14 September 2007
 
Where Harry Met Sally
 

It was an eleven dollar cab ride from Mid-town down to South of Houston, under bright and sunny skies. Immediately after we exited the vehicle and walked in the door of the restaurant, the security guard stopped me. I had not picked up a yellow ticket.

“Forgive me,” I said, slightly disoriented. “I am from out-of-town. How does this work?”
 
The security guard was kind, or perhaps he had nothing else to do, since it was after breakfast and well before the lunch rush began. The room swept away in squares of little brown tables. It was divided between an area on the left wall decorated with celebrity pictures where a fierce waitress with a hawk-like nose and coal black hair hovered, and a sort of no-man’s land of seat-yourself in the middle.
 
“Well,” he said, vowels rounded and sounding of the Islands, “You take your ticket to the cutter-man and he writes down what you must pay. You cannot leave without a ticket. There is a $50 dollar fee for a lost ticket.”
 
I nodded, thanking him for his courtesy. The yellow piece of paper in my hand suddenly assuming significant gravity. Then my son took his own ticket and we advanced toward the long counter on the right hand side of the room. At interval along the wall stood several of the imposing Cutters of Katz’s, the emperors of corned beef and pastrami. Once upon a time they might have been hardy Jews. Now they appeared equal measure of Latin and African American.
 
It was early, and only one of them deigned to notice us. That was perfectly fine, since we had to peer up at the long menu board along the ceiling, even though we knew perfectly well what we were here for.
 
The only question was whether it was pastrami or corned beef.
 
The larger issue- which of the historic Delis to visit had been decided long ago. The Carnegie Deli was renowned as the finest on several lists, but we had discarded the notion. The firm had attempted to export their exquisite rudeness and beef to suburban Washington a decade before, along with their version of a peculiar ticket purchase scheme.
 
I had visited, and been rewarded with a pastrami sandwich of gigantic proportions, the soggy remains of which I ate for lunch for several days after. Unfortunately, Washington was not ready for the twenty-dollar sandwich, particularly if it was delivered with a sauce of contempt. That outpost of New York folded quickly. Washingtonians have their pride, after all, since they certainly do not have the real money that New York does.
 
We had contemplated a trip to Barney Greengrass’s place, but we were not in the mood for the signature Sturgeon, and besides, the King was long in his grave. Ess-a-bagel in Grammercy Park was a possibility, and closer, but seemed to be more of a breakfast place. The atmosphere was supposed to be good. Zabar’s has it’s partisans, but was further uptown than we wanted to go, considering the reason we were in Manhattan at all was in Mid Town, not far from the ex-Governor hotel where we were staying.
 
Katz’s it was. We looked at the time on our cell phones and saw that we had two hours before the ceremony was to commence at the The Church of the Transfiguration, and walked west on 35th Street to catch a cab at Herald Square in front of the flagship Macy’s department store, which an enormous sign claimed was the world’s largest.
 
The rudeness of the Carnegie is mostly perception, I think. When they tried to export it, you can see it for what it is, an inside joke turned outside. On its native turf, I think it is just New York, moving at a higher speed than suburbia can cope with. At Katz's, the moments before the Cutter looked up to take our order- corned beef on rye with mustard, chili dog, thanks we’ll split it- was nothing more than the recognition that he was a busy man and wanted his space to do it right and efficiently.
 
We had the time to contemplate what was about to happen. The Cutter turned and walked a few steps to a large tub, scooping out a long slab of pink meat which he slammed onto the cutting board behind the counter. With a long sharp knife wielded like a scimitar, he cut off a morsel and deposited it on the counter for a sample taste as he worked.
 
I used my fingers. It was succulent; firm yet supple on the palate and redolent of spice. Beef to die for, I thought, and if you ate here all the time, you probably would.
 
The quirks of Katz are not something that could be packaged or franchised. In the store where it has operated since 1888, it is as right as god’s own kingdom, if he was in the pickle and salami business. The sign says that Katz's serves 5,000 pounds of corned beef, 2,000 pounds of salami and 12,000 hot dogs. They make it all right on the premises, and the recipes go back to the founding, when refrigeration consisted of blocks of ice, and the salamis hung from the ceiling at room temperature.
 
During World War Two, the three service-age Katz men were in the Army. Management encouraged parents to "send a salami to your boy in the army" which became one of the deli's famous catch phrases, along with the admonition: "Katz's, that's all!" which is still painted on the side of the building. When we were seated in no-man’s land, and contemplating the heaping corned beef that tumbled out of the side of the massive sandwich. We marveled at the crisp “ping” and release of flavor as our teeth penetrated the casing of the hot dog. The half-sour pickles and tomatoes went perfectly with a Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray soda.
 
I looked around, determined to make my half of the $15 dollar sandwich last.
There was a large picture of a soldier near the one of Dan Akroyd. The caption said he was in northern Iraq, in 2005, and he was holding a Katz Salami as large as an artillery round. He seemed happy.
 
We were six tables back from a table in no-man’s land over which a large circular sign hung, slowly rotating in the breeze of the air conditioned air. It read: “Where Harry met Sally. Hope you have what she had! Enjoy!”
I picked up a chunk of corner beef, thinking that the film crew must have be working where we were seated, as Meg Ryan had her famous fake orgasm in the movie, pretending to be dining right here at Katz’s.
 
I was impressed. I had the man put one of the famous air-cured salamis in a bag, and update my ticket. My son was embarrassed when I also bought a t-shirt on the way out, careful to produce my yellow ticket. I couldn't’t resist. The shirt had the Katz’s motto printed on the back: “Send a salami to your boy in the Army!” on the back.
 
Since I was going back to Washington after the ceremony, I thought I might drop it off at Vice President Cheney’s house at the Naval Observatory, to replace the big salami he has already slipped the Army and the Marine Corps.
 
Copyright 2007 Vic Scooter
www.vicsocotra.com

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