An Evening At Schmelky’s – A Dining Disaster in One Act
“Choosing between the disastrous and the unpalatable.”
– John Kenneth Galbraith to John F Kennedy (March 1962)
Dr. Jack Nelson was the most elegant, refined human being I ever met.
He spoke slowly, concisely and confidently. He dressed impeccably. He knew everything, and everyone. He lived in a building named, appropriately, “The Excelsior.” To be presented, one was accompanied from the sidewalk, to reception, to the elevator, in the elevator, to his apartment door. Winters, he skied in Europe. Summers, he played tennis at a private club on the roof of an adjacent high-rise. He was the head of medicine at CBS, where his patients included Walter Cronkite and Mike Wallace. He maintained a Park Avenue private practice serving the high and mighty.
I met him because he was my medical school Medicine Attending. Reflecting his illimitable generosity, when our rotation ended, he insisted on taking our group out to dinner. Reflecting his impeccable taste, he suggested Lutece, The Four Seasons or a similar Michelin-caliber restaurant. As group-leader, he asked me to make the final choice.
I had never dined at establishments like those. I wouldn’t know what utensil was for what course. I didn’t own clothing or shoes appropriate for those venues. Furthermore, both my group-mate Paula and I kept kosher. I didn’t want to embarrass Dr. Nelson asking the captain about dishes’ ingredients. I asked him if we could try a kosher eatery instead. Dr. Nelson, Jewish, but not observant, of course graciously complied, pretending he welcomed the opportunity. He asked me to make a reservation at any restaurant I thought appropriate.
I suggested “Bernstein’s”, an Americanized name of “Schmulka Bernstein-on=Essex”, familiarly known as Schmelky’s. I didn’t claim it “appropriate”, or mention that it didn’t take reservations.
He asked me their “Cuisine.” I had never heard their grub characterized as “cuisine.” Not wanting to disclose it was a deli, I was a deer in the headlights. Trying to help me, he offered alternatives, Continental, French, Northern Italian. I finally blurted: “It’s ethnic.”
“Ethnic?” he queried, seeking elaboration.
“Very ethnic!” I replied.
For days, I apprehensively anticipated the evening. Exiting his limousine, he stared aghast at the garish neon sign outside. I cringed. He advised the chauffeur where to wait for us in this neighborhood obviously foreign to both of them. As he palmed a bill from his wallet, he asked me to allow him to speak first to the maître D to ensure we received a “proper table.” I didn’t have the courage to tell him there was no maître D, or “proper tables.”
Entering the restaurant, second-generation owner Mr. Bernstein, seated on a stool by the cash-register at the entrance, wearing thick glasses and a stained long white butcher-coat, wordlessly pointed us to an empty formica-topped table. As we sat, Dr. Nelson looked up at the harsh fluorescent-lighting, but didn’t say a word.
Our waiter Heshy, wearing a tasseled pseudo-Chinese fez and dirty lapeled uniform-jacket, approached us and, without greeting us, announced to the room: “Look at the Macher!” pointing out stylish Dr. Nelson looked like a penguin in a pigeon colony. He then tossed us the laminated menus across the table as if he was flipping playing-cards.
We examined them silently. Dr. Nelson ordered first: “Sir, I believe I will have a turkey-sandwich, on white-bread, with mayonnaise and provolone.”
“Provolone!?” Heshy repeated loud enough for the entire Lower East Side to hear. I reminded Dr. Nelson they can’t serve cheese with meat and told Heshy to ignore the provolone. Heshy wanted to kibitz further, so I immediately ordered “Schmelky’s Delight”, a double-decker, hot pastrami on bottom, chopped-liver on top.
As we awaited our orders, I deliberately made distracting small-talk while Heshy wandered around muttering his new mantra, “Provolone!” When they arrived, he quipped “I don’t have to ask who’s getting this one” as he dropped the plate clattering in front of Dr. Nelson.
Dr. Nelson bit into his cold, bland sandwich. I could see he detected the tantalizing aromas wafting from mine. With his second bite, he noticed me licking the chopped liver melting over the hot pastrami. He smiled: “I believe you made a better choice.”
I immediately offered him half of mine. He declined, instead summoning Heshy, skulking in the corner, still silently mouthing “Provolone!”
“Sir, on second thought, I would like to order…” He motioned toward my sandwich. I quickly volunteered: “Schmelky’s Delight.”
Heshy was stunned. His eyes widened: “Oh no, you don’t! Oh no, you don’t! You took two bites! Two big bites! You don’t get a second thought!”
Heshy was screaming. The entire restaurant was gaping at us. Mr. Bernstein scurried over. Heshy presented his case: “He took two bites! Two big bites!”
Putting one hand on Dr. Nelson’s shoulder, Mr. Bernstein leaned over him, using his other to adjust his glasses to examine the incriminating evidence like a forensic pathologist. Anticipating his verdict, he shook his head: “Those are two big bites, Mister.”
Belatedly realizing what was transpiring, Dr. Nelson volunteered: “Of course, I shall pay for both sandwiches.”
Both Heshy and Mr. Bernstein, shocked, seemingly disappointed at this premature capitulation, simultaneously responded: “You will?”
Heshy couldn’t help but query: “And you’ll tip for both, too?”
Mr. Bernstein issued a guttural noise reprimanding Heshy and returned to his cash-register. The show was over. As Heshy removed the turkey-sandwich, he magnanimously offered: “I’ll wrap it up, with some half-sours, put it in a doggy-bag for you to take…”
“Thank you. That won’t be necessary.”
“…For me to take home.”
As the room returned to its previous din, we all sat there in total silence. None of us would speak, or eat.
I wish I had a shovel with which to, first, decapitate Heshy, then, dig a hole in which to bury myself. I wanted to get down on my knees to beg Dr. Nelson’s forgiveness for this public humiliation.
After an eternity, he cleared his throat, turned to me and finally spoke:
“Ethnic. Very ethnic.”
