To start things off in this 'food' theme issue of Mimosa, here's an appetizer
from Walt Willis. In some of our previous issues, we've referred to Walt's 1952
trip to the United States for the Great Chicago Worldcon, but we haven't mentioned
that Chicon II was just one stop in a much larger coast-to-coast fan fund trip
that was eventually chronicled in the magnificent trip report, The Harp
Stateside. Following the 1952 Chicon, Walt went west to Los Angeles as the
guest of Forry Ackerman, and while in L.A., he met up with many of the fan groups
active at that time. Here's an excerpt reprinted from THS, about that Los
Angeles stopover.
 Friends, I should like to warn you all
here and now about the hot nut fudge sundae served in The Melody Lane, Los Angeles.
It's a wonder that the LASFS, the Insurgents, and the Outlanders do not parade before
this restaurant in shifts, or some other striking garment, bearing placards inscribed
'Beware the Hot Nut Fudge Sundae!!' The fact that this was no ordinary hot nut fudge
sundae, but a hot nut fudge sundae of transcendental malevolence, was brought home to
me when I realized it was making me feel ill even before I saw it. The miasmic aura
of the thing (say, this is pretty highclass writing, isn't it? First transcendental
malevolence and now miasmic aura) extruded round me from the catacombs of The Melody
Lane where it was even now being awakened to its hideous pseudo-life. Cold shivers
ran up and down my back as I realised it was crawling to me from the vaults. By the
time it reached me I knew the best I could hope for was that I could get home to
South Sherbourne Drive before I was physically sick in the presence of the elite of
West Coast fandom. The sheer horror of that thought, of being ever afterwards known
in Los Angeles fan circles as the guy who was sick in The Melody Lane made me summon
up my last reserves. Calling on Roscoe for aid, I struggled desperately against the
hypnotic lure of that hot nut fudge sundae. Ghod knows what would have happened if
I had succumbed and actually tasted the thing, but I finally overcame it. Driving a
sharp spoon through its heart, I staggered out into the night. It had been a grim
fight but I had won. I should be known in Los Angeles as nothing worse than a guy
who bought hot nut fudge sundaes just to look at. (They might think I belonged to a
Sundae Observance Society.)Next morning we set out for the
Pacific Ocean. This ranked up with the Insurgents on my private list of the sights
of the West Coast, and since as far as I knew it had never carried on a vendetta
against Forry Ackerman, I expressed a wish to see it. I had quite a clear picture
of what it would be like. There would be this spectacular cliff road and beside it
a beautiful golden strand, deserted except for an occasional beautiful film star
committing suicide or playing immersion heaters with Burt Lancaster. You can
imagine my surprise then, when after a drive of about half an hour -- I'd always
thought Los Angeles was on the coast -- we pulled up at a sort of fun-fair. Hot dog
stands, ice cream vendors, shooting galleries, the lot. One of the sideshows turned
out to be the Pacific Ocean. It had a concession of a few square yards of rather
dirty sand, and looked depressingly like the Atlantic. I valiantly tried to feel
like stout Cortez, silent upon a hot dog stand in Darien (I am now equally valiantly
trying not to attempt a joke about a Peke) and sat down at the water's edge to take
off my shoes and socks.It was my intention to wade out a
short distance, thinking appropriately solemn thoughts -- such that I had now reached
the furthermost point in my journey westwards and this was the turning point -- and
feeling as poetic as I could in bare feet with my trousers rolled up, I stalked
rapidly into the Pacific Ocean. Only to slow down abruptly with an aching sense of
injustice. It was COLD. My Ghod, the Pacific was cold! It was intolerable.
However, I suppressed my indignation
and continued on to where the water got deep. I paused, savouring the solemnity of
the occasion. Here I was in the Pacific Ocean... My romantic reflections were
shattered by a shout from Forry. I looked round. He pointed. I looked down.
