IT WAS A TYPICAL TEXAS SUMMER MORNING—sun shining, birds singing, people melting—when I ran into a young friend at the farmers’ market. She was clutching that essential seasonal accessory, a cold canned drink, which happened to be one of the industry’s timid forays into fusion, Coca-Cola with lime. “A lime Coke!” I said. “I drank a few of those in my day.” She frowned prettily at me across the string beans and cream peas and said, “But…they just came out.”
Actually, little missy, that particular American potable evolved about a hundred years ago. Back in the Dork Ages, a lime Coke (or a cherry-vanilla Dr Pepper or a strawberry lemonade) didn’t come in a handy can. It was prepared on the spot at a soda fountain or a drive-in, with carbonated water and flavored syrup. Comparing the lime Coke of today with the sublime Coke I recall from, say, 1965 is like equating beef jerky with pit barbecue.
Whew! It’s thirsty work standing on a soapbox! And to be honest, the lime Coke doesn’t even top my list of favorite beverages (alcohol-free division). The soft drink with which I’ve had a lifelong affaire de coeur—and taste buds—is the cherry lime, a blend of cherry syrup, fizzy water, and fresh lime juice. It’s sweet and tart and utterly ambrosial, and it’s disappearing from Texas.
The cherry lime evolved from the gin rickey, an early highball supposedly named after Joe Rickey, a Washington lobbyist in the late 1890’s who became the nation’s first major importer of limes. The drink was an instant hit, and various bottlers promptly came up with a soft version for teetotalers and tots, all under the generic label “rickey.” By the twenties, when a gleaming chrome-and-tile soda fountain was as indispensable to a town as a post office, the cherry lime was as common as a Starbucks latte is today.
If properly made, a cherry lime is unusual among soft drinks in that it is not only sweet and flavorful but also thirst quenching. These attributes make it ideal for summertime refreshment and explain why, like Brooklyn’s egg cream, such a retro potion retains a loyal following despite its elusive nature. In particular, the cherry lime keeps hanging on in West Texas and the Panhandle. I can think of several reasons why: Maybe workingmen such as cowboys and roughnecks, who always need water and want sugar, have kept the drink popular; the cheerful pink-and-green color combo has always contrasted pleasantly with the sepia landscape; and tradition surely plays a part (I’m a third-generation cherry-limer). For us baby boomers, there was also the nutritional benefit. Just as sailors in the eighteenth century drank lime juice to prevent scurvy on long sea voyages, so Panhandle kids during the fifties and sixties depended on cherry limes to keep them healthy and hap—hahahahaha. Sorry, just couldn’t keep that up.
I’m of an age at which I can claim friends who are former soda jerks. One is my colleague Gary Cartwright, who, before becoming a famous writer and general rapscallion, earned