Deli Disaster

Just the other day, I did something that I watched my grandmother do when I was a little girl. As I put on my favorite polka dot pantyhose, I noticed I had a run. Immediately, I pulled out clear nail polish and dabbed it on either end of the run. My grandmother always dressed to the nines. Heels, matching purse and enough blood diamonds to make an activist cringe. Grandma always wore pantyhose. As a child, I watched her put on pantyhose. Once in awhile, she had a run and she, just like I did, dabbed the run with nail polish.

A simple run in my pantyhose made me think about things that are timeless. Things that are passed on from generation after generation. Things like a lady slipping into pantyhose and putting on her favorite pair of heels. And generations of women did exactly what I did the other morning, dabbing a bit of nail polish on their stockings to stop a run.

I staunchly believe that a some things should be timeless. Things that should remain the same. Things such as:  the perfect way to pull a shot of espresso, dive bars and quaint delis. And believe me, I am very passionate about ESPRESSO, DIVE BARS and DELIS.

Just the other day, I trekked over to my favorite deli. This deli is older than most Slinky Like Stealth Blog readers.The deli is TIMELESS. The menu never changes, chilly pitchers of  Stella Artois for $9.99, surly men in aprons behind the counter, dusty, overpriced Italian items for sale and dry-cured meats hanging from the ceiling. It is owned by a little Italian grandma who makes you pine for your Italian grandma, even if you aren't Italian.

My mission was simple.

Drive out of my way to savor the delicacies offered by this quaint, timeless deli. My plan was to get myself a 20 ounce chilled mug of Stella, while I browsed through the latest LA Weekly, and patiently wait for my order to be prepared. I would down my Stella, take my order home, plop down on my couch next  to Mr. Slinky*, eat my Italian Cold Cut Sandwich and watch "From Paris With Love"--a movie full of testosterone and guns. This is the United States after all. We can do these things without any guilt, shame or thought of the people who live in cities without Italian Delis owned by Italian Grandmas.

my deli is better than yours damn right!

Cue Deli Disaster.

Behind the counter is my personal nightmare: a bleach blonde 20-something that Margot would lovingly call a 'twit". Now this is MY damn timeless Italian Deli owned by old Italian lady I wish was my Italian nonna. I expect to find surly men behind the counter who don't speak English, wearing crisp aprons, who understand 2 things: "I need my beer NOW" and "The rest of the order will be to go."

No need for "thank you's" or "please" or any other unnecessary pleasantries.

Except for the day that the Italian Deli Grandma got senile and hired The Blonde Twit. The Blonde Twit has perfect command of the English language, yet, she is too dumb to understand my simple request.

My order went like this:

"I would like a Stella on tap while I wait. And the following to go: An Italian Cold Cuts Sandwich, A Meatball Sandwich and A Coke"

Note my exclusions of all pleasantries such as "Hello" "Thank you" "Please". This deli don't play that. You order, you get served, you pay, you eat, you get happy and you LEAVE!

Unfortunately, The Blonde Twit can't handle the simplicity of my request. It is, of course, too confusing, and requires that I repeat my order 3 and 4 times. I notice The Blonde Twit is not wearing the mandatory Deli Apron. She is too dumb to wear the apron.

Once we resolve the order 'issue'. I pull out my LA Weekly and wait impatiently for my ice-cold Stella. Twit forgets the Stella. I get up and walk behind the counter to tell The Blonde Twit "I am thirsty."

Apparently, Blonde Twit incapable of placing a simple order gets pissy. She looks down at the counter and says "You can serve yourself water over there."

The Blonde Twit has officially pissed ME off. I look at her and say: "I need my beer now. I ordered it for here 10 minutes ago, and I would like to get the beer NOW!"

You could almost see the synopsis in her brain make connections. ALMOST. I got my beer.

I walked up to the counter again. This time the Blonde Twit looked up and politely asked "Is there anything else I can help you with, miss? Me: "I was wondering why you aren't wearing the deli apron?"

Blonde Twit thinks I am, like, oh my god, like, her BFF now!!! Her face brightens as she says: "It's cuz it's like, so, uuuuuuugly!!!" She points at a sticker on her chest. "See, everybody knows I work here because of this sticker!"

I am a TWIT

 I dislike The Blonde Twit even more now. She thinks that Italian Grandmas Italian Deli is actually a place to make a fashion statement. Her sticker is scribble with teeny bopper writing. I say: "It says: "I work NERD!" and walk away.

The Blonde Twit face fall as she whines over the counter: "It says: I WORK here!" She actually stomps her foot in her designer jeans. 

I hope that The Blonde Twit would slip and fall and that the corner of her HELLO MY NAME IS sticker would slice her eyeball and blind her. Maybe then, she could appreciate the beauty of things that are timeless.

May this serve as a warning to all: Don't fuck with my deli, my dive bar or my espresso!!!

-Raquel

*Mr. Slinky is my Significant Other...you will hear me complain about a lot when he is sleeping like a baby and I have miserable insomnia (again) and wish I could kill him with the machete I have under my bed.