The more things change, the more they stay the same. My friend Jacques, who writes a column for the Sunpapers, was recently given an account of Baltimore in 1902 as written by a visiting British sailor.

The city was “a jolly place”, but the sailor noted that the sidewalks were notoriously out of repair and that the streetcars had a tendency to run into wagons and pedestrians. A year and a century later, that rings true.

Our faithful correspondent didn’t think much of shopping in Baltimore, though. He was unable to find “one good greengrocer”. I wonder if he managed to wander as far west as the Lexington market? Odd, since he proclaimed the glories of the Cathedral, and the “Jewish Synagogue”—I’ll assume that he meant the spectacular Eutaw Place temple, since the synagogues closer to the waterfront are and were less than inspiring. He did give our seafood a good recommendation though. (Again, some things never do change.) I was also surprised that he didn’t find “one good house”—well, perhaps the stately old piles of Mount Vernon were a bit too dowdy, and the tidy rows of East Baltimore a bit uninspiring for a man used to the grandeur of Europe. Really, though, I’ve seen London’s East End, and I think that we’ve made quite a few advances over THAT particular aspect of culture a l’anglaise.

Jacques was surprised by one thing that I don’t find surprising in the least. Our friendly Jack Tar, who seemed quite taken with our fifty different ways of preparing oysters (all somehow involving horseradish) was a bit confused by the fact that we were drinking iced tea in January. (Apparently in England one does not drink iced tea at all, much less in the middle of the winter.)

In the house on Guilford avenue, under the aegis of grandmother Lily Rose and aunt Cora, iced tea did not appear until Memorial Day and vaporized shortly after Labor Day, just like the white linen suits, fly netting over the chandeliers, and Panama hats.

In my houses—my parents’, and my own, iced tea is a staple through the calendar. We drink it for breakfast and lunch, and have it on the table during dinner in a vague pretense that we’re not downing cocktails through the entrée.

I have established that Baltimore is the Iced Tea Line of Demarcation. The wild lands to the North, where Kawwffy is the only acceptable beverage, consider it exotic even in summer. The genteel latitudes below the Potomac know that iced tea is something that must be available continually, to the point of having its own special spoons, glasses and pitchers.

In the movie version of “Steel Magnolias”, Dolly Parton refers to Dr. Pepper as “the house wine of the South”. So it may be, but if it is, iced tea is the house specialty. Everyone has his own preference—sweet or not sweet, lemon or no lemon (there are some heretics who use oranges), but the stuff is indispensable.

Even as a devout alky, I can say that nothing captures the spirit of the beautiful Southland quite like a good glass of iced tea. I’ve tasted the golden glow of Muenchener beer and the liquid delight that is a Spaetlese of Rhein-Hessen, but only iced tea goes just right with barbecue and coleslaw.