I’m a New York Deli guy. Know this about me. I love walking into a deli, ordering a hero by contents and allowing the Deli artisans shape my crude request into sheer lunch-hour artistry. I can only hope that I make the poetry that is a New York sub tangible to you.
Waiting on the line as they carefully, expertly slice up the Boar’s Head Virginia Ham, letting you sample a symmetric paper thin slice. Nodding as they knowingly apply only a smear of mayo and an equal dab of pure honey mustard on the opposite loaf. Eagerly anticipating the meal as they load up your sandwich with Provolone or Swiss, Genoa Salami, smoked cracked peppermill turkey and layers of lettuce and tomatoes. In awe, sheer delectable awe, as they pour olive oil, balsamic vinegar, a dash of pepper and a dash of salt over it all, before wrapping it and slicing it for your lunching convenience. In ecstasy as you bit into the cornucopia of flavor that is a New York Sub.

Have I made it tangible? Have I made it real? Because when I left New York, I yearn for her Deli’s.

“How do you like it sliced?” No banter. No laugh or lilt in the voice.

Not even a sample. He (or she–Shim?) just hunkers over the slicer and starts hacking into the meat. The flesh gets slapped callously, unceremoniously, onto the bread–

“Mayo please!”

–before he or she lifts the meat, globs three spoonfuls of way-too-yellow-mayo, and drops the ham right on it with a sickeningly audible plop. The lettuce (I don’t even want to know how long it’s been there) is placed on the bread, strangely streaking green as if the leaves were melting. The tomatoes look good–they look freshly picked but there’s no olive oil behind the counter. No balsamic vinegar. Honey Mustard? No…but there’s mustard. Oh, you mean that Honey Mustard. Sure…that can be applied…if you want it…?

No satisfaction in the sandwich. No artistry in the presentation. It’s a footlong timed bomb that I’m scrambling to eat so that it doesn’t eject its sloppy contents out the other side.

I have taken to avoiding Deli’s altogether: focus on my own subs. The horror is they focus on the letter of my law–never on the spirit.

Thin Sliced please means slabs of thick ham. A half pound looks like about 6 slices. Masticating one of these slabs feels like you sidled up next to a herd of swine, cut a chunk off one with a butter knife and settled down for the most non-kosher meal.

Very Thinned Slice means about 10 thick slabs of flesh.

Chipped means that they cut it the same thickness as the ten slices but destroy the consistency of the slices so that you’re left building your sandwich with the equivalent of hand-pulled pork.

I’ve taken to ordering in a new way that works even better when I wear my sunglasses and allow my dark presence to whisper horrifying volumes.

“Half Pound of Virginia Ham, please.” Pause “I want it ridiculously thin sliced yet not chipped. So thin you’re convinced its refracting light. So thin that you think you might very well offend me and be nervous about it. At that point, slice it even thinner. It will be absurdly, offensively thin. But it is at that point that I will caper and frolic singing: This Deli is Awesome.”

“Like this, sir?”

“Perfect.”