My Deli, My Civilization 

Thomas Cahill made the last great bag of money to be made selling to the Irish-American audience of book buyers with How the Irish Saved Civilization. The book is a slightly strained retelling of how Irish monasteries and scriptoriums preserved much of the literature of Ancient Greece and Rome, as the Dark Ages descended. They preserved this learning through the fall of Rome, and brought it back to places as far away as Mainz, Germany.

Having been raised in the Northeast of the United States, within commuting distance of New York City, I have come to identify Italian delis closely with civilization itself, and with the preservation of civilization, akin to those monasteries. During the few years I spent living in Northern Virginia I often described it as a desert, albeit one filled with 7-Elevens and Safeways. I had finally graduated to desk work, but part of me longed to be back in the chemical factory in Connecticut. At east there, I knew where to go get a bacon, egg, and cheese on a Portuguese roll before the toil started.

Just as the great legends and philosophy of Ancient Greece and Rome were preserved in Irish monasteries, I’ve come to think that my local deli is taking on a similarly important civilizational role. The world is forgetting how to feast and how to celebrate the rhythms of life with nourishing food. Sunday dinners -- the big ones, the ritualized ones -- are disappearing as working moms become overwhelmed, and as overscheduled kids get excuses to be away from the table. Instead of cooking, families watch cooking competitions. The great phalanx of ladies from the extended family are no longer splitting up the duties ahead of Christenings, and First Communions, and the big birthdays. Or at the very least, they need help. For that, I turn to my man Joe at A&S Deli.

He takes out a large book, a scriptorium of its own.

Joe: You want an Italian and American combo for this party?

Me: Just Italian.

Joe: Nice! How many people?

Me: 20-24 souls.

Joe: Supreme?

Me: What’s supreme?

Joe: We add prosciutto and change to fresh mozz.

Me, eyes widening: Supreme.

And so he makes his notes in his book, making a work schedule for his crew. On one level, he’s merely preserving a record of sales for the tax man, but in doing so he’s also incidentally keeping a record of births, deaths, and milestones for his community. When a family disaster happened just before Thanksgiving, Joe at the deli prepared four trays of food and salvaged our holiday.

The delis in my area all have longtime employees, creating this sitcom-style dynamic that roars behind the counters. Many of them have special sandwiches named after longtime patrons whose orders were so creative,, bizarre, or consistent that they had to be made widely available. Some of my high school friends are immortalized by what they like to eat on a pepper turkey sandwich.

Yes, I know that the world over has catering services. And I know there are places to get a decent bite to eat at breakfast. But these delis mark the seasons with us; they keep a record of our past parties. They’re there for a cup of coffee and to tell you how big your kids are getting. The Irish monasteries preserved learning through an age of disorder. My Italian-American delis are preserving hospitality -- and the secrets to a great chicken scarpariello -- through an age of disintegration.