“The Pastrami Club” A Mort Laitner Short Story
Like clockwork, Avi and I meet on Tuesdays at 12:00 at The Pastrami Club.
You know the place, on the east side of University in Lauderhill.
You remember the mural—The Brooklyn Bridge, the Empire State Building, the Coney Island roller coaster—“The Cyclone.”
You recall this culinary establishment feels and smells like a NYC deli—with mingling aromas of cured meats and cheeses.
Yah, the place even has an obligatory dish rag hanging from one of the faucets in their three-compartment sink.
Well, every week, Avi and I sit in the same red booth with the Formica-topped table.
Every week Hanna, a sharp-witted, sixtyish, grey-haired Brooklyn born and raised waitress, greets us with her raspy cigarette voice,”Hey Sholem Aleichem and Isaac Bashevis Singer, welcome to the best deli in Broward. What are you boys going to have?”
“Hi Hanna. We’ll have the usual,” I reply.
“Avi, take a look at Hanna. She looks sad.”
Avi glances. “Nah, she’s just had a rough night.”
We raise, clink our bottles of Dr. Brown’s Diet Black Cherry Soda, and toast, “To life—L’Chayim!”
Our four-course lunch consists of: pickles and slaw, stuffed derma covered in gravy, half a hot pastrami on rye and a cup of coffee with a piece of Joyva Chocolate Covered Halvah,
“Avi, this meal causes my salivary glands to kick in by just thinking about it. Life is good, maybe great and definitely delectable,”
“You guys ordering the heart attack special again?” Hanna jokes.
Avi jumps in,”Hanna do get a referral fee for recommending cardiologists?”
Hanna politely laughs as if she had not heard that one a thousand times.
Avi continues, “Have you heard the new rock song by the Buggles “Cholesterol Killed the Deli Store.”
“Nope, but I remember, “Don’t Know What You Got Till It’s Gone” by Cinderella. You old Jewish writers think you’ll never die, just like this deli, you think you’ll hang on forever,”
“Hanna, we’re just two wanabees writers schmoozing in your clubhouse. Give us a break! We’ll hear that crap from the wives when we get home.”
Hanna listens to my plea and asks,”What are you guys reading?”
“Tablet magazine online,” I reply.
Without waiting for Avi’s response, she asks, “Are you guys writing anything?”
Avi pipes in, “I writing a story about schmatas for the Jewish Journal. I visited a Columbian friend’s home and observed a blue and white rag hanging over his faucet. I watched that rag drip soapy water into the sink and thought, ‘What a metaphor.’ It reminds me of my grandma’s kitchen in the 50’s—Astoria, Queens.”
“Avi, I know you to well, it reminded you of a phallic symbol covered by a protective sheath.”
Avi and Hanna laugh.
“I’m glad to see ghetto life translates into other cultures.” I continued.
“¡Si Señor!… poor folks around the world use dirty rags to clean their dishes. Sponges cost money, rags are free.” Hanna retorts.
“Male dogs mark their territory—Jewish women drape their faucets. It brightens the décor—puts some color in the room.” I sarcastically comment.
Hanna face contorts. I have hit a nerve,
“Jewish women who spend 20 grand on a kitchen don’t decorate with dish rags!”
Avi jumps in trying to change the subject, “Doesn’t the Talmud say anything about a house without schmatas?
“I don’t know. Why don’t you Google it.” I answer.
Then I add, “I’m trying to remember what writer said, ‘She’s as washed-out as a dirty old rag precariously hanging onto life’s faucet.”
“Possibly Malamud or Roth.” Avi guesses.
I look at Hanna “Talking about life, isn’t life just like a schmata?”
“How’s that? Hanna smirks.
“It cuts you up, soaks you to the bone, wrings you out, squeezes you to death and then throws you in the garbage.”
As Hanna walks away, she says, “I think the readers of the Journal will love that story.”
“Avi, enough about schmatas, let’s toast to the Pastrami Club: May it’s doors always welcome the hungry and may it remain opened forever.”
As we stand to leave, a misty-eyed Hanna approaches, “Boys, thanks for the toast, for all the kibitzing, for your generous tips. Thanks for being loyal friends and customers. I’ll miss you guys. She pauses to catch her breathe, “But today, I’ve got some bad news. We’re closing next week.”
As my throat constricts, I whisper “Sorry, Hanna. We’ll miss the best waitress in Broward County. Best of luck on finding another job. Email us when you land a new job.”
Outside the deli, I stand on the sidewalk looking across University Drive, glance at my watch–1:30 and think, “Life ain’t that good, maybe not that great but definitely quite sad.”
Note to readers: If you remember the Pastrami Club or lost your favorite deli or have a schmata story write me a comment.
