I'll Wait For That Guy

Misha, still at it

The first time I encountered the word "pendejo" I was nineteen and working in the deli department at Zabar’s. I overheard a couple of my Latino co-workers using it, and since I always got to know the secret handshake I asked them what it meant. They said wise guy or asshole, though they used it affectionately.

There were a lot of young Latino cats working at Zabar's back then, young Latinas as well. There were some Russians, a few black girls, and of course the old Jewish lox cutters with their yellow pallor and long, thin blades. Zabar’s employed all kinds of people back then, just no black men. Old Murray Klein, who ran the joint, wasn't having it. He was either scared of them, didn't trust them or thought they were lazy, and probably all three.

One great thing about working at Zabar's was the food. The pain au chocolates came hot out of the oven three times a day. I must have eaten fifteen a week, twenty if I was stoned. I also ate a lot of lobster salad, crab meat salad, white fish salad, Asian style turkey thigh and Texas style shell steak (gunshot wound rare and sliced thin as carpaccio).

But of all the things I put in my mouth the best was the classic deli roast beef on the day they cooked it. You'd throw one on the big slicer, the beefy steam blasting you in the face as the thick slices fell heavy and hot with a thud. I'd grab an onion roll from bakery, soak it brown with jus, and get to work.

The deli department was run by Louie, a pencil-mustache Puerto Rican who looked a lot like "El Exigente" from the coffee commercial. At the end of every day Louie would change out of his barbecue sauce stained apron into a powder blue suit or maybe crimson, a feathered fedora over his thinning hair. I also worked with a guy named Misha, one of the sweetest cats I’ve ever met. He had Harpo Marx curls, village idiot eyes, and a Russian accent that could break your heart.

Zabar’s was a madhouse. On a Saturday afternoon in December, it was just a solid mass of winter coats and reaching hands. People would get frantic, waving their arms like they were trying to get the last flight out of Saigon, not a half pound of baloney. It took me a while to get the hang of it because there were twenty kinds of ham, thirty kinds of salami, five kinds of poached salmon and a full deck of pates not to mention every other cold cut known to man. At first I needed Misha to do my prosciutto slicing because mine looked like pink pencil shavings, but finally I got the knack and could lay down the San Daniele like I was papering a wall.  

It didn’t hit me that that there were no black guys working there until about my third or fourth week. I mentioned it to Junior, this Dominican cat who was Murray Klein’s right hand man. “Mr. Klein don’t like ‘em” was all he said.

I disagreed with Mr. Kelin. I liked them a lot, and to show just how much, and to honor my civil rights activist upbringing (my mother received yearly Christmas cards from Coretta Scott King and had Angela Davis in her Rolodex) I decided to give a 50% discount (and often more) to all black customers. I did not consult anyone on this practice, I just instituted the policy on my own.

The first time I tried it was with an older black woman who bought a pound of carved ham, some pastrami, corned beef and a whole bunch of other stuff for an office party. “$18.48” I told her. An honest woman and likely church goer she looked at me funny and said “You sure that’s right?” “I am mam, I am very sure” and I smiled. She caught my drift and smiled back.

When the place wasn’t a packed I would step in front of Misha or Patty (a small bowling ball of a Polish girl) and say “I’ll take them” if I saw they had a black customer. I was “Robin of Lox-ley” stealing from the Jews and giving to the blacks. Word must have gotten out because two weeks later there were brothers and sisters lined up for me five deep, and if anyone else tried to serve them they would shake their heads, point at me and say, “I’ll wait for that guy.”  At one point Misha asked me why the black customers liked me so much?  I shrugged innocently and said, “I think it’s ‘cause we talk about jazz.”

As time went on, I started to get reckless and charged a guy seven bucks for three roast chickens and a duck. A few days later Louie was waiting for me after work in his powder blue suit. “Knock it off with the black customers or I tell Mr. Klein.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about Louie.” But he wasn’t having it. “I work here thirty years. I don’t need trouble.” The next day a few of my regulars swung by, but before they could place their order, I just shook my head and said “sorry.” They understood.

I worked at Zabar’s a couple of more months, my African American discount policy now in cold storage. But once I gave my one weeks notice I went wild. I was flagging black women down at the cheese counter, waving ‘em over, letting ‘em know I was back in business. Whatever they ordered I gave them twice as much and charged them half. Knowing I’d be gone on Friday, Louie just smiled and shook his head.

A couple of years ago, I was in New York and headed up to Zabar’s to buy a chocolate babka. There was Misha, still slicing proscuitto forty years later. He recognized me instantly, and when I heard his voice, I was right back behind the counter. “Well, look who’s here” he said, “how are you?” “I’m good Misha, how are you man, you look great.” “I’m okay, still here, so how good can I be.” He gave me a doomed Russian smile. “So, tell me, you still giving discounts to black people?"