NY Times Septemmber 26, 2009

Seltzer Man Is Out of Action, and Brooklyn Thirsts
By COREY KILGANNON

The cellphone would not stop ringing. “Ronny, you’re 10 minutes late,”
one caller whined.

But Ronny Beberman had a good reason. Having tumbled eight feet off
his own seltzer truck, Mr. Beberman, 62, was answering the phone while
laid out on West Seventh Street in Brooklyn, bleeding from a head gash
and having broken a foot and several vertebrae. The news was also bad
for his customers: Ronny the Seltzer Man would be out of service for a
while.

Mr. Beberman drives the last real seltzer truck in New York, a
wooden-slatted affair with crooked racks and side doors that are stuck
open — the easier to strap the worn wooden cases to the side.

For nearly 40 years, he has delivered seltzer in thick, old siphon
bottles to thousands of Brooklynites, each customer receiving a case
of 10 every other week for $25, cash.

But on Sept. 15, just before the start of the Jewish High Holy Days,
one of the busiest times of the year, Brooklyn’s Gunga Din of soda
water went down, and now several hundred customers are resorting to
rationing or even privation.

“The first couple of days, I was drinking it slow and making it last,”
said Joshua M. Bernstein, 31, of Crown Heights, a food writer and a
customer of Mr. Beberman’s for three years. “We’re down to our last
bottle, so we’re saving it for a special occasion.”

New York used to have hundreds of seltzer deliverymen, but now there
is only Mr. Beberman and about half a dozen others who drive modern
delivery trucks or vans.

The day of his accident, in Gravesend, Mr. Beberman climbed onto the
top of his truck, where he keeps a few cases of soda for certain
customers. He located a case of cream soda for an elderly woman but
then lost his balance and tumbled to the street.

“First time I ever fell,” he said.

He was in the hospital for five days. But despite orders to take it
easy, Mr. Beberman has been pacing like a bobcat, eager to get back to
work. He is waiting for doctors to tell him when that might be.

Shortly after leaving the hospital, Mr. Beberman had his wife, Lois,
drive him to where he fills his bottles daily: Gomberg Seltzer Works
in Canarsie, the last seltzer factory in New York City, where machines
nearly a century old filter and fizz up city tap water with 60
pounds-per-square-inch of carbon dioxide.

Mr. Beberman, in torso and neck braces, hobbled into the plant to try
to find a temporary driver, which is not as easy as it may sound,
since Mr. Beberman does not keep a route sheet of his customers’
addresses.

“It’s all up here,” he said, pointing to his head, with its
stitched-up wound. He is still looking for a driver.

This type of compulsive commitment is the mark of the real seltzer
man, said Walter Backerman, 56, of Queens. Mr. Beberman and Mr.
Backerman, who recently traded in his old seltzer truck for a sleek
modern vehicle, are the two deliverymen in the city with the most
customers, according to Kenny Gomberg, the third-generation owner of
the seltzer factory.

Mr. Backerman said his father and grandfather, seltzer men both,
refused to let trivialities like severed fingers and shattered
kneecaps impede their deliveries.

“My father, before he died, told me, ‘I can’t stop these dreams — I
keep seeing all the people I missed on the route,’ ” Mr. Backerman
said.

Seltzer delivery is not for the feeble; Mr. Beberman has a strong,
wiry frame and can scramble all over his truck. But his back is bad,
from lifting the heavy crates, and he has also had broken ribs,
several knee operations and torn rotator cuffs in both shoulders.

Normally, he starts at 5 each morning, driving by car from his home in
Bayside, Queens, to pick up his truck in the Bushwick neighborhood of
Brooklyn. He works six days a week, with one vacation week a year. He
delivers some 200 cases a week, he said.

“My route is like clockwork,” he said at his home this week. “If I’m
not there, they immediately start calling.”

Mr. Beberman does not advertise, and his business is not listed in the
telephone directory. The sight of his truck alone brings in more
requests than he can handle, he said.

Still, the truck has its limitations. The rattling cases are so
precariously perched that he will not risk driving over the Brooklyn
Bridge to expand into Manhattan.

Mr. Beberman is choosy about whom he entrusts with his expensive
bottles, many of which were hand-blown by Czech and Austrian makers
before World War II. Each bottle holds 26 ounces. His customers must
be serious about their seltzer and accept his rules. He refuses to
carry cases up flights of stairs anymore. There are no half-case
options. You order seltzer, you pay for 10 bottles. If you pay late,
you do not get seltzer.

