The World of Coca-Cola

Here’s my first disclaimer: there’s not a lot of culinary insight in this post.

Here’s my second disclaimer: I am not a big consumer of soft drinks. Long ago I decided I wanted to stick to completely natural beverages. That means, water, orange juice, coffee and red wine. The closest I come to drinking carbonated beverages is Veuve Cliquot.

But, I am a fan of food and beverage history – and particularly enamored of iconic products and their strange, hypnotic ability to permeate our society. That’s probably why I find myself compelled to visit the newly-opened World of Coca-Cola, a glistening shrine to soda pop in the heart of the Deep South.

Maybe it’s my recent journey through the land of the soft-drink cake gateau and my dalliance with the classic Coca-Cola Cake. Maybe it’s because I’m spending a couple of days in Atlanta, the ancestral home of Coke. The advertising is everywhere. The whole Coca-Cola thing becomes subliminal after a point. I even put on a bright red polo shirt this morning. The Real Thing is even more real in Atlanta. The bubbles – even the subliminal bubbles – are just intoxicating.

I am already dripping with sweat as I approach the glossy big-box World of Coca-Cola at Pemberton Place in downtown Atlanta. The 90 foot tower that holds a giant Coca-Cola Bottle catches my eye.

People move slower in Atlanta. Maybe it’s the perennial steam bath that cloaks the city. They’re also excessively friendly. As I stand in the entrance hall of this temple of the magic of effervescent marketing, surrounded by soft drink memorabilia, the archivist for Coca-Cola says “Have a peachy day!”

Peachy.

It reminds me of a visit to the World’s Fair or Epcot Center. I am bombarded with the international relevance of the most popular soft drink on the planet. Who would have thought that a little caramel-colored liquid could have such global impact?

We are greeted in the hub of the pavilion by a bubbly Coca-Cola “ambassador” who explains the layout of the exhibits. The minute the ambassador concludes her speech, two thirds of the crowd make a mad dash for the “Taste It” room which features floor-to-ceiling dispensers for each continent offering nearly 70 different varieties of soft drinks. I quickly edge my way in, as I fear the rampaging crowd will suck the place dry. It’s free pop after all. It is interesting to note the flavor profiles for different countries. The soft drinks range from spicy in Asia to excessively sweet in North America. The Europe spigot features a brand called “Beverly” from Italy, which tastes like Red Hot candies. The Africa spigot offers sodas flavored with pineapple and kiwi. There is bubbly black currant and “Sunfill Mint” from Africa which tastes a little like carbonated Scope Mouthwash. Yet, it is not unappealing.

In the “Milestones of Refreshment” Hall, ten galleries are crowded with Coke artifacts. There’s a bronze statue of John Pemberton, the man who created Coca-Cola in 1886, an old fashioned soda fountain, similar to Jacobs Pharmacy where Coke was first introduced in Atlanta, and a variety of red and white Coke dispensers. In the “Pop Culture” Gallery, there are Andy Warhol prints and even the classic holiday advertising that featured Jolly Old Saint Nicholas and redefined our world view of Christmas and Santa Claus.

I stroll through “Bottle Works,” the smallest Coca-Cola Bottling plant in the world. As one ambassador tells me, it’s the real thing, “but condensed.” The plant produces 20 bottles a minute. I learn that water is the main ingredient and C02 makes the bubbles, but the secret formula for the syrup remains closely guarded to this day.

I pass by bottles of every shape and advertising in every language of the world. It’s all starting to feel more important than the daily proceedings at the United Nations, so I head for the Coca-Cola store. This is about capitalism, after all.

One tee-shirt later, and with my just-capped souvenir bottle of Coke straight from the bottling line in hand, I am ready to go out and teach the world to sing in perfect harmony.

I exit the complex feeling just a little bit brainwashed and slightly over-carbonated, imagining a destination called “The World of Hostess Twinkies,” where international visitors are greeted by life-sized versions of Twinkie the Kid and burrow through an endless tunnel of frothy vanilla whipped cream.

I'd buy a ticket in a heartbeat.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Coca-Cola Cake and a Smile from 1971

He enters the door of the boxy pale-blue Levitt ranch house at exactly 7:45 p.m., and remembers that He has to trim the overgrown hedge this coming weekend. He rakes his fingers through his sandy gray hair, sheds his navy blue Brooks Brothers suit jacket and slips into his soft, tan cardigan sweater. She had long ago stitched oval patches over each elbow to repair the thread-bare wool.

