I was too busy futzing with my bustle to check out Gramma's attire, but then again, I didn't need to. Though she never mentioned it, I knew exactly where Gramma had purchased her ensemble -- Marshall Field's, the grande dame of Chicago department stores. And I knew which treat she had bought for herself during her shopping excursion -- the store's signature candy, Frango mints.

Gramma was mostly indifferent to food -- she'd rather spend her money on a fabulous scarf than a foie gras any day -- but she loved Frangos. She taught my brother and me, her only grandchildren, to love them too. We received Frangos for virtually any occasion: birthdays, graduations, brises (well, maybe not brises).

Even shopping trips.

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Gramma owned a women's shoe store and boutique, so naturally she took charge of my wardrobe. When I was 6 or 7, we made our first back-to-school pilgrimage to Field's. I felt the confidence that comes from being with an expert. Field's was her territory, sort of like a vacation home on State Street. She knew the landscape.

Grabbing my hand, she led me up winding escalators and around mysterious mannequins to the children's department. Within seconds, she was choosing one outfit after another and hauling them to the dressing room as if she owned the place.

A saleswoman trotted after us. "Could you be a dear and get us the blue blouse in a bigger size?" Gramma called over her shoulder. The blouse and a dozen more possibilities crowded our changing booth. Gramma appraised one combo of purple plaid hot pants and matching tube top with puffy sleeves. "You look like a living doll," she said, hugging me. She knew what was in style for first-graders better than I did. Somehow I understood this.

When the pile of discards had grown as colorful and layered as a trifle, Gramma was finally ready to pause. "Oh, honey, I'm exhausted," she confessed. "Let's stop for 'coffee and.'" She meant milk and a snack for me, coffee and a cigarette for her. (It took years before I realized the expression "coffee and" is unique to Chicago.)

While Gramma paid for my forgettable store-cafeteria meal, I helped myself to a Frango. They were rectangular -- tall, thick, substantial. They didn't mush under your grasp. There was a certain way to eat them. For the first taste, I didn't bite. I just scraped a shred of chocolate with my teeth, then a little more.

I actually hated mints. "Mints" were those chalky-white restaurant giveaways that stick in your teeth, or the patties filled with wintergreen glop the flavor of Crest. But this, this had little to do with mint, really. The Frango tasted something like my grandmother's personality, sweet and a little salty at the same time. (I'd once heard Gramma describe a relative as "that bitch." Though I wasn't positive what bitch meant, I had a feeling I knew, and I agreed with her description. Frangos tasted like that -- predictably sugary, then a savory surprise.)

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