A NOSTALGIC NOSH OF DELI HISTORY

Much in the same way an unwrapped garlic pickle permeates a refrigerator, the delicatessen experience is deeply imbued within my soul. Though Katz's on Manhattan's Lower East side is tethered to my youth, I am inundated with deli memories spanning decades, from the vantage point of both customer and waitress. At a very young age I watched my mother navigate Katz's, entrusting me with the required ticket that served as our check. After ordering frankfurters and sauerkraut for the two of us, she then pointed with precision to the meats behind the glass case. With the skill of a surgeon, the deli man hand sliced pastrami, corned beef, brisket and center cut tongue. Wrapping each securely in starched white paper, he handed the packages across the counter. Returning the tightly clutched (and now wrinkled) ticket back to be tallied, my mother paid while I inhaled one last giant gulp of salty air.  I loved how the fragrance of Katz's followed us home from Houston Street to Far Rockaway.

When my paternal grandmother relocated from Queens to Florida, she introduced me to Wolfie's and the Rascal House, two stand out delicatessens. It was on those late afternoon jaunts that the intricacies of the 'early bird special' and the proper way of concealing the contents of a bread basket in one's purse were revealed. Many years later, I landed a summer job as a waitress at Larry's Deli in suburban New Jersey. Learning the vastly complex menu and the proper way to place an order (without inciting the wrath of the line cooks), acquainted me with crying in the walk-in. The ever-changing menu specials required a knack for memorization and improvisation. The hazards of serving behemoth bowls of matzoh ball soup to diners wildly gesticulating with their hands were too frequent (and painful) to count. 

It didn't take long to realize that both 'hangry' and well fed diners were often lousy tippers, and that for many, Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray soda was considered essential to the Jewish deli experience. For those not smitten with the herbaceous soda, both Cream and Black Cherry ranked high on the preferred beverage list. The glitzier egg cream, a blend of milk, chocolate syrup and seltzer, was in my opinion, less of a thirst quencher and more of a dessert. Regardless, it was always the egg cream that inevitably overflowed in my attempt to transfer the generously filled glass from tray to table, sending me racing to the wait station for a stack of kitchen towels. Mopping up a toppled egg cream was an exercise in futility; as the river of chocolate bubbles ran rampant beyond the confines of the table top I could feel my cheeks turning crimson. Ultimately, the runaway beverage would land on the white linen trousers of a woman debating cantaloupe with cottage cheese as opposed to the hollowed out bagel with light cream cheese.

For a homesick freshman in upstate New York, it was Hal's Deli that played a major role in my college experience. Dodging the dining hall meal plan, a trip to Hal's provided comfort between two slices of seeded rye bread layered with rare roast beef, turkey, Swiss cheese and neon Russian dressing. Post college, I worked for a high profile individual in the entertainment industry who religiously ordered lunch from the Stage Delicatessen. His selection, plucked from a dizzying menu of options, never deviated from one day to the next; a mammoth turkey leg which he consumed with audible enjoyment from his perch at a table overlooking Central Park. 

Having long since retired my rubber-soled waitress shoes, over-stuffed sandwich emporiums still draw me in with equal parts love and trepidation. The pull of a carbohydrate busting blintz smothered in sour cream is strong. So is the hypnotic fragrance of salty meat wafting over a counter, mingling with the jarring flavor of a sour pickle. Despite recollections of replenishing the pickle station with stacks of hot-from-the-dishwasher, flat-bottomed 'monkey dishes,' my hankering for health salad remains unwavering. The non-specific mash-up of raw vegetables notably driven by cabbage, dressed with sugary vinegar and void of mayonnaise (hence the suggestion of health), was my sustenance between double shifts. 

What I will never miss are the parties of ten, slow to order, loudly pontificating the virtues of kreplach and the density of matzoh balls. Ditto the customers insistent on extra rye bread with their pastrami sandwich followed by one slice of cheesecake, multiple forks and separate checks. Nightmares are indelibly etched from mistakenly decanted Dr. Brown's sodas and toppled egg creams. Far better to be the one seated on the naugahyde chair eyeing the menu, than the one balancing the unsteady tray.

The New York Historical Society's "I'll Have What She's Having" is a traveling exhibition composed of hunger inducing artifacts. A thoughtful curation of neon signage, menus, uniforms, film and photography richly illustrates the delicatessen's rightful place in popular culture.  Most critically, the exhibit pays homage to the Ashkenazi immigrants, primarily from Central and Eastern Europe, who influenced and created the delicatessen as a uniquely American institution. Certainly more than one delicatessen influenced my life, as indelibly as borsht on a white paper napkin.