He feels a bit weary. He’ll have to work late into the night in order to deliver the mid-week reforecast to Mr. P in Finance.

He hears Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge over Troubled Water” blasting on the stereo in Johnny’s bedroom.

“JOHNNY!” He shouts at the top of his lungs. “TURN THAT STEREO DOWN!”

The music abruptly stops. A door slams and Johnny appears in the hallway.

“Where are you going?” He asks Johnny.

“There’s a candlelight peace rally at the park. Mom said I could go. We’re sending Nixon a message. Make peace, not war!”

“Did you finish your homework?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Johnny replies rushing through the foyer. “And, don’t go in my room,” he mutters as he slams the front door behind him.

He really wished that Johnny would get a proper haircut.

In the kitchen, on the olive green refrigerator door, there is a handwritten note affixed with a magnet in the shape of a bright yellow Smiley Face. The note says: Working Late. Swanson Dinners in the Freezer. Be home after 9. XXXOOO.

He sighs. It seems like She is never home anymore. She is always working. At least She could have made a Crock-Pot dinner …

Little Susie is at the stove. She is removing two foil-covered trays from the oven using a pot holder. He didn’t know why He still thinks of her as “little.” She is so grown up now.

“We’re having TV dinners,” Susie announces. She takes the silver foil off each tray releasing a rush of steam. He sees slices of turkey, an apple cobbler, and a dollop of grayish whipped potatoes in each tray.

They sit down to eat. The TV that sits on the kitchen counter is on. The program is Family Affair on CBS. A commercial appears. There is a crowd of Flower Children on a hilltop, and they are singing.

“I’d like to teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony …”

“There’s that jingle again,” He says. “It’s on TV constantly, and now it’s going to be in my head all night.”

“I’d like to buy the world a Coke, and keep it company.”

“Can we turn off the TV?” He asks. Susie obliges.

“Daddy, I have a surprise,” Susie declares. “I made Coca-Cola Cake in Home Economics class today. We’re having it for dessert!”

“A cake made from soda pop? Where do you get these ideas?” He asks, slightly perplexed.

“Our teacher says a lady in Atlanta made the recipe, because she loved the taste of Coca-Cola so much,” says Susie. “My teacher says I have talent, too, and I should go to cooking school to become a chef.”

“Aren’t chef’s usually men?”

“Daddy! Don’t you watch television? What about Julia Child??? She’s a woman!”

He shrugs. He was always saying the wrong thing to the younger generation.

“Coca-Cola Cake is groovy, Daddy. There’s also a Fresca Cake with Maraschino Frosting, and a Pepsi-Cola Cake with Broiled Peanut Butter Frosting. I want to make them all!”

He makes a mental note to look into exactly what they are teaching in that Home Economics class.

Susie cuts two squares of the Coca-Cola Cake from a rectangular pan, and brings them to the table.

He takes a bite. The glossy blanket of chocolate frosting conceals a moist, fudge-colored cake studded with tiny marshmallows. The luxuriously sweet caramel flavor dances on his tongue. It is a bit like Devils Food Cake with a little extra kick.

Susie takes a deep breath. “Daddy, can I go see “The Last Picture Show” at the multiplex tonight?

“Susie. “The Last Picture Show” is rated R. I don’t think so.”

“But Dad, all the kids are going!”

“I don’t care what all the other kids are doing. You’ll follow my rules as long as you are living in this house.”

Susie looks dejected and He feels like a bit of an ogre. Why did every conversation with the kids turn into a battle?

He lifts Susie’s chin and tries again. “If you’d like, I’ll take you to Pathmark later and we can get the ingredients for that Fresca Cake,” He suggests. “I’ll even help you make it. You can teach your old man how to be a baker.”

The corners of Susie’s mouth turn up. She seems intrigued by the idea. “Okay,” she says slowly, “but you’ll have to do what I tell you and measure all the ingredients very carefully. And don’t make a mess.”

Susie is a lot like her mother in so many ways.

He smiles. Maybe it’s the bubbly optimism of the Coca-Cola Cake, the mini-marshmallows or the ridiculous grin on that canary-yellow Smiley Face. Or maybe, just the realization that life is never stagnant or flat. At least it shouldn’t be.

He suspects that He will probably look pretty ridiculous in one of those kitchen aprons that She always uses, but it might be good to learn a few skills in the kitchen.

And, it would be nice to spend a little extra time with Susie before she heads off to cooking school to become a famous chef.

Inspired by the Old Foodie.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved