Forsgate Ice Cream Menu in 1932
A quart in bulk was $1.00 and for pre-packed it was .75 cents; A pint was .50 cents in bulk and .35 cents for pre-packed; A pint was .30 cents and .25 cents for pre-packed; Single Cone was .10 cents; Double Cone was only .20 cents; Popsicles were .10 cents; Dixie Cups also sold for .10 cents; Sandwiches were only .12 cents; A Gallon sold for $1.40; Sugar Cones for sale for .11 cents.
Forsgate received its liquor license in 1933, making the still private country club an exclusive resort for New York and Philadelphia business friends of the family. Agricultural productivity was dramatically increased by the combine machine, which when first introduced made headline news by being able to cut and thresh wheat and bind it into 60 bundles an hour, all in one operation.
Golf memberships cost the Club’s exclusive clientele only $25.00 in 1955 – a small price for the pleasure of golfing on the famous Charles Banks’ course.
By 1939, right before the outbreak of World War II, the Farm’s success was evident by the fleet of milk trucks covering 12 retail and wholesale routes, and the 28 routes covered by independent distributors. As Forsgate’s future was brightening, the world’s political situation was darkening. World War II had started and Americans were preoccupied with the country’s involvement in the war. Meanwhile, the future of the Farm was about to move into the capable hands of John Forster Abeel, who had his own ideas about how to expand on his grandfather’s original vision.
Read more about this topic: Forsgate Country Club
Famous quotes containing the words ice, cream and/or menu:
“Not to like ice cream is to show oneself uninterested in food.”
—Joseph Epstein (b. 1937)
“How wonderful to meet such a natural little girl. She knows what she wants and she asks for it. Not like these over-civilized little pets that have to go through analysis before they can choose an ice cream soda.”
—John Lee Mahin (1902–1984)
“...what a thing it is to lie there all day in the fine breeze, with the pine needles dropping on one, only to return to the hotel at night so hungry that the dinner, however homely, is a fete, and the menu finer reading than the best poetry in the world! Yet we are to leave all this for the glare and blaze of Nice and Monte Carlo; which is proof enough that one cannot become really acclimated to happiness.”
—Willa Cather (1876–1947)