Establishment: Manny's Coffee Shop and Delicatessen
Intersection: Roosevelt and Jefferson
Rating: 5/5
January 20th, 2010
Jews have to be creative. The rules say: no pork, no shellfish, no mixing meat and dairy[1]. These rules can make cooking difficult. So therefore we have to be creative to come up with good Kosher cuisine. I myself don’t keep Kosher or attend services but I was Bar Mitzvah’d. I do however love Kosher delis. Something about Pastrami on Rye makes the Jewish side of me ecstatic.
It can be hard to feed my Jewish side in Chicago. There is one single diner that I used to frequent in the South Loop that served up a pretty decent Pastrami and carried Dr. Brown’s cream soda[2]. This place, however, is way too expensive and I always leave feeling mildly like a tool. It’s one of those places that serves up traditional food ironically. I hate doing things ironically. The Yiddish on the walls comes with a wink and a chuckle and the chopped liver is on the menu but I doubt they’d even serve it if you ordered. They’d just scoff and give you a bagel. It is mediocre. It is phony[3]. It is Kosher cuisine for hipsters.
Then, talking to my Uncle, I heard about a deli not far from the hipster diner. It’s cafeteria style and it’s called Manny’s, on Jefferson and Roosevelt. So, that is why I am currently the only white person on the 12 headed west. This trip is nowhere near as arduous as my Hot Doug’s odyssey. It’s probably only 10 minutes start to finish, but I’m hungry so it feels as long as the Hot Doug’s trip. Also, I find myself ready to be disappointed. So far, the only place I’ve found to give me pastrami and Dr. Brown’s, gave it to me as if it was a PBR or a pack of menthols. I have no idea what to expect from this place.
The 12 dumps me at the corner of Jefferson and Roosevelt. I can see Manny’s sign from the corner. The sign is a promising attribute. It proudly states that Manny’s has been around since 1942 and I can only believe that the sign has been there every step of the way. It’s clearly seen better days. More importantly, it’s authentic.
I enter the establishment and am greeted by a cornucopia of beautiful smells. Mostly, Kosher cuisine smells like meat, salt and onions but man they do it well. The menu is just barely legible. I think the menus were put in around the same time as the sign. The first thing that really hits me is that this place is authentic. Besides one framed news article in Yiddish, there is nothing screaming Jewish deli. Here the food defines the atmosphere and that’s exactly what I’m here for.
I grab a tray and pass by knishes, matzo ball soup and fried smelts. I come to a screeching halt in front of a large Jewish man who is seemingly surrounded by different meats. I ask for pastrami on rye. He proceeds to slice up what looks like half a cow’s worth of beautiful, shiny pastrami and then, as if reading my little hungry mind, throws a potato pancake and a pickle on the plate. I was not expecting this. I am a complete slut for potato pancakes and they are usually so hard to find in restaurants[4]. Also, had I not seen the man throw everything on the plate, I would’ve thought that they had taken extreme care with placement. This meal is beautiful.
I grab a Dr. Brown’s and take a seat. I immediately notice three things:
1. There is a desk for a ticket vendor service here. Because nothing goes better with pastrami than scalped Bear’s tickets.
2. I am the youngest person here by easily 30 years.
3. I am the WASPiest person here. Now, I am not exactly super Jew but my god I feel downright Scandinavian in this crowd.
I take a bite of my massive sandwich and almost blackout from pleasure. Like I said, I’m used to mediocre pastrami. This is not mediocre pastrami. This is a salty, seasoned, beefy masterpiece. Sliced thin as tissue and layered with a ribbon of fat on the edges that packs in an entirely new level of flavor. The potato pancake is a greasy puck of potato, onion filled deliciousness. There is a grouping of articles on the wall that display President Obama’s trip to this establishment and I feel that is the only word that can describe the levels of flavor I am experiencing; presidential[5].
It is not long before I can no longer keep my sandwich together and use my fork to make a pastrami/brown mustard/rye bread mess on my plate. But, dear lord, that mess is delicious. I am shoveling glistening sheets of pastrami into my face with complete disregard for how I look eating it. There is a level of tasty where all manners go out the window and I am at that level. This food is so good that it makes me feel I should attend Shabbat services. Much like the Hot Doug’s trip, I find myself waddling out of the deli, stuffed with potato and onion and pastrami. Again, I know a food coma is in my future. I am full. I am happy. I am Jewish.
[1] I’m sure I left a few out but, as I soon learn, I am not Jewish enough.
[2] This is what the gods on Mt. Olympus drank but they called it “Nectar”. Silly gods, it’s cream soda. Nectar comes from fruit.
[3] Yes, I used the word “phony”. I need a red hunting cap.
[4] The hipster diner charges 7.95 for two. Here I got it one for a dollar.
[5] Or Obamalicious.
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