The Seltzer Wars

This is painful to recount. When I moved to Los Angeles some three decades ago, I lived off of Fairfax when it was still the un-trendy address of elderly Jews, my first landlords. Mr. Greenberg was the first -- poor man, he almost popped a vein in his head when he saw me grilling dinner up on the roof one summer evening. "Veiss!" he shouted. "Get off za r-r-roof! What are you trying to do, burn my place down?" I think he could smell the pork spareribs even from two stories down.

It was an old-world neighborhood then, centered by Canter's deli where the roaches were the size of the dill pickle spears on the tables. Walking back from venerable Al's Newsstand on Oakwood one morning, I noticed a wiry old bird delivering glass seltzer bottles to a few select front porches in the neighborhood. Shades of the Three Stooges - I just had to have some for myself, but was told tersely by the gent that his route was full up.

"Well, thanks anyway," I said with a wounded tone in my voice. "I'm glad business is so good!" My politesse had the desired effect: "Hang on a minute!" he shouted after me. "For a good seltzer man, I guess I could make an exception." We exchanged a knowing glance. Yes, I wanted to say, I am a Good Seltzer Man. Was there a salute or secret handshake required, or was this a silent brotherhood? I obviously had much to learn, and who better than this grizzled griot to learn me in the ways.....

Now for the painful confession. It turns out the only requirement for maintaining one's status in this elite fraternity is that you leave your empty bottles on the porch with clockwork regularity. Either I wasn't drinking my allotted seltzer fast enough, or had squirreled away the silver-triggered glass rockets somewhere between the detergent and the dog food, a sin worse than patricide in the Seltzer World.

Alas, I went from good seltzer man to very bad seltzer man almost overnight. I felt ashamed, like I'd let the home-team down. And mind you, this was in the pre-water fetish late 70's when nobody could confidently pronounce Pear-ee-ay correctly! Home-delivered seltzer in glass bottles was about to go the way of the ichtyosaurus and Tower Records. I was a traitor to the cause, killer of time-worn tradition. The shame.

This being Hollywood and all, there is an uplifting third act, a deus ex machina. You'll be pleased to know I have finally escaped the Manichean cosmos of good and evil seltzer men entirely, and am now a Self-Made Seltzer Man, thanks to a little counter-top miracle called the Soda Club. I can now make my own danged seltzer anytime I please, and in the privacy of my own boudoir if I so choose.

You fill the bottle with the cold water of your choice (I roll with tap), screw it onto the apparatus and press the little button three, four times - kowabunga, you done just imparted the magic carbon molecules into the humble H20 all by your lonesome. You can drink the stuff straight like we O.G.'s do, or get some of those nice Italian syrups made by Da Vinci or Torani. They use sugar instead of high fruitcake corn syrup and have some interesting flavors - watermelon and pomegranate among them. Eighty mere bucks and you are one of us, o Brother, bonded by bubbles forevermore! Excelsior!!

I will leave it for wiser souls to judge, finally, what kind of Seltzer Man I really am. Be gentle.