Hiding from the Bodega Man
Everyone has that favorite lunch hour go-to spot. Maybe even two or three, so you mix it up depending on your mood that day. There's the gourmet buffet spot C and I go to on occasion, because it's far and away better and cleaner than any other I've seen. There's a Chipotle down the street from my office, just perfect for those 'real meal' days that are usually precluded by a hangover. And then there's the deli I go to for soup and sandwiches.
This deli is the all about Real. Real chicken soup with the schmaltz, like Grandma used to make it, and roast beef sandwiches you can barely put your mouth around. Lots of mayonnaise. No skinny-minny wraps with a sliver of meat inside. No 'low-carb' fare with strange-tasting salad dressing. This is my kind of deli, like the ones I grew up with, before the Paxes and Guy & Gallards moved in and changed the gustatory landscape of lunchtime with their ersatz deli fare.
So what's the problem? The cashier guy creeps me out. It began with small talk, whenever he rang up my orders. But now it has progressed to him giving me almost-loving looks, as he asks me more and more questions to the point of being intrusive. My name, where I'm originally from, what I'm doing over the weekend, etc etc. It’s like he's keep a dossier on me. In spite of my flashing the sparkler on my finger, either he doesn't know what it means or he's in denial. Sometimes, he clutches my precious sandwich in its bag, feverishly asking away, while I squirm and think "Dude! Gimme my sandwich!" Once he cedes control of the bag I scamper off, having paid my dues for the wonderful lunch I'm about to have.
Other women I know experience a similar problem. By virtue of patronizing a lunch place regularly- because they really like it - counter staff start having delusions of grandeur. They become overfamiliar, sometimes flirting, and sometimes...thus crossing the parameters of what's acceptable...sometimes touching the woman in question.
As a general rule, New York women do not like strange men touching them. The fact that you know what kind of dressing they like on their salad every day does not justify physical contact. But I know of one girl who will silently cringe as she allows the counter guy to kiss the back of her hand, because the Cobb salad is that good.
I don't kid myself that I'm special. I know my deli guy has to hold as many women possible for conversational ransom, using their lunch as bait. He's got to maximize that advantage that lies within the sour pickles and egg salad sandwiches. I could just be playing my part in contributing to that little bit of joy he gets out of this. It could be totally harmless, while my comfort level is being tested for the sake of a satisfied stomach.
But then again - ever see the movie One Hour Photo?
This deli is the all about Real. Real chicken soup with the schmaltz, like Grandma used to make it, and roast beef sandwiches you can barely put your mouth around. Lots of mayonnaise. No skinny-minny wraps with a sliver of meat inside. No 'low-carb' fare with strange-tasting salad dressing. This is my kind of deli, like the ones I grew up with, before the Paxes and Guy & Gallards moved in and changed the gustatory landscape of lunchtime with their ersatz deli fare.
So what's the problem? The cashier guy creeps me out. It began with small talk, whenever he rang up my orders. But now it has progressed to him giving me almost-loving looks, as he asks me more and more questions to the point of being intrusive. My name, where I'm originally from, what I'm doing over the weekend, etc etc. It’s like he's keep a dossier on me. In spite of my flashing the sparkler on my finger, either he doesn't know what it means or he's in denial. Sometimes, he clutches my precious sandwich in its bag, feverishly asking away, while I squirm and think "Dude! Gimme my sandwich!" Once he cedes control of the bag I scamper off, having paid my dues for the wonderful lunch I'm about to have.
Other women I know experience a similar problem. By virtue of patronizing a lunch place regularly- because they really like it - counter staff start having delusions of grandeur. They become overfamiliar, sometimes flirting, and sometimes...thus crossing the parameters of what's acceptable...sometimes touching the woman in question.
As a general rule, New York women do not like strange men touching them. The fact that you know what kind of dressing they like on their salad every day does not justify physical contact. But I know of one girl who will silently cringe as she allows the counter guy to kiss the back of her hand, because the Cobb salad is that good.
I don't kid myself that I'm special. I know my deli guy has to hold as many women possible for conversational ransom, using their lunch as bait. He's got to maximize that advantage that lies within the sour pickles and egg salad sandwiches. I could just be playing my part in contributing to that little bit of joy he gets out of this. It could be totally harmless, while my comfort level is being tested for the sake of a satisfied stomach.
But then again - ever see the movie One Hour Photo?
posted by Currin Girl at 3:41 PM
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