Hole In The Wall
By: Liz B
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New York is a city filled with high end restaurants and egotistical chefs. John didn't eat at those places. He couldn't afford them, for one, and two there were better places to eat. His favorite place was right near his apartment. It wouldn't win any fancy food awards. It wasn't going to show up in any glossy magazine spread, but it served the best damn matzah ball soup this side of Grandma's kitchen.
It wasn't a big place, it was actually built in between two buildings in what should have been an alley way. There was only a sign hanging in the window with the day's menu and an open/closed sign in the door to give any hint there was any sort of restaurant there. Most people walked by without noticing it, but John wasn't most people. He went in the day after he moved to his apartment and the moment he stepped inside, he knew he'd found something good.
Most of the interior was taken up by a long L shaped counter that showed off the day's proffered dishes. A few small metal tables with plastic chairs had been stuck in at creative angles to take up as much space as possible while still allowing people to make it to the counter. None of the chairs matched, in style or color. Some where patio chairs of faded white, while others were bright orange folding chairs, and the rainbow went on. All the tables matched though. The owner, a small Jewish man named Rodger, claimed to have gotten them in an estate sale and they used to be owned by a millionaire. John thought they looked like the kind of cheap metal tables you could pick up at Home Depot for twenty bucks a pop, but he let Rodger have his story.
The floors squeaked under his shoes every time, no matter how clean they were. The sound and the faded yellow color of the linoleum reminded John of high school, only with better food and nicer people. Whenever he came in with his squeaking shoes, the whole place took notice. Of course the staff, Rodger's two sons and wife, recognized the sound and were excited to see him, but the patrons always gave him weird looks. John didn't care. He was focused on the counter and the tasty offerings for the day.
The counter was the altar of the place where customers came to worship. A little dramatic, but true. John felt reverence when he stepped up to the waist high metal because it was a testament to how long this family had survived with just this little business. The counter was scarred and dented, but still highly polished every morning. The glass was pristine, showing off while separating the customers from what Rodger's wife and grandmother had made for today. It wasn't mass produced, when they ran out of something, they were out for the day, but they rarely ran out.
When John stood at the counter, if he leaned over just right he could see into the kitchen, which looked to be cramped and was always filled with steam of some sort. He thought it must be like his grandmother's kitchen, back in Baltimore. So small only two people could fit in it, but somehow they managed three, all moving around each other in a finely choreographed dance to create the most delicious food ever made.
This little hole in the wall would never make it on the news, or on Food Network, and John was grateful. A place like this deserved to be preserved as it was with it's miss-matched chairs, squeaky floors, and metal altar. It was a glimpse into simpler times, when New York was the welcome mat for hundreds of immigrants, looking for a place to make a living. The food was the same as it was three generations ago, the place was the same, enduring years of change and progress. It was living New York history and John would keep coming back to ensure its continuing survival.