Hal the horseradish man

By Ira Spector

Ira Spector

SAN DIEGO — When my career morphed exclusively into making signs I specialized, among other things, in shopping center work. One of my clients was building a new, medium-sized, suburban center in the hills of San Diego County and asked me to give a talk on signage to his new tenants who were all small retailers. My advice to them was not to get cute with clever names that only their family, friends, and successful New York Times cross word puzzle devotees can figure out. (E.g., don’t call yourself,“The Happy Hooker,” if you sell yarn.) I also told an anecdote about a sign I had previously made for a barbershop in another center. The name of the establishment was, ‘The Prime Cut.’ I counseled the owner, “People are going to confuse your business with a butcher shop. I suggest we put a barber pole symbol on each end to avoid that possibility.” He agreed. Shortly after installing the sign, I was at the shopping center. It was late in the afternoon and a group of well-dressed, thirsty, senior citizens, strolled by looking for a watering hole. They noticed my client’s sign “The Prime Cut.” One of the gray-haired fellow’s remarked, “That looks like a cocktail lounge.” So off they trotted to disappointment and despair.

To continue my thesis and get to the heart of this story I have to back up 25 years. I was driving to Palm Springs. It was lunchtime, and I exited the I-10 freeway in Banning, a desert town most travelers just stop in for gasoline or a hot dog. I stopped at a fast food beanery for a hamburger. While waiting for my meal I noticed a small, freestanding wood building across the street. The building was painted yellow, which was not extraordinary by itself, but across the entire length of the façade, hand-painted in huge, block, green-painted letters, was the word “horseradish.” Now this is not the message on your typical store sign. I was so intrigued, that after lunch I crossed the street to see what they sold. To my amazement, the store, true to its sign, primarily sold three kinds of horseradish-regular, beet, and lemon- in pint or quart jars. Yes, there were a few extra things on the sparsely stocked shelves. A few bags of nuts, olives, and honey, but they seemed to be an afterthought, like a tract home interior decorator trying to fill space in a model home with knickknacks. There were no other customers in the store. Behind the small counter, where the jars of horseradish were displayed, was Hal, the 25-year-old proprietor, whom I sized up immediately as a matter-of-fact type fellow. He was not the kind to gush typical sales person greetings.

Plain spoken, medium height, with a trim-build, he answered all my questions and offered nothing more. He told me that ninety percent of all the horseradish roots grown for commercial use in the U.S. come from southern Illinois and southern Missouri, where he bought his stock. He prepared and sold about a ton of roots per year. He was the second generation in the business, having succeeded his father in 1981. He’d spent all his life in Banning and all his life in horseradish. His father started the business in 1954, having been taught by a chef who suggested the business to him. Hal sold to a few local restaurants, but relied on sales from folks like myself who bought at the store. My entrepreneurial juices flowing, I asked him why he didn’t sell to more hotels, restaurants, and specialty shops. His answer surprised me. “Johnny Weissmuller’s son told my father he could distribute his product in L.A. hotels and sell 500-600 gallons per month.” His father turned him down, because he said, “I’ll be dead in a month.” Hal felt the same way. He really couldn’t handle much more business, because of the extremely labor intensive method it took to prepare handmade horseradish. I was running out of time, so I bought a large jar of each flavor and continued on my journey.

Since then, I’ve had the occasion to pass by Banning a few times. Each time I stop at the “Horseradish” store to stock up and to see if Hal is still there. The store has always been open and Hal has always been there by himself. No other customers are ever in the store and the phone has never rung. He never acknowledges any memory of my previous visits and still never volunteers any information or passes the time of day.

Hal’s routine never varies. After a fifty-minute walk with his dog in the morning, he opens the store from 9:30 to 5.30 six days a week. (Closed on Wednesday.) Three nights a week, after closing the store, he has dinner, then goes to the building in the back of the property and makes horseradish. He prepares eight gallons. He starts by digging out the bad spots in the roots with a potato peeler, grinds the roots in a grating machine, and adds salt, lemon, or beet juice according to the flavor he is preparing. He finishes about ten-thirty, goes to bed, and wakes up two hours later with intense pain in his hands from Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, which is the result of so many years of the same repetitive activity with his hands.

Last week, my wife and I were driving to Palm Springs to visit my vacationing daughter. We approached Banning, and I said, “We’ve just got to stop to see if Hal and the store were still there.” Sure enough, nothing had changed, Hal, now fifty-seven years old, was still there by himself. This time I noticed a driveway that led to a building back off the street. As in past visits, Hal gave no indication he remembered me. His blonde hair and goatee had turned white, but he still had a trim body. Upon my urging, he shared a little more of his personal life with me this time. His father died 25 years before. He no longer kept the small distribution route. Although he had a few serious girl friends over the years, he never married, and was content to live in the back of the store with his dog. He owned both the store building and the building at the rear of the property. He prepared the horseradish in the rear building. He tried employees in the past, but they never lasted more than a few days. They couldn’t stand the smell and the repetitive operation.

When Carole and I left with our jars, a late model stylish convertible with the top down pulled up in front of us and two old geezers went into the store. I’m sure I know what they were buying the horseradish for, to put on Gefilte fish, a product almost unknown to most Gentiles. In fact it may be illegal for them to purchase it.

After the weekend in Palm Springs, I decided to write this story because the store was so unique and the business so obscure. Hal’s father said a long time ago, “If there was any money in this business, Kraft Foods would have figured it out.” I researched Google to find a few additional facts about the product. I was amazed at the results.

–There were 6,460,000 items about horseradish in Google.

–There is a horseradish information council.

–There is a horseradish festival in June, in Collinville, Illinois (Hal journeys there every year to purchase his roots from the T’R’ Kelly CO).

–There’s a cookbook with over 200 recipes.

–The root is used as a ceremonial item at the Jewish Passover Seder.

A final thought about this business. Hal had hoped to retire in about six or seven years and sell the property he owned free and clear. Is there another Hal left in America, willing to work so hard to take over this business? If not, it’s a sure thing to be outsourced to Sri Lanka, Uzbekistan, or Bangladesh.

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Ira Spector is an author and freelance writer based in San Diego. This selection was republished from Spector’s 2011 work, Sammy Where Are You? An Unconventional Memoir … Sort of. It is available via Amazon.