“You’ve heard of the Soup Nazi?” Mrs. Beberman said on Thursday. “Well
Ronny is the Seltzer Nazi.”

The seltzer route put his three sons through college — they’re
triplets, now age 31, and in careers that don’t involve carrying
seltzer. Still, Mr. Beberman says he cannot afford to retire and would
not dream of leaving his customers dry.

Few if any have called other deliverymen, and almost all of them are
spiritually allergic to store-bought seltzer, with its
less-than-explosive carbonation and short fizz life.

“It cleans your tongue in the morning,” Mr. Bernstein said of Mr.
Beberman’s seltzer. “It’s like coffee without the caffeine. You drink
it ice-cold and it shocks the senses.”

(“Real seltzer should hurt,” said Mr. Gomberg, the factory owner.)

Nostalgia also plays a part, Mr. Bernstein said. “It’s a tie to an
earlier time in life,” he said. “You feel part of the New York
continuum.”

Matt Levy, 29, a tour guide and fourth-generation Brooklynite, said he
was rationing the case that Mr. Beberman delivered to him in Bushwick
two weeks ago. He had five bottles left.

“We’re in a seltzer drought, and we have to prepare for it,” Mr. Levy
said. “We have one of these little seltzer-making machines at home,
but nothing is as good as Ronny’s seltzer.”