There, sailing past in line ahead at a good fifteen knots, were my only pair of shoes
in 7,000 miles. With a strangled cry I leaped after them, letting go my rolled-up
trouser legs, which immediately fell down into the water. I overtook my shoes
halfway to Hawaii and struggled back to dry land. I regret to have to tell you that
Forrest J Ackerman, a fine man in many ways, failed to show the quiet sympathy which
would have been appropriate at this tragic moment. He was rolling on the sand,
laughing. And as I trudged up to him, he said, "A slow boot to China."I wrung out my trousers, put on my
shoes and squelched back to the hot dog stand for a chocolate malt to restore my
faith in life. Feeling hungry after the afternoon's surf sports, I also ordered a
hamburger. Then I took my shoes off again and began to drip quietly on the floor.
I realised the hamburger man was speaking to me."What?" I said."With?" asked the man."With," I said. Whatever it was, it
was evidently free and I wasn't going to pass it up."With onions?" asked the man."With everything," I said recklessly.
Forry looked at me."Everything?" asked the man,
with an air of incredulous hope.
"Everything," I said. I was beginning
to have vague premonitions, but since I didn't know what he was going to put in, I
didn't know what to tell him to leave out.A wild gleam came into the fellow's
eye, and he momentarily disappeared in a blur of motion. He was leaping about his
booth like a mad thing, collecting sam-ples of every organic substance within a
radius of ten feet and piling them onto the foundation stone of my hamburger. I
stared aghast. Obviously this man had dedicated his life to thinking up things
which could be incorporated in a hamburger. I could see him waking in the middle of
the night and noting down the name of some edible Peruvian root he had overlooked.
But then as the years went by, his simple faith in his mission in life must have
been disturbed: was it, he must have asked himself during the long frustrating years
of preparing commonplace six-ply hamburgers, was it all worthwhile? Would his genius
ever be recognized? And then, at last, I had come along, his soul mate, the Perfect
Customer, the Man Who Wanted Everything. This was his destiny, the culmination of
his career.The hamburger rose to the sky like an
edible Tower of Babel, an awesome monument to the ambition and ingenuity of Man. And
still it grew, tier after tier, higher and higher. Until finally the human whirlwind
subsided and looked about distractedly at his depleted shelves. I kicked my shoes
out of his reach. After a few more moments of ... meditation, he sighed and
delicately added the roof to the hamburger, like a great artist signing his
masterpiece. He stepped back and gazed at it, tears of pride in his eyes.Cowering in the shade of the edifice,
I looked helplessly at Forry. He pretended he wasn't with me, and went to make a
phone call. Looking round the hamburger, I could see the fierce eyes of its creator
on me. I nibbled guiltily at the fringes of the thing for a while, and then
desperately lifted it in both hands and began to gnaw at it. A shower of mustard,
onions, beetroot, pickles, lettuce, and countless other foodstuffs began to descend
over me and the immediate neighbourhood. I hoped Forry was warning the Fortean
Society.After some time, I had absorbed,
either internally or externally, enough of The Hamburger to give me courage to make
a break for it. I stole guiltily away, resolving to make a will leaving the remains
of it to the United Nations Famine Relief Fund.In the evening, Forry took me out for
a last drive. I saw Hollywood Boulevard and Sunset Boulevard and everything,
including Grauman's Chinese Theater where they have the impressions in cement of
such anatomical characteristics as Joe E. Brown's mouth and Durante's nose. I noted
that for some reason, Jane Russell was represented by her feet.I know I didn't see much of
California, but what I saw was a bit disappointing. I'd been thinking of it as a
green and golden paradise, and hadn't realised it was largely reclaimed desert. The
surrounding hills were unexpectedly barren and ugly, and the houses among them looked
from the distance like matchboxes scattered among uncompleted excavations. Los
Angeles had some fine streets and buildings, but seemed too diffuse to have an
integrated personality, and the most lasting impression I took away with me was a
café sign advertising 'The Original Rain On The Roof'. The notion of
simulating the sound of rain as a seasonal attraction seemed to me quite
startling. All illustrations by Steve Stiles |
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