I go to the carwash every couple of months, not so much to get the outside of my vehicle clean (though it undoubtedly needs it) but to vacuum the inside, to suction up something that would have been inconceivable to my parents’ generation: croissant crumbs.

In fact, in an era before fast food, it would have been unusual to eat or drink anything in a car. The Buick sedans my father favored didn’t have exotic devices like cupholders, but then they didn’t necessarily have anti-lock brakes either. Does the phrase drum brakes that don’t work so well in the rain stir memories in car enthusiasts of a certain age?

So why eat the croissant in the car? Not doing so would solve the crumb situation for me and make that mess into the coffee shop’s problem. But this is the 21st century–it is early, but I am already late. The curse of our age: I don’t have the time to sit down.

When I was eating long ago breakfasts of Wheaties and bananas, you had to be a cosmopolitan traveler, a world-class sophisticate, to know about croissants.

We didn’t even have bagels in the Long Island town where I grew up. My grandmother, who visited us on weekends, brought them from a deli in Manhattan. Now, a town without bagels is as likely as a teenager without a cell phone.

Anyway, back to croissants. I eat one most mornings in the car, having picked it up at a shop where customers cheerfully pay $3 or more for an accessorized latte or a cappuccino or one of the drinks whose provenance is beyond my powers of description. On a Sunday morning, the line to buy coffee at that price snakes out the door.

I remember when my dad, who liked to go to a local hangout for a cup of joe, complained they had raised the price, more than doubled it, in fact, from a dime to a quarter.

What passed as exotic or ethnic food in my childhood came from a world where authenticity was never a concern. You wanted Italian? Open a can of Campbell’s Franco-American spaghetti or a can of ethnic delight from the chef who was always there, Chef Boyardee, the king of canned ravioli.

Anyway, back to de-croissanting the car. I drive to a fancy carwash for this experience since cars now cost more than my parents paid for the substantial suburban house in which I grew up. Eager cleaners climb in and out, washing, de-gooing (sometimes jam from another culinary adventure has made a seat sticky), vacuuming every nook and cranny.

The thought of nooks and crannies makes me think of an old commercial for a brand of English muffins advertised with nooks and crannies to trap the melted butter.

Just a word of advice there–the space between car seats will also trap that goo!

Then it is all over, and my car looks almost like the vehicle I drove off the lot. Still, there is only one problem, and it is a serious one. The car looks better than I do, and without vast expenditure of funds, there is no place I can go to have a similar drive-through make-over. Where is the conveyor belt that deals with wrinkles, a few extra pounds, and that stuff sagging around my chin? Is it fair? Where do I go for justice?

Still, in an unjust world, I drive out of the car wash on to my next adventure, but first, because I need a bit to eat, I often stop for a croissant.