On Sep 26, 7:52*am, brooklyn1 > wrote:
> NY Times Septemmber 26, 2009
>
> Seltzer Man Is Out of Action, and Brooklyn Thirsts
> By COREY KILGANNON
>
> The cellphone would not stop ringing. “Ronny, you’re 10 minutes late,”
> one caller whined.
>
> But Ronny Beberman had a good reason. Having tumbled eight feet off
> his own seltzer truck, Mr. Beberman, 62, was answering the phone while
> laid out on West Seventh Street in Brooklyn, bleeding from a head gash
> and having broken a foot and several vertebrae. The news was also bad
> for his customers: Ronny the Seltzer Man would be out of service for a
> while.
>
> Mr. Beberman drives the last real seltzer truck in New York, a
> wooden-slatted affair with crooked racks and side doors that are stuck
> open — the easier to strap the worn wooden cases to the side.
>
> For nearly 40 years, he has delivered seltzer in thick, old siphon
> bottles to thousands of Brooklynites, each customer receiving a case
> of 10 every other week for $25, cash.
>
> But on Sept. 15, just before the start of the Jewish High Holy Days,
> one of the busiest times of the year, Brooklyn’s Gunga Din of soda
> water went down, and now several hundred customers are resorting to
> rationing or even privation.
>
> “The first couple of days, I was drinking it slow and making it last,”
> said Joshua M. Bernstein, 31, of Crown Heights, a food writer and a
> customer of Mr. Beberman’s for three years. “We’re down to our last
> bottle, so we’re saving it for a special occasion.”
>
> New York used to have hundreds of seltzer deliverymen, but now there
> is only Mr. Beberman and about half a dozen others who drive modern
> delivery trucks or vans.
>
> The day of his accident, in Gravesend, Mr. Beberman climbed onto the
> top of his truck, where he keeps a few cases of soda for certain
> customers. He located a case of cream soda for an elderly woman but
> then lost his balance and tumbled to the street.
>
> “First time I ever fell,” he said.
>
> He was in the hospital for five days. But despite orders to take it
> easy, Mr. Beberman has been pacing like a bobcat, eager to get back to
> work. He is waiting for doctors to tell him when that might be.
>
> Shortly after leaving the hospital, Mr. Beberman had his wife, Lois,
> drive him to where he fills his bottles daily: Gomberg Seltzer Works
> in Canarsie, the last seltzer factory in New York City, where machines
> nearly a century old filter and fizz up city tap water with 60
> pounds-per-square-inch of carbon dioxide.
>
> Mr. Beberman, in torso and neck braces, hobbled into the plant to try
> to find a temporary driver, which is not as easy as it may sound,
> since Mr. Beberman does not keep a route sheet of his customers’
> addresses.
>
> “It’s all up here,” he said, pointing to his head, with its
> stitched-up wound. He is still looking for a driver.
>
> This type of compulsive commitment is the mark of the real seltzer
> man, said Walter Backerman, 56, of Queens. Mr. Beberman and Mr.
> Backerman, who recently traded in his old seltzer truck for a sleek
> modern vehicle, are the two deliverymen in the city with the most
> customers, according to Kenny Gomberg, the third-generation owner of
> the seltzer factory.
>
> Mr. Backerman said his father and grandfather, seltzer men both,
> refused to let trivialities like severed fingers and shattered
> kneecaps impede their deliveries.
>
> “My father, before he died, told me, ‘I can’t stop these dreams — I
> keep seeing all the people I missed on the route,’ ” Mr. Backerman
> said.
>
> Seltzer delivery is not for the feeble; Mr. Beberman has a strong,
> wiry frame and can scramble all over his truck. But his back is bad,
> from lifting the heavy crates, and he has also had broken ribs,
> several knee operations and torn rotator cuffs in both shoulders.
>
> Normally, he starts at 5 each morning, driving by car from his home in
> Bayside, Queens, to pick up his truck in the Bushwick neighborhood of
> Brooklyn. He works six days a week, with one vacation week a year. He
> delivers some 200 cases a week, he said.
>
> “My route is like clockwork,” he said at his home this week. “If I’m
> not there, they immediately start calling.”
>
> Mr. Beberman does not advertise, and his business is not listed in the
> telephone directory. The sight of his truck alone brings in more
> requests than he can handle, he said.
>
> Still, the truck has its limitations. The rattling cases are so
> precariously perched that he will not risk driving over the Brooklyn
> Bridge to expand into Manhattan.
>
> Mr. Beberman is choosy about whom he entrusts with his expensive
> bottles, many of which were hand-blown by Czech and Austrian makers
> before World War II. Each bottle holds 26 ounces. His customers must
> be serious about their seltzer and accept his rules. He refuses to
> carry cases up flights of stairs anymore. There are no half-case
> options. You order seltzer, you pay for 10 bottles. If you pay late,
> you do not get seltzer.
>
> “You’ve heard of the Soup Nazi?” Mrs. Beberman said on Thursday. “Well
> Ronny is the Seltzer Nazi.”
>
> The seltzer route put his three sons through college — they’re
> triplets, now age 31, and in careers that don’t involve carrying
> seltzer. Still, Mr. Beberman says he cannot afford to retire and would
> not dream of leaving his customers dry.
>
> Few if any have called other deliverymen, and almost all of them are
> spiritually allergic to store-bought seltzer, with its
> less-than-explosive carbonation and short fizz life.
>
> “It cleans your tongue in the morning,” Mr. Bernstein said of Mr.
> Beberman’s seltzer. “It’s like coffee without the caffeine. You drink
> it ice-cold and it shocks the senses.”
>
> (“Real seltzer should hurt,” said Mr. Gomberg, the factory owner.)
>
> Nostalgia also plays a part, Mr. Bernstein said. “It’s a tie to an
> earlier time in life,” he said. “You feel part of the New York
> continuum.”
>
> Matt Levy, 29, a tour guide and fourth-generation Brooklynite, said he
> was rationing the case that Mr. Beberman delivered to him in Bushwick
> two weeks ago. He had five bottles left.
>
> “We’re in a seltzer drought, and we have to prepare for it,” Mr. Levy
> said. “We have one of these little seltzer-making machines at home,
> but nothing is as good as Ronny’s seltzer.”

Interesting story. Reminds me of the ONE resto I knew of which had
seltzer bottles on each table. Nice touch.

"brooklyn1" > wrote in message
>
> NY Times Septemmber 26, 2009
>
> Seltzer Man Is Out of Action, and Brooklyn Thirsts
> By COREY KILGANNON
>
> The cellphone would not stop ringing. "Ronny, you're 10 minutes late,"
> one caller whined.
>
> But Ronny Beberman had a good reason. Having tumbled eight feet off
> his own seltzer truck,
>
> Normally, he starts at 5 each morning, driving by car from his home in
> Bayside, Queens, to pick up his truck in the Bushwick neighborhood of
> Brooklyn. He works six days a week, with one vacation week a year. He
> delivers some 200 cases a week, he said.
>
> "My route is like clockwork," he said at his home this week. "If I'm
> not there, they immediately start calling."
>
> Mr. Beberman does not advertise, and his business is not listed in the
> telephone directory. The sight of his truck alone brings in more
> requests than he can handle, he said.
>
> Still, the truck has its limitations. The rattling cases are so
> precariously perched that he will not risk driving over the Brooklyn
> Bridge to expand into Manhattan.
>
> Mr. Beberman is choosy about whom he entrusts with his expensive
> bottles, many of which were hand-blown by Czech and Austrian makers
> before World War II. Each bottle holds 26 ounces. His customers must
> be serious about their seltzer and accept his rules. He refuses to
> carry cases up flights of stairs anymore. There are no half-case
> options. You order seltzer, you pay for 10 bottles. If you pay late,
> you do not get seltzer.
>
> "You've heard of the Soup Nazi?" Mrs. Beberman said on Thursday. "Well
> Ronny is the Seltzer Nazi."
>
> The seltzer route put his three sons through college - they're
> triplets, now age 31, and in careers that don't involve carrying
> seltzer. Still, Mr. Beberman says he cannot afford to retire and would
> not dream of leaving his customers dry.

