THE SCENE / Smooth Operator

It’s almost my turn and I’m going to choke, I just know it. I’m standing in the soothing Starbucks-meets-GNC portals of a place called Jamba Juice, contemplating the social significance of the latest beverage phylum--the Smoothie. Well, in truth, I’m simply dithering. Do I want a Peach Pleasure or a Citrus Squeeze? Is it possible to overdose on C? Will a Powerberry keep me up all night? And what about this crazy list of “inertias”: bee pollen, oat bran, protein powder?

The waif in the line next to me, who is wearing, inexplicably enough, a Rotary Club windbreaker, orders a Cranberry Craze, hold the fro-yo, with bee pollen and protein powder and a shot of wheat grass on the side. Her friend, who has been busily constructing an origami swan from a Neiman-Marcus bag, requests a Carrot Squeeze with two hits of oat bran, and wants reassurance the carrots are organically grown.

I am way out of my league.

See, I’m from Baltimore, birthplace of the Sno-Ball. I am used to decisions involving day-glo flavors like Tutti Frutti and Sky Blue. The closest I ever got to a juice bar was the Orange Julius stand in the Columbia Mall. What do I know from Smoothies?

I want to keep up with potable trends, and God knows I try. I’ve learned to drink kiwi lemonade, soy milk and salad in a bottle. I’ve successfully integrated into my vocabulary the words “frappuccino” and “chillini.” I knew vaguely of the concoction called Smoothie--a healthful-type drink posing as a frozen daiquiri--just as one knows of a friend of a friend who has a house in Paris that might come in handy someday.

Then the Smoothie, mostly sold at discrete yogurt shops, hit the Big Time. It broke with its Beverage and Side Order standing and became its own franchise. Shops with names like Jamba Juice and Ultimate Smoothies nestle against Starbucks and Le Bon Pain in the bustling market squares of Santa Monica and Burbank--thousands of blenders grinding in unison, dedicated to making this a Smoothie-accessible city. (Investment tip: Think Waring.)

The man in front of me, the one with the slender silver chain that loops down from his earring, under his shirt and then heaven knows where, is firing out a multiple order with authority I have only heard from cocktail waitresses over the age of 50. Appropriately enough--there is a bit of P.J. Clarke in Wonderland about all this. I feel a surge of confidence. There was a time I could deconstruct the perfect Manhattan with the best of them. But somehow I don’t think “straight up and hold the fruit salad” is going to play here.

He’s paying, he’s paying and I still don’t know what I want. All the names, the endless possibilities, flicker and merge in a maddening hum, and there is really only one way to go.

“OK, hon,” I say to the juice-jerk with my best Bawlimur oohhhs, “here’s what I want.” Then I do what this city has taught me--I order off the menu. Smmmmooooooottttthhhhh.