Memories of a drive-in double feature (02/20/08)

It was probably one of the worst double features in history.

But the memory of it has me facing an invitation to dinner at one of the poshest places in Manhattan.

Let me explain, or try to.

Back in 1967, a guy by the name Alan Richman came to work at The Commercial Review. About the same time, a guy by the name of Jim Landberg came to work at The News and Sun in Dunkirk.

Both were the sort of talented young journalists who often make places like Portland and Dunkirk the first stop in their careers. They learn a few things, make their mistakes in front of a smaller audience, then move onto something bigger.

Alan wasn't much older than I was. It was the summer after my freshman year in college when he arrived on the scene.

He was just out of the army. Or, rather, he thought he was just out of the army. As a reservist in the Vietnam era, he was subject to being called up. And he was, in fact, called back into service within a few months after coming to Jay County.

So his stay here was short, but it was memorable.

At one point, my parents invited both Alan and Jim to a cookout at our place out in Jackson Township, overlooking Magic Valley.

What could they say? The boss invites you to dinner; you go. End of discussion.

But after the cookout, there was one of those "so what do we do next" moments.

My older sister Linda was visiting at the time and tossed out a couple of suggestions.

The next thing we knew, we were headed to the drive-in. There were four of us, Alan, Jim, Linda, and myself. For some reason, we didn't head to the Sky-Vue but instead opted for the Limberlost in Geneva.

This was long before the long-gone Limberlost entered its porn phase, but the movies still weren't great.

For reasons I can't begin to explain, I still remember the double bill: A cowboy movie named "Chuka" and "The Trip" with Peter Fonda, which was sort of an infomercial for LSD.

Both were so bad that the four of us talked all the way through, making fun of the actors, the plot lines, and the special effects.

Years pass. Linda goes on to become a successful child psychologist. I end up back in Jay County. Jim has a career in journalism in Minnesota. And Alan becomes famous.

Okay, that's stretching it a bit.

Maybe quasi-famous is the right term.

In some circles, his name not only rings bells but gets attention.

Alan, who was for a while the writing coach at The Boston Globe, is probably best known as the food critic at the magazine GQ. These days, he also teaches a class in food writing in New York.

And that's where he resurfaces in this rambling tale.

In a conversation with the father of one of Sally's roommates at Indiana University, he enthused about a class he was going to be taking this February. His teacher: Alan Richman.

The name was mentioned almost reverently by his potential student. And he seemed incredulous when I said I knew Al and had been to the drive-in with him more than 40 years ago.

Now the class has started, student and teacher have discussed the Limberlost Drive-In connection, and the pressure is on for me to drop everything and head to the Big Apple for a big meal.

And we're talking a really big meal. How about L'Ecole, the restaurant affiliated with the French Culinary Institute?

It sounds fabulous, but it also sounds unlikely.

I wonder if we could schedule something a little closer to home. Any suggestions?

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