Good story' I hope he has a quick recovery. Not many people left in the
world that are dedicated to the customer and plying an trade that is fading
away.

Ed Pawlowski said...

> Good story' I hope he has a quick recovery. Not many people left in the
> world that are dedicated to the customer and plying an trade that is
> fading away.


Agreed.

A treasured throwback to simpler times, obviously.

If I was one of his customers I wouldn't dare cancel delivery.

Hope he mends quick.

Andy

brooklyn1 wrote:
>
> (“Real seltzer should hurt,” said Mr. Gomberg, the factory owner.)

Heh. There's a man who knows his trade.

Ed Pawlowski wrote:

> Good story' I hope he has a quick recovery. Not many people left in the
> world that are dedicated to the customer and plying an trade that is fading
> away.

When I was growing up in northern Hudson County, NJ, we had a seltzer
man. He came every week with his wooden box of seltzer bottles and
another box of Hoffman brand soda. Seltzer in a big, heavy bottle was a
way of life. We did not sit down to supper without the seltzer bottle on
the table.

One day I went looking for my bike and found that my mother had given it
away to the seltzer man for his daughter to take to college. I can't
think of seltzer bottles without thinking of my blue 24" Roadmaster two
wheeler named, appropriately, Bluebell, and Clarabelle the Clown on
Howdy Doody who used a seltzer bottle as a weapon. <BTW, even though
Clarabelle is a feminine name, the part was played by John Keeshan who
later became Captain Kangaroo>

I am really dating myself. Would it help if I said I'm not that old, I
just have "old" memories? Didn't think so. Sigh.
--
Janet Wilder
Way-the-heck-south Texas
Spelling doesn't count. Cooking does.

