Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Call Me Rueben
A fictional travelogue; 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 household Canter’s was revered. As if heaven’s kitchen fell into the custodial hands of a Jewish deli owner.
In my imagination, Canter’s is the lovechild of any number of New York delicatessens. Katz’s. Lindy’s. Artie’s. The Stage Door. Second Avenue Deli. The Carnegie. Love and sex between two slices of Jewish rye bread.
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 an early childhood education in overeating.
My father especially loved pie. I’m pretty sure he thought the City of Angels took its gauzy nickname from the angel-like meringue resting atop a Canter’s lemon meringue pie.
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 admit it even to myself, but that’s probably better for my waistline.
Canter’s anchors Los Angeles’ 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 expanded 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. A cross-section of the city eats here, casually and comfortably. 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.
An overweight black man sitting alone swallows one over-sized mouthful of waffle after another. His conveyer-belt hands are in continuous motion. He eats with a Zen focus and 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 sandwich 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.
