Save Your Stomachs
In case you haven't heard, the subway strike went into effect. (Isn't it funny how everyone calls it the subway strike, even though there's buses too? Like they don't count.)
Maybe because I'm already in the city and it's only the first day, but...I don't mind. Yeah, I know you're used to my rants, and thought "Okay, what's her rant on the strike going to be?"
Gotcha. Because I don't mind. I walked through Central Park with C down to the Penn Station area and other than the cold temperature, it wasn't so bad. It almost felt good where I wondered why I even bothered taking the subway to work. Every morning, pressed to the doors like some kind of Garfield car toy, just to avoid smelling the armpit of a fellow passenger.
Still, there is a residual effect to this strike. It's a silent enemy lurking out there and countless New Yorkers, looking to fortify themselves during their treks back and forth across the city, are in peril.
This morning C and I stop by our favorite gourmet deli spot, hoping to grab some hot breakfast together before we part for the day. As he orders the #3 and #4 from the board over the counter, the guy behind the counter looks confused. He steps out and looks at the board, muttering the description to himself. He then grabs their menu and reads it over again, looking completely and totally lost. I’m looking at C and he’s looking at me, channeling one thought: This is weird.
Then it hits me. The guy is Korean. So is the other guy behind the counter. They own the place. We don’t see the usual short order cooks back behind the counter and we realize they weren't able to get in without the trains. Because let’s be honest: you just don't see Korean guys cooking up the food behind the counter in a deli. It's not just my personal observation, it's a fact of this city.
I look to the buffet area and it's confirmed: no hot food on the warmers, coffee urns are dripping dry. To avoid losing business during the strike, the owners have taken it upon themselves to cook and serve up salmonella to all.
No way. I grab C and we’re out of there. Later at lunchtime, I look around some other places and it’s the same story. All the familiar places don’t have the same familiar faces serving up the grub. Not even Strange Deli Guy at the deli next door. What is there instead are red-faced, sweaty white or Asian folks slamming together their version of a Reuben, as if they’re life depended on it. But not yours. Well-versed in codes of the Health Department they are not, as they wipe their foreheads with bare hands, then set upon the sandwich board for the next customer.
So I'm doing you all a public service and saying: Until this strike is over, don't eat out. Don't do take out. Don't consume anything outside of your home that requires the preparation and cooking of food. You'll thank me for it later.
Maybe because I'm already in the city and it's only the first day, but...I don't mind. Yeah, I know you're used to my rants, and thought "Okay, what's her rant on the strike going to be?"
Gotcha. Because I don't mind. I walked through Central Park with C down to the Penn Station area and other than the cold temperature, it wasn't so bad. It almost felt good where I wondered why I even bothered taking the subway to work. Every morning, pressed to the doors like some kind of Garfield car toy, just to avoid smelling the armpit of a fellow passenger.
Still, there is a residual effect to this strike. It's a silent enemy lurking out there and countless New Yorkers, looking to fortify themselves during their treks back and forth across the city, are in peril.
This morning C and I stop by our favorite gourmet deli spot, hoping to grab some hot breakfast together before we part for the day. As he orders the #3 and #4 from the board over the counter, the guy behind the counter looks confused. He steps out and looks at the board, muttering the description to himself. He then grabs their menu and reads it over again, looking completely and totally lost. I’m looking at C and he’s looking at me, channeling one thought: This is weird.
Then it hits me. The guy is Korean. So is the other guy behind the counter. They own the place. We don’t see the usual short order cooks back behind the counter and we realize they weren't able to get in without the trains. Because let’s be honest: you just don't see Korean guys cooking up the food behind the counter in a deli. It's not just my personal observation, it's a fact of this city.
I look to the buffet area and it's confirmed: no hot food on the warmers, coffee urns are dripping dry. To avoid losing business during the strike, the owners have taken it upon themselves to cook and serve up salmonella to all.
No way. I grab C and we’re out of there. Later at lunchtime, I look around some other places and it’s the same story. All the familiar places don’t have the same familiar faces serving up the grub. Not even Strange Deli Guy at the deli next door. What is there instead are red-faced, sweaty white or Asian folks slamming together their version of a Reuben, as if they’re life depended on it. But not yours. Well-versed in codes of the Health Department they are not, as they wipe their foreheads with bare hands, then set upon the sandwich board for the next customer.
So I'm doing you all a public service and saying: Until this strike is over, don't eat out. Don't do take out. Don't consume anything outside of your home that requires the preparation and cooking of food. You'll thank me for it later.
posted by Currin Girl at 11:43 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home