brooklyn1 wrote:
>
>
> NY Times Septemmber 26, 2009
>
> Seltzer Man Is Out of Action, and Brooklyn Thirsts
> By COREY KILGANNON
>
> The cellphone would not stop ringing. “Ronny, you’re 10 minutes late,”
> one caller whined.
>
> But Ronny Beberman had a good reason. Having tumbled eight feet off
> his own seltzer truck, Mr. Beberman, 62, was answering the phone while
> laid out on West Seventh Street in Brooklyn, bleeding from a head gash
> and having broken a foot and several vertebrae. The news was also bad
> for his customers: Ronny the Seltzer Man would be out of service for a
> while.
>
> Mr. Beberman drives the last real seltzer truck in New York, a
> wooden-slatted affair with crooked racks and side doors that are stuck
> open — the easier to strap the worn wooden cases to the side.
>
> For nearly 40 years, he has delivered seltzer in thick, old siphon
> bottles to thousands of Brooklynites, each customer receiving a case
> of 10 every other week for $25, cash.
>
> But on Sept. 15, just before the start of the Jewish High Holy Days,
> one of the busiest times of the year, Brooklyn’s Gunga Din of soda
> water went down, and now several hundred customers are resorting to
> rationing or even privation.
>
> “The first couple of days, I was drinking it slow and making it last,”
> said Joshua M. Bernstein, 31, of Crown Heights, a food writer and a
> customer of Mr. Beberman’s for three years. “We’re down to our last
> bottle, so we’re saving it for a special occasion.”
>
> New York used to have hundreds of seltzer deliverymen, but now there
> is only Mr. Beberman and about half a dozen others who drive modern
> delivery trucks or vans.
>
> The day of his accident, in Gravesend, Mr. Beberman climbed onto the
> top of his truck, where he keeps a few cases of soda for certain
> customers. He located a case of cream soda for an elderly woman but
> then lost his balance and tumbled to the street.
>
> “First time I ever fell,” he said.
>
> He was in the hospital for five days. But despite orders to take it
> easy, Mr. Beberman has been pacing like a bobcat, eager to get back to
> work. He is waiting for doctors to tell him when that might be.
>
> Shortly after leaving the hospital, Mr. Beberman had his wife, Lois,
> drive him to where he fills his bottles daily: Gomberg Seltzer Works
> in Canarsie, the last seltzer factory in New York City, where machines
> nearly a century old filter and fizz up city tap water with 60
> pounds-per-square-inch of carbon dioxide.
>
> Mr. Beberman, in torso and neck braces, hobbled into the plant to try
> to find a temporary driver, which is not as easy as it may sound,
> since Mr. Beberman does not keep a route sheet of his customers’
> addresses.
>
> “It’s all up here,” he said, pointing to his head, with its
> stitched-up wound. He is still looking for a driver.
>
> This type of compulsive commitment is the mark of the real seltzer
> man, said Walter Backerman, 56, of Queens. Mr. Beberman and Mr.
> Backerman, who recently traded in his old seltzer truck for a sleek
> modern vehicle, are the two deliverymen in the city with the most
> customers, according to Kenny Gomberg, the third-generation owner of
> the seltzer factory.
>
> Mr. Backerman said his father and grandfather, seltzer men both,
> refused to let trivialities like severed fingers and shattered
> kneecaps impede their deliveries.
>
> “My father, before he died, told me, ‘I can’t stop these dreams — I
> keep seeing all the people I missed on the route,’ ” Mr. Backerman
> said.
>
> Seltzer delivery is not for the feeble; Mr. Beberman has a strong,
> wiry frame and can scramble all over his truck. But his back is bad,
> from lifting the heavy crates, and he has also had broken ribs,
> several knee operations and torn rotator cuffs in both shoulders.
>
> Normally, he starts at 5 each morning, driving by car from his home in
> Bayside, Queens, to pick up his truck in the Bushwick neighborhood of
> Brooklyn. He works six days a week, with one vacation week a year. He
> delivers some 200 cases a week, he said.
>
> “My route is like clockwork,” he said at his home this week. “If I’m
> not there, they immediately start calling.”
>
> Mr. Beberman does not advertise, and his business is not listed in the
> telephone directory. The sight of his truck alone brings in more
> requests than he can handle, he said.
>
> Still, the truck has its limitations. The rattling cases are so
> precariously perched that he will not risk driving over the Brooklyn
> Bridge to expand into Manhattan.
>
> Mr. Beberman is choosy about whom he entrusts with his expensive
> bottles, many of which were hand-blown by Czech and Austrian makers
> before World War II. Each bottle holds 26 ounces. His customers must
> be serious about their seltzer and accept his rules. He refuses to
> carry cases up flights of stairs anymore. There are no half-case
> options. You order seltzer, you pay for 10 bottles. If you pay late,
> you do not get seltzer.
>
> “You’ve heard of the Soup Nazi?” Mrs. Beberman said on Thursday. “Well
> Ronny is the Seltzer Nazi.”
>
> The seltzer route put his three sons through college — they’re
> triplets, now age 31, and in careers that don’t involve carrying
> seltzer. Still, Mr. Beberman says he cannot afford to retire and would
> not dream of leaving his customers dry.
>
> Few if any have called other deliverymen, and almost all of them are
> spiritually allergic to store-bought seltzer, with its
> less-than-explosive carbonation and short fizz life.
>
> “It cleans your tongue in the morning,” Mr. Bernstein said of Mr.
> Beberman’s seltzer. “It’s like coffee without the caffeine. You drink
> it ice-cold and it shocks the senses.”
>
> (“Real seltzer should hurt,” said Mr. Gomberg, the factory owner.)
>
> Nostalgia also plays a part, Mr. Bernstein said. “It’s a tie to an
> earlier time in life,” he said. “You feel part of the New York
> continuum.”
>
> Matt Levy, 29, a tour guide and fourth-generation Brooklynite, said he
> was rationing the case that Mr. Beberman delivered to him in Bushwick
> two weeks ago. He had five bottles left.
>
> “We’re in a seltzer drought, and we have to prepare for it,” Mr. Levy
> said. “We have one of these little seltzer-making machines at home,
> but nothing is as good as Ronny’s seltzer.”
>
>
>
Sounds like he needs an understudy--and someone to eventually
replace him!

--
Jean B.