January / february 2006:

Oh Jewish Deli, where art thou?
It defined the Jewish immigrant experience, and it defined it as only a group of Jews could -- in food. Still in the age of McDonald's, microwave meals, and a community less tied to its immigrant roots, has the Jewish deli passed on?

By Tina Barry


I live in an area of Brooklyn, New York, with a restaurant row of some renown. Along this street are bistros of all persuasions, Asian restaurants, seafood houses, and Italian trattorias that specialize in wild game. There are delis, too, or the new version of a deli, run by Koreans or Mexicans, where you can purchase tofu and sometimes an empanada. Order a corned beef sandwich though, and your request is met with a blank stare.

So what happened to the real delis (the restaurant as well as the appetizing store) where the owners were Jewish, and when you ordered a sandwich, you expected it fatty, too large to fit in your mouth, and between two slices of rye bread?

A large part of the deli’s demise can be attributed to our understanding of how diet affects health: Over the years doctors have preached a low fat/low carb diet, making those sandwiches, the knishes and greasy hot dogs a once-in-awhile treat. And, of course, assimilation: if you don’t keep kosher, you can eat anything anywhere, so why not crepes? And curry? And sushi?

Marc Elliot, a chef in Brooklyn with a popular seafood restaurant, just opened Nosh, a deli/restaurant in Cobble Hill. Why? Elliot, who spent Sundays eating bagels and lox with his father at Cantor’s in Los Angeles, cited two reasons: At a recent visit to the venerable Katz’s delicatessen on the Lower East Side, he noticed a counterman cook a Reuben sandwich (corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese, and Russian dressing on buttered grilled rye) in the microwave. “If they’d do that at Katz’s then you know no one is doing deli right,” he says. The other reason for opening his new place in a neighborhood rife with French bistros and Thai eateries: “I just miss that kind of food so much,” he sighs. “I didn’t want people to forget what a good bowl of matzah ball soup and a real pastrami sandwich tastes like.”

His customers appear to remember authentic deli fare. “They come in and order the ‘Sky High’ sandwich [that’s the largest of the three sizes Elliot offers with 22 ounces of meat], and they want it extra fatty,” he says. “It brings tears to my eyes.”



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