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Sat, 29 Apr 2006

Deli.

If you grew up, as I did, in a middle-class Jewish family that loved to eat, the word "deli" has connotations far beyond the mere definition. Every ethnic and cultural group has its comfort foods, often organized around a family meal at home or at a restaurant, and for us that restaurant was a deli.

Those who grew up in New York or Chicago probably have a much richer deli background than I do, but I was not deprived. The quintessential deli of my childhood in Los Angeles, the one I still measure all others against, is Canter's, on Fairfax Avenue, in the middle of what was, and to some extent still is, L.A.'s central Jewish neighborhood. Canter's has been in business in L.A. since 1931, and as its web site will tell you, it has sold over 9 million pounds of corned beef, 2 million pounds of lox, and 20 million bagels.

Jewish deli food has become integrated into the American cultural experience. No matter what your background is, you've undoubtedly had corned beef, pastrami, matzoh balls, salmon lox, or stuffed kishka, or deli adaptations of braised beef brisket or chicken soup. Deli food is the cuisine brought by Jewish immigrants from central and eastern Europe, at the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th, adapted to American produce and tastes. The dishes themselves, especially the meats, are like much peasant and immigrant food, born from the cuisine of scarcity: you won't find filet mignon, caviar, or prime rib at a deli. Cheaper cuts of meat were seasoned, slow-cooked, or incorporated into dishes which stretched the available ingredients. The same can be found with African-American cuisine like barbecue with traditional dishes like ribs, beef sausage, and collard and mustard greens.

The above is well-known doctrine in the cuisine world; I'm not sure I could come up with any original discovery about deli food that would be an addition to the canon. But it is a subject very close to my heart, deeply enmeshed in the idea of comfort food and the idea of the deli as a place of refuge: part hangout, part temple of food, part guilty pleasure.

Which is why, as a 35-year resident of the San Francisco Bay Area, it has pained me that this area is so relatively poor in delis. There is nothing in the Bay Area that measures up to Canter's, or Junior's of Rancho Park (another favorite, on Westwood Blvd. in L.A.), or the famous New York delis like the Carnegie Deli or Stage Deli (both on Seventh Avenue in midtown Manhattan). It's not a matter of raw ingredients; presumably one could purchase pastrami and lox from the same vendors as the great delis and serve it up, but that does not create a great deli.

There's an important element of atmosphere, and that's not easy to define. It's a vastly different ambience from fine-dining and avant-garde restaurants, and the current trends. It's hard to break down the components, but I can think of several:

1. Authenticity. A great deli will present itself as part of the unbroken tradition, perhaps invoking other delis owned by the deli-keeper's ancestors or collateral relatives. With this comes a form of authority -- a deli man has selected the supplier of his meat, inspected the quality, cooked the meat, sliced it, made it into a sandwich or platter, and can point to it, and without fear of contradiction can say, This is deli!
2. Physical comfort. A deli should never have uncomfortable chairs, uselessly-shaped or -adorned tables, or subject its patrons to indignities like cleverly-situated mezzanines or obtrusive piped-in music. Unlike a trendy restaurant where you might be shuffled in and out in order to accommodate the next seating, at a deli there should be the impression that you might stay forever if you liked, ordering a nosh here and a nosh there, perhaps conducting some business, writing a screenplay, or discussing a family crisis.
3. Consistency. Ideally, the food, decor, and service at a deli should never change. A pastrami sandwich eaten in 2006 should remind you of the same sandwich eaten in 1986, or 1966, if you are old enough to remember. (And in a metaphorical sense, that should hold true even if the deli in question didn't open until 1996.) A deli meal is simultaneously a pleasure in the present and an evocation of bygone times.
4. Variety. The best delis, to my mind, offer nearly infinite menus. Beyond the standards alluded to above, a deli kitchen should enthusiastically cook pretty much anything its patrons might want, within reason, and to spare them the problem of having to specially request it, should list it on the menu. Breakfast at dinner? Dinner at brunch-time? A pot-roast after midnight? None of these ought to present a problem. Which leads to the last item...
5. Accessibility. In theory, a deli should never close; what would be the point? The urge for deli food does not obey the clock, or conventional mealtimes... or bedtimes. Canter's is open 24 hours, and has undoubtedly seen its share of unusual patrons and practices, all for the best.

