french silk pie

Register on the left ahead of the menorah, dreidel, and shalom door placard paraphernalia, for sale all year. Deli counter on the right. Brightly lit dessert refrigerator straight ahead, with restaurant seating behind.

This was my Jewish deli. My metrowest, semi-suburban, strip mall–contained Jewish deli.

Joan was warm and jolly with white hair, red lips, and a big-toothed smile. Ed had a shiny bald spot and a nose almost as pronounced as mine that carried a square pair of specs. Joan wasn’t always visible. Ed stood behind the takeout deli counter, watching as kugel, and stuffed cabbage, and broth-bathed matzo balls were scooped into containers and sold.

But for the most part, Joan and Ed were the infamous black and white caricatures depicted in paintings hung on the dineresque restaurant’s walls — their family members the visible staff at the restaurant along with their team of sassy, almost-middle-aged waitresses who reeked of perfume and called you “honey” and such.

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