Four minutes to read.
Dear Travel Journal,
Today I ordered a Rueben with a side of sweet coleslaw at Canter’s in Los Angeles. It came with the standard, complementary plate of half-sour kosher dills.
Before my first bite, I inhaled its juicy aroma and remembered my dad. When I was a kid, in our home Canter’s was revered. As if a corner of heaven fell into the custodial hands of a Jewish deli owner.
Canter’s could be the lovechild of any number of New York Jewish delicatessens. Katz’s. Lindy’s. Artie’s. The Stage Door. Second Avenue Deli. The Carnegie.
Coming of age during the Great Depression, my dad grew up in a hostile, hungry world. For the rest of his life, he ate every meal as if it were his last. From him, I got my early childhood education in overeating.
My father especially loved the pies. I’m pretty sure he thought the City of Angels took its gauzy nickname from the angel-like meringue resting atop Canter’s lemon meringue pies.
Like my dad, Canter’s is a survivor. In the 1930s, there were an estimated 3000 delis were in New York alone. Today, in the entire country just 100 Jewish delis remain. Saddens me to think about, but that’s probably better for my waistline.
Canter’s anchors the Fairfax District, the historic vortex of Jewish life in Southern California. After Canter’s was launched in 1931, in just ten years four neighborhood synagogues grew to twelve. Raoul Wallenberg Square, the Museum of the Holocaust and the Kibitz Room are nearby.
Canter’s is a come-as-you-are kind of place. I like that a cross-section of the city eats here. Makes me feel comfortable. I fit in.
In one booth, three teens sporting Yankee caps devour five-inch-tall cake wedges. Chocolate with vanilla frosting. Cheesecake drenched with blueberry glaze. Vanilla with strawberries and whipped cream.
A black man sitting alone, overweight, swallows one over-sized mouthful of waffle after another. His conveyer-belt hands are in continuous motion. He eats with intensity.
A young couple shares a late breakfast. The top buttons of her blouse are undone, but he is more interested in blintzes than boobs.
Two males, peacock-like, strut in. They are wearing tennis tans, perfect haircuts and prosperous paunches. Crumpled Ralph Lauren polo shirts. Loafers without socks. Matzo ball soup hints at their Eastern European lineage.
Canter’s is a runway for women of all ages, sizes and shapes. Two women slide into the booth opposite me. They split a Monte Cristo sandwich, a salad and two ice teas. The older woman is a Vogue magazine ad. The younger is in a skirt so short, I mistake it for a hat.
A Rueben is grilled hot pastrami, melted Swiss cheese, sauerkraut and Russian dressing on toasted, buttered rye bread. I’m guessing the inventor was a cardiologist in need of more patients.
Because my stomach is too bulged to handle desert, at the bakery I selected a week’s worth of poppyseed strudel, Russian coffee cake and fat little triangles of hamantaschen. In case I might need a midnight nosh, at the take-out counter, I added a quart of white fish to go.
My dad would understand.