I grinned as I saw the young man talking to the customers in line ahead of me. He carried a beige, old-style newspaper bag over his shoulder and wore a folded paper hat over his tousled black hair that he grabbed frequently to keep it from blowing away. He bounced slightly as he spoke, making quick comments and keeping the conversations brief. The banter seemed to come easily to him as he pinballed from person to person, his overdone, nasal New York accent remaining consistent throughout.
“Ah, see, this one’s got the right idea,” he said as he arrived next to me and gestured to S, fast asleep in the stroller. “All bundled up in there, sleeping through everything around her. She’s got no idea how cold it is out here, does she?”
“I hope not,” I said, chuckling. “I want her to stay asleep as long as possible.”
“Good luck, buddy,” he answered. “It’s a little noisy in there.”
I thanked him and glanced quickly into the stroller to make sure our exchange hadn’t woken S. She continued dozing peacefully, even after T and E returned from their quick visit to a nearby store to escape the cold.
A man came out of the restaurant a moment later. He had the look of an NFL lineman; he had broad shoulders and plenty of girth around his torso, but I had a hunch he was quicker on his feet than his size let on. His completely black outfit – suit, shirt and tie – was interrupted only by the white card with red letters on his lapel. My anticipation built gradually as he made his way down the line. He paused near us, complimented E’s bright yellow Pikachu hat, and beckoned for us to follow him as he led us out of the line and into the restaurant.
“Your babies shouldn’t have to wait in the cold,” he said, his smile as warm as the air inside the entrance-way. “Go see that man in the white suit and he’ll get your table ready.”
Moments later, we were transported back to 1958, from the decor to the pricing, and were seated at a table toward the back of the small dining room. It was a high-traffic area; we were right next to the “kitchen” and waitresses kept walking behind me to grab new place settings and to-go bags for other customers. We had a perfect view of the rest of the space, though, including the wall of fame, the groceries on the shelves in front, the old jukebox and, especially, the interactions between the waitresses and the other patrons. The waitresses, dressed in pink blouses and white diner hats, were the picture of 1950’s charm, laughing with their customers and expertly delivering plate after plate of delicious deli food.
One server, in particular, parked herself in the empty seat at our table for a minute to talk with us and give her feet a rest. She told us about being an acting student at NYU, in between high fives with E and S, who had finally woken up, and took our order: one “Maisel” (pastrami, salami, cole slaw and special sauce on rye), one “Susie” (turkey, cole slaw and special sauce), a knish, pickles, two black and white cookies and two slices of cheesecake. We essentially ordered everything on the menu – it was small, of course, since the restaurant was a popup – and there is no question we made the right decision. The kids, who had eaten lunch already, focused on their cookies, while T and I savored the delicious sandwiches (I took the cheesecake to go).
As we ate, a different man came over to our table and identified himself as Max, one of the deli owners. His maroon suspenders showed under his brown and tan cardigan as they stretched to hold up his slacks and there was not a doubt in my mind that, as opposed to the man who brought us inside, Max had very little hidden athletic ability left. He smiled kindly, confirmed that we were enjoying our meal and told us a quick story about the popup’s brief stay in New York City. Then he made a remark that surprised us about as much as the rest of the experience entirely.
“Your meal is on Midge,” he said.
T and I paused.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“Midge is covering your meal,” Max repeated. “Did you see the pickle barrel in the front when you came in?
We both shook our heads no.
“Well, it’s totally filled, every day, with–”
“Pickles,” T said, smiling.
“No,” Max corrected her. “Money.”
“All of the proceeds from our restaurant are going to the Lower Eastside Girls Club,” he continued, acknowledging our confused expressions. “People have been filling that barrel every day – you all have been doing great with those donations – and Midge has pledged to match all of the donations made to the club. But she’s also going to take care of your meal for you and your kids.”
T and I managed a bewildered thank you. The meal wouldn’t have been terribly expensive anyway, not with the 1950’s pricing, but we were still taken aback. It was another addition to what had become a series of kind gestures since we arrived.
We finished our meal, packed up the leftovers and our children, and made our way back to the front door. We thanked Max and his staff again, dropped a $20 bill in the pickle barrel and made sure to visit the photo booth – the only non-1950’s item in the place – before stepping back outside. The air had retained its abrasive chill while we were inside but our full hearts and stomachs more than made up the difference.
I was not compensated by Amazon or anyone else for this post, aside from having our meal paid for. The Carnegie Deli Popup may have closed by now but you can still watch The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel on Amazon Prime. Season 2 was just released and it’s every bit as good as Season 1.
