a new one was opened in 2007, in Norton Shores, Michigan. Many of the survivors have cashed in on the retro craze, with redesigns that provide old fashioned soda fountains. Who knows, the franchise may end up reinventing itself and thriving once again, like A&W did.

However, some Dog n Suds’ exist exactly as they did when their customers drove up in tank-sized cars, ordered a dog and suds for less than a dollar, and winked at the cute roller-skate-riding carhop as she placed the tray loaded with goodies on the rolled-down window.

Makes you feel good, doesn’t it?

Here’s a memory so obscure that I could barely find anything on the web about it! That’s good news for the next curious seeker of obscure knowledge, because they’ll find THIS article.

Today, I write about little plastic critters that once lived on the edge of your styrofoam cup full of ice cold drink that was brought to your hands by a carhop, probably on roller skates.

We had a local chain in the Miami, Oklahoma area called Sonic. You’ve probably heard of them, they have since gone on to a much more nationwide presence. But in 1967, they were an Oklahoma phenomenon, and one of the things that they did to distinguish themselves from the competition was provide those incredibly brightly colored little mermaids, elephants, swordfish, monkeys, and a veritable menagerie of other creatures.

Perhaps you grew up with Sonic drive-ins. If not, I’ll bet a similar 1960’s eatery would decorate your drink with the miniaturized animals and such. They would profligate in kitchen junk drawers, along with matchbooks, 45 inserts, and other gewgaws too cool to throw away. They would also show up hanging from rear view mirrors, frequently in the form of monkeys linked tail-to-tail.

There was a scintillating quality to the drink critters that very few other give-aways could match. I mean, that bright blue, green, and red plastic was so gorgeous, with sunlight filtered through the windshield of a 1966 Plymouth Fury highlighting the delightful colors against that white styrofoam cup rim and those tiny crushed ice chips floating happily in the cherry limeade.

If you can remember them, you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about.

And the ploy worked, too. More often than not, I would convince my parents of the superior quality of Sonic’s food and drink and persuade them to go there for a meal on the go. But they knew that it was those amazing little plastic works of art that really drew me there.

Who knows, perhaps they drew them, too.

So what happened? How did such a universally loved concept disappear?

The same way so many other similarly loved phenomena that we remember from our childhoods did. Through litigation.

Note this quote from the Wikipedia article on Sonic drive-ins:

In the 1960s, Sonic meals were always accompanied by a peppermint candy and small colored plastic animals called zoo-picks hanging on the side of drink cups. In small Southwestern towns it was common to see these Sonic zoo-pick collections on customers’ dashboards and rear-view mirrors until they were outlawed by consumer product safety laws as a choking hazard. The traditional peppermint candy is still served with Sonic meals today.

Aargh. I might have known.

I want to jump in the Plymouth with mom and dad and drive to the Sonic on the edge of Miami and have a huge cherry limeade, complete with a bright red monkey hanging on to the edge. And I want it to be 1967 again.

Oh well, I guess it’s time to put the Stones’ Let it Bleed on and get back to reality.

Is it any wonder that so many Boomers ended up smokers? Candy cigs were a hot item when I was a kid. The little white sugary sticks with the dyed red end were perfect for imitating adults (and teens) in the ultracool act of smoking.

You would open the box, take the cigarette out, tap it on your hand (you had no idea why, but Dad did it), fire up your imaginary match, and enjoy a drag.

The cigarette companies encouraged candymakers to “infringe” on their copyrights by making packages nearly identical to the real thing, as can be evidenced by this eBay photo.

Of course, this led to the next step, sneaking a REAL smoke.

Mom smoked Salems, I snuck one of those once and gagged. Dad would smoke for a while and quit for months. It was in one of his off periods that my friends and I scored a pack of Benson and Hedges 100’s.

We sat out in a field full of tall grass that hid us and smoked the whole pack, never inhaling. When I got home, Mom smelled the smoke on me and let me have it good.

The pain of that whipping, combined with having to use my candy bar money on something that you didn’t even eat, broke me of the habit at the age of seven. I never touched another one.

I was one of the lucky ones. Many of the kids who DIDN’T get caught were the ones who got hooked.