Disclaimer: Opinions of The Last Jewish Waiter are not necessarily those of Katz’s Deli.
Mother fucking Challah Rolls. How long can I blog about this?
I’m like six posts in, and i think I’m done. Who wants to read about these horrible moments in a life?
It was the end of a grueling double when this sort of doughy non-descript trio sit down at my table. At first glance they were very hard to read, but then I got it. It was an old Manhattan Jew, who seemed divorced, like he moved out of his families house on Long Island fifteen years ago to Manhattan, still overjoyed to be free from his suburban shackles.
It was him, his idiot daughter who probably was raised in Long Island, and her idiot goombah boyfriend.
They order, the old Jew orders Kishka, a pastrami sandwich and a diet cream soda. On to the daughter. She asks me for cold pastrami on whole wheat with lettuce and tomato and onions.
I threw a fit.
‘Are you crazy?’I attack. (Thinking back on this I should really ask myself that question.)
Her boy friend laughs at her and tells her how she should get the house special.
I convince her that it will be much more satisfying to get the classic pastrami on rye. She agrees.
I turn to the boyfriend,
“what are you gonna have?”
“lemme get a pastrami on a challah roll” he smoothly orders.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I raise my arms up.
I am clearly not well.
Epilogue
We don’t sell Challah Rolls at Katz’s.
