The smell is the first thing that smacks one in the face when entering the shop on Eye Street. Frozen metal with a heavy dollop of sugar. Sweet, cold, unmistakably ice cream. There has never been a time in my life when Dewar’s was not there, in the small glass-fronted shop on Eye Street. It was the place my great aunt took me for ice cream. I always chose a sundae: scoops of ice cream, swirls of whipped cream, drizzles of chocolate sauce and the crowning glory of an unearthly red-colored maraschino cherry. The dish was heavy glass and the spoon long so one could dig deep into the center of the heavenly mess. We didn’t eat from glass dishes like this in my home, plastic water cups and Melmac were the staples, so the treat was appreciated all the more for the presentation.
My father grew up on Parkway and my mother on Eye Street, just blocks away from the magic place. It was a known fact that Dewar’s Ice Cream was the best ever, the best in the world, and the chews the best candy ever. I was not aware of the chocolate covered candies until later, but a Girl Scout trip to view the inner workings of Dewar’s gave me insight into the makings of these treats. Hand-dipped meant just that. A woman sat, a thick sweater wrapped around her because of the coldness of the room, and took small squares of nougat, gently dipping them into a tub of chocolate and finishing them off with a squirrely design on the center or the corner. Each candy had its own ‘logo’ and the precision in making was an art. I admired the candy maker’s skill, but had no desire to spend my working life in a cold room, even if it did smell of candy. I also learned how my favorite candy, peppermint chews, was made. On one end of a long stainless-steel table sat an enormous peppermint chew, pure white nougat in the center and thick ropes of red candy pressed into its sides. The long table was needed as the giant chew was reduced, gradually and gently, by pulling it into one thin rope, which was snipped by a pair of scissors and wrapped swiftly in a square of wax paper. Clouds of powdered sugar swirled in the air, as the monster chew became hundreds of small ones, ready for my Christmas stocking. Later I lived in the city of York in England and visited the Rountree’s Chocolate Factory on a tour, thanks to a friend’s husband who worked there. Rountree’s is the model for Charlie’s chocolate factory. I squealed with delight when we visited the hand-dipped chocolates room. It was the Dewar’s method, only on a huge scale. I didn’t need anyone to tell me about how they were made and why the precision chocolate swirls in marking them.
But it is the ice cream that stays with me. When my siblings visit Bakersfield, they always stop at Dewar’s and if they stop on the way to our house, they bring a half gallon. My favorite has always been the Peppermint ice milk. Somehow, the ice cream is too rich and takes away from the flavor of the mint with the heaviness of the cream. The taste has not changed, even though I think the color has become a little pinker over the years and looks more like Pepto-Bismol. My second favorite was Rum Butter. Yellow ice cream with the smoothness of butter and the naughty piquant taste of sugary rum. It’s now called Butter Rum and does not taste the same. Good, but not the same. I imagine everyone in Bakersfield has a favorite Dewar’s flavor. In the depths of a fever, the howling sadness of a breakup, or the thrill of winning the ‘prize’ (whether a game, an award, an invite…), don’t we all turn to visions of our favorite flavor from Dewar’s?
My father told me of a special treat he experienced as a child. He couldn’t have been too small, as Dewar’s only moved to its current location in 1930, when my father was eight years old. But, according to the story, on Saturday mornings, the kids would gather at the back door and wait for the old tubs of ice cream. Old ice cream wouldn’t sell if there was new, so the old was sold to the kids for 5 cents, all you could eat. My mother reckons this story apocryphal, as she remembers ice cream cones for 5 cents. But I love the idea of kindly shop owners sharing largesse with the neighborhood kids. Those kids grow up to spread the word, and have kids of their own. And now, I will allow my mother the final word. Her favorite memory is that you were given an ice-cold glass of water as soon as you sat down, no matter what you ordered. Sitting on those uncomfortable red upholstered stools, drinking cold water, staring at the menu items high on the back wall, dreaming of mounds of whipped cream on a favorite scoop, or two, or three, the sharp smell lingers.