Meat Mountain

I had been dating my husband for a couple of weeks and it was time for his initiation ritual.  He had already read "The Chosen" by Chaim Potok,  had tasted chopped liver on rye, had met both my Jewish grandmothers.  Together we watched "Fiddler on the Roof" and although he didn't enjoy it (too sentimental) he had agreed that the music was catchy.  Although he refused to watch Barbara Striesand in "Yentl," The next logical destination was Carnegie Deli for dinner. 

On a Saturday night, before going to a movie, we appeared at the door. I felt a nervous sensation.  What if there wasn't a table, what if the wait was too long and we missed our movie, what if he hates the food, what IF?  To distract myself I followed the revolving trays of cheese cakes in the dessert case. They didn't look real and perishable.  Where they made out of plastic or foam?  
The waiter who handed us our menus did not look like a twenty something very attractive gal or guy who had come to NYC to audition for theater.  He looked like a seasoned waiter with a look of resignation.  A professional waiter. His hair was slicked back and his white buttoned down shirt was spotless.
We were seated at a narrow table next to the wall and a man and a woman, probably in their sixties, sat next to us.  When the waiter came with a menu, she waved it away.  "We'll have two orders of roast chicken, well-done, and two egg creams."
They had a playful dynamic as if they too were out on a date.  We struck up a conversation with them and learned they had moved back into the city from the suburbs when they both retired.  "We love the city now that we don't have to work!"
"I'm a retired teacher and my husband is a dentist. Our children live in Westchester."
I loved this image...a devoted couple, their children all grown up, out together because they still had a lot to talk about.  Very sweet.
When the waiter brought their plates of food, the mood of the evening darkened all at once.
"Take this back to the kitchen.  Tell them Mrs. Lipman is here. Mr. and Mrs. Lipman.  I want it burned! Burned!"  Although when she said "Burned!" it sounded like "Boy-nd!"
This soft spoken woman had morphed into a demonic harpie proclaiming "I said BURNED!!!"
Her husband's face mirrored hers.  They were mad and that chicken had better be back on grill or else things could get violent in the dining room.
Surely I could relate to their preference.  I too had been a fan of well done hamburgers and steaks since I was a kid. However, well done is not the same as burned.  Well done and burned were on different levels of flavor.  

The waiter did not look annoyed or perplexed.  He had the look of recognition so many waiters in NYC have when they have seen it all.  "Another pair of freaks" is what he was probably thinking.  He picked up their plates and returned to the kitchen.  They were tough customers but this was NYC so he had seen it all.  At least they didn't take their clothes off. 

Meanwhile, our pastrami sandwich had appeared and it looked like one pound of juicy meat.  It was difficult to imagine the two of us finishing it. The dill pickle on the side was crunchy and tart.  The combined salt content between the two was enough to encourage both of us to drink enough water for a family of ten.

As we chewed our sandwich (three dollar charge for sharing) we were both eavesdropping on the Lipmans.  It seemed they had spun an invisible shield of tension around them.  I found myself earnestly hoping that the cook was burning their chicken beyond recognition so that they would relax again.

The waiter reappeared with two charred pieces of meat.  They may have been chicken at one time but now they look like large burned coals.  I wasn't sure what would happen.

Mrs. Lipman's face relaxed. "This is just how we like it!"  and she morphed back into a petite lady in a pastel cardigan.  Her husband looked like a kindly dentist again too and they smiled at us.
"They know us in the kitchen," she explained.

Carnegie Deli
854 7th Ave.
New York, NY