海角大神

Around Valentine鈥檚 Day, it鈥檚 customary for movie critics to cite their favorite romantic movies. But romance comes in many guises. In that spirit, I offer praise for the new documentary 鈥淭he Automat,鈥� which chronicles the history of Horn & Hardart, the beloved chain of retail stores and eateries featuring self-service vending machines that, at its height in the 1950s, fed an estimated 800,000 people a day.

Since the automat chain, started by Joe Horn and Frank Hardart in 1902, went out of business in the early 1990s, and was located only in Philadelphia and New York City, it鈥檚 logical to assume most viewers won鈥檛 relate to this movie at all. But I disagree. Horn & Hardart occupies a significant position in the history of American consumerism, which director Lisa Hurwitz amply demonstrates through archival footage and multiple interviews. More than that, there鈥檚 also the richer resonance for audiences of connecting to a place that has summoned so many joyful memories. (Full disclosure: As a kid, I went into ecstasies over the tapioca pudding, cheese muffins, and pumpkin pie.)

One of the franchise鈥檚 great appreciators is Mel Brooks, who pops up periodically in the film to rhapsodize over the automat鈥檚 coconut cream pie (鈥淕od made that鈥�), creamed spinach, mac and cheese, and, most of all, the coffee, which for many years, until hard times hit in the 1970s, cost only 5 cents. (鈥淚鈥檝e paid $35 for coffee not half as good,鈥� says Brooks.)

Nickels were the coin of the realm at Horn & Hardart. You showed up with a roll of them, or else presented a dollar to an employee who would, according to Brooks, magically scoop up exactly 20 nickels in a big barrel for you. The emporiums were immaculately clean and spaciously laid out, with marble floors and tabletops, and dolphin-shaped spigots for the coffee. The food was housed along the wall in individual see-through vending machines. You dropped your nickels in, lifted the plastic door, and pulled out your pie. Within moments, dumbwaiter-style, the offering would be replaced by unseen hands.

Repeated throughout the movie is how egalitarian this experience was for so many people, especially immigrants and people of color, who often found themselves unwelcome in regular restaurants, or else unable to afford them.聽

Horn & Hardart, partially by design, was a great melting pot; executives and white-collar workers were just as likely to mix it up there as anyone else, and there was no preferential seating. (Also no waiters 鈥� i.e., no tipping.) Interviewed before their deaths, Colin Powell and Ruth Bader Ginsburg 鈥� who talks about the automat as a haven for 鈥渨orking women without a lot of cash鈥� 鈥� each laud the place鈥檚 inviting openness.聽

Changing demographics and economics inevitably collapsed the franchise鈥檚 business model. More customers moved to the suburbs; frozen foods and TV dinners, not to mention home-cooked meals by stay-at-home moms, were ascendant. Worst of all, the price of coffee went up 鈥� to 10 cents! The last automat, located near Grand Central Terminal in New York, finally closed in 1991, whereupon the company鈥檚 valued real estate was sold mostly to fast-food chains.聽 聽

Hurwitz resists the temptation to turn this story into a parable about corporate capitalism, and that鈥檚 probably just as well. She never loses sight of the deeper reason for our interest: our longing for togetherness in whatever form it takes, even if it鈥檚 just an eating place.聽

We鈥檝e all had the experience, especially in the past few years, of dropping by a favorite restaurant only to discover it鈥檚 been shuttered. The pang that we feel speaks to more than the loss of a good meal. In its own rueful way, 鈥淭he Automat鈥� functions as a kind of restorative to those feelings of loss. It鈥檚 a celebration of what for so many people was among the happiest of times.

Peter Rainer is the Monitor's film critic. 鈥淭he Automat鈥� is available in select聽theaters starting Feb. 18. It is not rated.