Faygo, a Love Story
Orange Pop and Red Pop and Blackberry and Vanilla Creme.
I could hear the angels sing.
I stood in line for a while with my glass bottle of Vanilla Creme Faygo in hand -- someone had put in an order for 20 reubens. I am unclear what you do with 20 reubens, but I watched the owner of the deli move sauerkraut to bread in big troughs. Once complete, I ordered my little turkey sandwich and waited to pay.
When I got to the register, the owner asked me what I had.
"A turkey croissant and a faygo."
I held up my bottle. "A faygo." I swiftly added, "I'm from Detroit."
"Is that any good?" he asked me.
I looked back over all the suits all waiting in line for their boxes full of reubens, leaned forward and hissed, "It's the shit."
"Really," he said.
"Really," I said.
A pause. "My guy just brought it in. Are there any other flavors I should order?" The owner eyed me warily.
I did not hesitate -- nor did I think. "Rock n Rye."
"What does that taste like?"
This struck me as particularly odd. What does Rock n Rye taste like? It's is like asking the taste of blue. I have no idea. I never thought about it. In my life, I have consumed gallons upon gallons of Rock n Rye without ever bothering to ponder it. Rock n Rye tastes exactly like Rock n Rye, and nothing else. I said, "It tastes like Rock n Rye. It's a fine, fine taste. And," I threw in at the end, "if you stock Rock n Rye, I swear I will eat here every single day for eternity."
He actually considered it. "I will tell my guy to order Rock n Rye," he said. "You sure it's good?"
"It's the best," I said.
I don't know if he'll remember, but maybe...
I am now sitting at my desk drinking my Faygo. It clearly says on the label that it was bottled in Detroit. I am in a world of happy.