Reflections on a Greek Deli
One day while taking a walk around Astoria, I see a store with a large blue awning and a Greek flag flying out front. A wizened older man ducks into the store discreetly, and following my curiosity, I duck in after him.
The first thing I notice is the tiled floor, a tan salmon color like the floors of a Russian bathhouse. Then the smell: the air is thick and foggy with the scent of olives, filling my nostrils and rushing to my head, and getting me a bit high. I spot them over there, two rows of plastic buckets like the ones on construction sites, filled with olives soaking in brine.
Over here are the breads: pita and flatbread. I put my hands on them like a man leaving the desert and touching a pool of water. I caress the bread. I massage it. I fondle it. It's supple and gives way underneath my hands. Over there are cured meats, baked ziti, baklava, and big blocks of feta the size of the thigh of a world's strongest man competitor. "What's in these pies?" I ask the guy jabbering in Greek to his friend behind the counter. "Spinach, cheese, and spinach and cheese". Simple. Beautiful. I take two of the cheese pies and leave.
I bite into the cheese pie. Puff pastry. Crispy but not dry. Feta cheese. Salty and moist, but not overly so. It's simple but enticing. It's whispering to me.
An image jumps into my head. I see an elderly Greek man wearing a linen shirt. His skin is tan and coarse and wrinkled, like a mild sandpaper. He's standing in front of an old hand-cranked wheat processor that's been in his family since the industrial revolution. It's a bit rusty, and has chipped red paint on some parts, like an old trek bicycle on Facebook marketplace. He starts turning the crank and fresh semolina flour falls out. The arid malty smell of grain fills the room. There's a spark in his eye, a joke on his lips, and he starts to chuckle.
That spark is love. His love. It went into that flour, crossed the Atlantic ocean, and went into this cheese pie that I'm eating.
Have you ever been to a restaurant in Manhattan like this?
The first thing you notice, after walking in, is that your table is five centimeters from the ones next to you. You want to scratch your back, but you can't for fear of knocking over someone's margarita, or putting your elbow in their risotto. A small white metal lamp sits on the table, with a touch sensor embedded in the base. The LED inside is dimmable. You already know this, you've seen this lamp a hundred times before. It looks like a little penis sitting there, the round base extending upwards in a stem, and ending in a small umbrella shape. It's laughing at you. "Missed me? Good luck scratching your back you idiot."
The waiter brings out the entree. A small sad rectangular wooden box. Steamed white rice on one side. Two slices of roast eel covered with a slick red glaze on the other. You bite into the eel. It's quite good. The salty seaweed umami. The sweet tangy zest of teriyaki. The greasy, slightly slimy skin that contrasts with the soft white flesh. You finish in two bites and look down again. You paid 50 dollars for this.
You can imagine a math PHD from MIT sitting in an office in midtown. He wears a stiff collared button-down that digs into his neck. "I should've worn the cotton polo today," he thinks. On his four monitors is the code for a python model that calculates the prefect price, portion size, and meal layout of dishes at a restaurant. A small purple message flashes in the corner of his screen, "Are we ready to release the new pricer today?" He hears the sound of a whip cracking in the distance, and a muffled scream. He starts to sweat. He's on his tenth zyn of the day. "I wonder if I can make this one a bit smaller," he thinks.
You look around at the other diners. They smile and chatter, and take pictures of their food. Your friend looks at you, "Is it good bro?" "Yeah bro, so good." But it isn't good. Your stomach hurts. You feel like someone rubbed your cock for ten minutes and then disappeared with your wallet. Maybe you should smile and laugh; pretend like you're having a great time.
And why shouldn't I have a great time? Today I woke up in a luxury studio in LIC. The massive floor-to-ceiling windows magnify the glare of the sun, baking the air inside to a toasty 80 degrees even in January. I put my face up to the 2 inch crack in the window, which is as far as it opens, and gasp for air like a fish out of water. I head to the equinox in Chelsea and hit a light arm day. Then I sit in the sauna shirtless, wearing floral-printed Young LA shorts. After I shower, I head to a church in Brooklyn Heights. After service, I leave discreetly, hoping nobody asks if I'm practicing chastity in my daily life.
But then I see the old Greek man, cranking away merrily at his wheat processor. What if I go the other way?
Tomorrow I might wake up in a basement room in flushing that I'm renting from an Asian grandma I found on Craigslist. She doesn't speak English so I communicate using Google translate. I take the 7 to a family-owned gym in Elmhurst with boisterous Italian-American trainers wearing fanny packs. They're clearly on steroids but openly deny it. Later, I walk to a black baptist church in Jackson Heights. During the call-and-response I shout hallelujah until my voice cracks, and after service I pass out in the pews from sheer exertion.
Now that... might be a life worth living.