Sadly, the early-closing delis of the Bay Area simply do not to rise to this level. And it's not really the food as such, but an ineluctable combination of factors, like those above. The first problem seems to be one of impermanence and lack of (migratory) tradition -- unlike the case of L.A., the Bay Area did not seem to gain a significant influx of the new generation of deli-keepers from the East Coast or elsewhere. (An exception to this is Dennis Berkowitz, who opened the original Max's Son in Daly City in the late 1970s, which was an eclectic combination of an authentic deli, Chinese restaurant, and barbecue, and was my favorite place for family dinners when I was home from college; Berkowitz went on to found the Max's chain of restaurants, which go well beyond the deli format but retain many of the characteristics, including good pastrami and corned beef.)

My one faithful standby in the Bay Area has been Brother's, in Burlingame. Of any claimant to the deli tradition, it seems to be the most authentic in terms of atmosphere and longevity. (Interestingly, it is owned and operated by a Chinese-American family.) The food covers the standards, more than adequately, and I'm happy to take visitors and relatives there. The atmosphere is relaxing and traditional. I don't think Brother's is one of the great delis of the era, but it's certainly the best we have to look forward to, all things considered, in the Bay Area. (I recently learned from this newspaper article that Brother's is threatened by conversion of its building to a Comerica bank branch.)

By contrast, we have David's Delicatessen on Geary St. in San Francisco, probably the best known deli in the Bay Area. It's been there since 1952, catering more to tourists and theater-district visitors than to locals, and while it usually gets the most prominent billing in tour guides and the like, really, it's eminently skippable. Even though I've gone there -- at the urging of others, usually from out of town -- off and on since high school, it's never earned more than a shrug of the shoulders from me. The deli meats are undistinguished, the side dishes uninspired, the prices high (a reviewer on Yahoo cited a $17.50 reuben sandwich), and most of all, the atmosphere has never been relaxing -- there's always been an indefinable negative vibe about the place, and the service is perennially slow and not particularly friendly.

Across the Bay, Saul's in Berkeley has always provided a reasonable alternative. It's never quite captured the full deli spirit, to my mind, but the food is good and the staff are pleasant. It's been a couple of years since I've been there, but I remember the pickled herring, chopped liver and rye bread particularly. Saul's also features a number of vegetarian and Israeli dishes, a little bit unusual in the deli world, but popular in Berkeley. I hope to stop by again when I'm nearby (although one of Saul's problems -- surely not their fault -- is the number of attractive food destinations in north Berkeley).

There are a couple of newer entries. First is Miller's East Coast West, on Polk St. in San Francisco. It's reasonably solid, but the architecture of the space (a narrow room with high ceilings and the only natural light from the storefront window) seems to make the ambience a little odd. The menu is classic, and service is fine, but the last few sandwiches I've had there have been sub-par, more than a little dry and a bit skimpy. I'm not giving up on the place, but coupled with the intractable Polk St. parking problem and their early closing, I don't make it there very often.

Just opened in March is the California Street Deli and Cafe, inside the Jewish Community Center on California St. at Presidio Ave. The space was formerly a restaurant called Sydney's Home (then just "Sydney's"), which started out as a full-service restaurant serving Jewish-style comfort food fused with some trendy touches then, not finding success, tried a few experiments and finally closed. The executive chef, John Beardsley, divided the space in two, turned the main part into the even more trendy, pan-Asian (415), and the upper part into a deli. The menu lists Joyce Goldstein (chef of Square One in the late 1980s and early 1990s, and author of a number of books on Jewish cooking), which was a very good sign.

After a few scheduling miscues, I finally made it to California St. Deli last week. The first thing that I noticed was that it was empty, with only one other party eating, at 6:30 PM. Why? Well, the deli closes at 7 PM. What on earth were they thinking? (Brother's closes at 8 PM. I'd ask the same question.) Nevertheless, I was welcomed warmly and service was prompt and efficient. I ordered "The Laguna", a combination sandwich with corned beef, pastrami, and coleslaw. It was a little haphazardly-assembled, and the cole slaw was a bit odd (note to kitchen: carrots should not be the most predominant ingredient), but the meat... ah, the meat.

I can state without reservation or limitation that California St.'s deli meats are the best in the Bay Area. Better than Brother's. Better than Saul's. Better than the Max's chain. And way better than David's (and better than a small, lunch-only, Chicago-style sandwich shop called Moishe's Pippik that really does not warrant a full mention). This was the real stuff, the substance of legend. After finishing my sandwich, I ordered a half pound of each to go, and I've been enjoying it all week. It's too bad that California St. Deli keeps such inconvenient hours, and and that it has not (at least as yet) been infused with real deli atmosphere. But the meat was good to the very last bite. The Bay Area may still mostly be a vast deli-poor wasteland -- and would be even more so if Brother's closes -- but the taste of California St.'s meats gave me hope.

Posted at 17:18 | permanent link

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