and a half

i arrived at 2nd Ave Deli after a brisk walk from 28th street (i missed my stop). i walk through the dark wood corridor, past the deli fridge displays and towards the sectioned off dining tables, looking for a hostess. she finds me. she is a warm, bottle blonde, older buxom woman with an almost southern joyfulness in her voice.

‘are you just one darlin’ or are you lookin for somebody?’

‘its just me’

she shoos two male patrons in pressed navy suits from the register, and as they shoo they reveal a small table with single booths on either side, the leather cushioning a dark forest green that i found lush against the mahogany (i assume, what do i know).

‘this is my favourite spot’

‘away from everything?’

she laughs and hands me a menu. i hold it midair for just a second, to be polite i suppose, before pushing it back towards her and ordering what i knew i wanted when i decided to venture from long island city to be there that morning. she asks me if i want a whole sandwich, or the soup with ‘a half’, which i thought was an incredible question. i reply that i am a small girl and that i would like a half.

the mazto ball soup arrives not even a minute later, barely enough time for me to retrieve my notebook to jot all this down on. in a soup plate sits a large mazto ball, softened carrot slices, curly noodles, and a cup of steaming broth. my hostess pours it out for me and knowingly tells me to enjoy. there is a vietnamese homestyle soup that i grew up eating called sup nui, which is a clean chicken broth with carrots, daikon radish, pork/beef spare ribs and pasta noodles. i was delighted to see such a special and familiar dish in one that i had never tried before. a moment of recognition. ive been having a lot of those. here, the broth was clean and sweet, the noodles past al dente so that they might crumble in your mouth. the mazto falls apart beneath the weight of my tongue, the schmaltz melting and intensifying the already deep flavour profile of what should be such a simple broth. my hostess waits for me to almost finish my soup, which i have a mouthful of and then quickly release my spoon to write erratically, before delivering my beautiful half pastrami sandwich. and oh, it is glorious. she is runneth over. i slather mustard on a corner and take my first bite.

-

there is a couple sitting some tables behind me, the boyfriend of which is wearing a baseball cap planted firmly atop his bald head indoors, that beckons the hostess over to inquire on the reasoning behind why the girlfriend couldn’t order a corned beef omelette with cheese earlier. charm and grace never faltering for even a moment, the hostess explains.

‘so things like cheeseburgers, pizza - if you were to have meat on that,’

‘can you guys have, like, milk in your coffee?’ the girlfriend asks, looking up at the hostess from her dining chair with wide eyes

‘well, yes,’

the concept of a corned beef omelette with cheese turns my stomach. some things shouldn’t be allowed.

‘wow thats a lot of rules…’

-

the pastrami sandwich is phenomenal. the rye is fresh, so soft and warmed by the meats. my first bite, excited as i was, felt like falling through it. i could’ve gotten away with not using my teeth at all. a newborn baby could eat this sandwich. i reach across the table, where my dates side would be had i not come alone, and greedily stab at the bowl of sauerkraut. crisp, sweet, and the perfect amount of acidity to cut through the fatty beef. i clumsily twirl my fork amongst the perfect strips of cabbage like someone who has only seen spaghetti eaten in the movies, and eat large mouthfuls at a time with my other hand outstretched beneath my chin. this is how you feed food to babies, by the way.

-

‘sorry to bother you again, but what is this…’

with her arms tucked cutely behind her back, the hostess leans over to see where on the menu the girlfriend is pointing

‘Pastrami?’