Lansky's Old World Delicatessen

Today I went out walking on the Upper West Side, where I cannot afford to live.  The sun was shining for the first time in six months, cherry trees were blooming, and young blonde mothers rushing off to Whole Paycheck were smashing their thousand-dollar strollers into the backs of my deliciously exposed knees.  I was feeling good enough to risk lunch at a new restaurant.

Lansky's Old World Delicatessen had a sign out promising that it was authentic and Jewish.  Sounded good to me.  Eggs Benedict was featured on the menu.  Hmmm.  Eggs Benedict contains ham, ham is treyf, and treyf, the last time I checked, was not authentic and Jewish.  The willowy Celtic waitress wafted over to my table.  Not being kosher and feeling giddy, I ordered the treyf, with apologies to my ancestors.

Happily, I read an Easy Rawlins mystery by Walter Mosley while I waited, pausing occasionally to listen to the artful conversation of the probably gentile twenty-year-olds at the table next to mine:

He:  I don't usually get that drunk.  I've been getting drunk more lately, though.  Especially yesterday.  Yesterday I drank a lot.

She:  Yeah.


The waitress brought my food within a reasonable period of time, and set it down before me.  It looked delicious, with unclotted Hollandaise, well-poached eggs, and perfectly browned English muffin.  Then I tasted it and remembered, "Oh, yeah.  I'm a woman."  The food was cold as applause for a klezmer band at a Protestant wedding.

Sometimes when I eat out alone, I forget I'm a woman, and therefore bound to get inferior service.  I forget this because usually I eat with my fiance, White Chocolate.  I never get cold food when lunching with W.C.  I never get hassled on the street when I walk with him, I always get the correct change when he's in grocery lines with me, and cabs never splash my legs with water when driving by the two of us.  That is because White Chocolate is six-five and has a penis.  I am five-seven with a vagina, so all those things often happen to me when I am alone.  And I often get cold or ill-prepared food.

I caught the waitress' green eye and politely asked if my food could be re-heated.  She seemed untroubled, and returned with a plate of well-heated, good food.  For this favor I gave her a four-dollar tip, only to find out after leaving that she had taken her revenge for my request.

When asking for my check, I had asked for my breakfast bread and strawberry butter (again, not authentically Jewish) to be placed in a to-go bag.  She came back smiling with the bag.  Ten minutes after I left, I looked down at the paper bag and noticed a large, oily stain was causing it to break apart.  She had put the plastic container of strawberry butter in the bag uncovered.

I shook my head, muttering, "This would never happen to W.C."  I considered going back to complain and retract my tip, but then I heard music coming from Central Park.  Sounded like respectable blues guitar riffs.  I walked toward them, and found a sunny place on a bench.  I looked around at people.  A barefoot, five-year-old boy with purple jelly all over his mouth danced over the bench and put his big toe on my sweater.  His father said, "Careful, Cass!"  I smiled at Cass and said, "How ya doin'?"  He grinned and rushed shyly away.

I looked up and saw an Asian couple posing for a photographer in the middle of a busy walkway.  The music blared.  It sounded workmanlike close up, uninspired.  The folks playing it looked pasty and wore white t-shirts.

At that moment, a man pulling a shopping cart, wearing a rainbow clown suit and a gigantic platinum afro wig, danced rapidly down the walkway, backward.  Before I could holler, "Watch out!" he smashed into the tiny woman having her picture taken with her beloved.  The man hugged the woman and asked if she was okay, while the photographer screamed, "Watch it!" at the clown, who never stopped dancing backward, but raised his middle finger in reply.  Then he changed to the peace sign.  I was confused, and I could see I wasn't the only one.

I asked myself, "Would that have happened if her boyfriend were taller?"  I decided it probably would have, since the clown was rampaging backward, unable to discern anyone's gender or height.

Just then I noticed the musicians were playing Jesus music.  I have nothing against Jesus; I wish more of his followers would observe his teachings, and I am often humbled by them myself.  But I didn't feel like listening to mediocre rock songs about how he was going to make everything alright when I had just eaten treyf at a faux deli.  I moved on.

Soon I was in a good mood again.  Nothing beats hundreds of cherry trees blooming and robins singing after a six-month cold spell.  Not even being six-five with a penis.