L.A. nibble- Canter's Deli
I grew up in a house that was not typically Jewish, if there is such a thing. My mom had a huge Christmas party every year and I have much stronger memories of Easter Egg hunts than of Passover seders. But despite our holiday traditions, we always knew that we were Jewish, if not by the ever-growing collection of holocaust history books on the shelves than by our love for deli. Pickes, rye bread, matzo ball soup, kishka, kasha, knishes, egg-creams and dr. browns. I have so many memories of the family crowded into booths, the table cluttered with the remnants of everyone’s abundant orders, and we sit there, picking away at bagel chips and rye crusts and almond horns until there was nothing left on the table, no more stories to tell over and over again. When, three hours later, we scooch out of the booth and back home. And for my family, all of this goes on at Canter’s on Fairfax.
I’m too young to tell the history of Canter’s. In fact, being the youngest in my family, I think some of them don’t think I’m entitled to all this nostalgia, that I wasn’t there when all those memories were made. Like the time my step-sister and her friends were tripping on acid and became transfixed by the beautiful and abundant bakery window. Mistaking them for hungry street urchins, the kind bakery lady beckoned them in, plying them with rugalah and racetrack. That I wasn’t there for the days when two of my siblings actually worked there, dishing out endless bowls of matzoh ball soup under the watchful eye of the manager, who still works there to this day, making sure the new kids aren’t giving out too many carrots.
I have my own memories that have nothing to do with the family. Like making my punk rock friends go there after shows so we could get breakfast at 2 a.m. or going there on my first real teenage date with a boy named Chris from Torrance. I had a turkey on rye and an egg-cream. I go there alone to watch and listen. To see an old, nay, ancient former waitress come back to visit her friends who have held down the same stations for 20 years. Or to see mirrors of my own family, loud jews packed into booths, passing plates and needling sad, quiet busboys for “moah wahta.”
Despite their impossibly expansive menu, covering everything from standard deli fare to short ribs in a pot, I think I’ve ordered no more than a half dozen different dishes in all the times I’ve been to Canters. The aforementioned turkey on rye, matzoh ball soup (with noodles, chicken and carrots), a potato knish, a pastrami sandwich (if I’m feeling really indulgent, though I now know Langer’s is the pastrami sandwich to beat) and of course, the one time I ordered simply a side of chopped liver. I was an intrepid 7-year-old with a palate to prove, and when presented with a glass dish straight from a Fancy Feast commercial asked the table, “who ordered the cat food?” I ate it anyway and loved it.
Except for that famous Langer’s pastrami, Canter's is the best deli in town. Rye bread with a heady distinction between doughy bread and roof-of-the-mouth-shredding crust. Perfect matzoh balls that diplomatically walk the line between fluffy and firm. Dr. Brown’s soda in glass bottles. A platonically ideal knish (ask for it warmed), and, if you ask my step-father, the best cantaloupe any time of year. “I don’t know where they get it,” he says, “but 95% of the time, it’s just amazing.” Like I said, they have everything there. The bakery is overwhelming and impossibly cheap. On my last visit, I picked up one cinnamon and one chocolate chip rugalah, and pressing my .50 cents change from a $1 bill into my hand, the kind old lady insisted, “next time, don’t spend so much.” Up until I was about 15, they wouldn’t even let me pay that much. “Go on. Take it.”
Canter’s hasn’t and probably can’t ever change. There is no one in the world who could possibly field all the potential complaints that would come flooding in from all manners of angry Jews if they changed a single thing. Even the trippy faux autumn leaves drop ceiling that they installed in the mid-eighties is still a point of contention. “I hate it,” my step-sister said, shaking her head with disgust. My mother finds the diffused light soothing. I find it, like every other part of Canter’s anachronistic décor, endlessly kitchy and amusing. Like if you go upstairs to the restroom and walk past a historical picture of “Canter’s bakery, 1950, in the present location.” The picture looks like it could have been taken yesterday. The same doilies, the same pastries, the same baker’s scale. It’s exactly the same. It’s the reason we keep going back year after year. Canter’s, with its utter indifference to progress and dependable consistency and comfort, lets us know that we can go home again, anytime.
I’m too young to tell the history of Canter’s. In fact, being the youngest in my family, I think some of them don’t think I’m entitled to all this nostalgia, that I wasn’t there when all those memories were made. Like the time my step-sister and her friends were tripping on acid and became transfixed by the beautiful and abundant bakery window. Mistaking them for hungry street urchins, the kind bakery lady beckoned them in, plying them with rugalah and racetrack. That I wasn’t there for the days when two of my siblings actually worked there, dishing out endless bowls of matzoh ball soup under the watchful eye of the manager, who still works there to this day, making sure the new kids aren’t giving out too many carrots.
I have my own memories that have nothing to do with the family. Like making my punk rock friends go there after shows so we could get breakfast at 2 a.m. or going there on my first real teenage date with a boy named Chris from Torrance. I had a turkey on rye and an egg-cream. I go there alone to watch and listen. To see an old, nay, ancient former waitress come back to visit her friends who have held down the same stations for 20 years. Or to see mirrors of my own family, loud jews packed into booths, passing plates and needling sad, quiet busboys for “moah wahta.”
Despite their impossibly expansive menu, covering everything from standard deli fare to short ribs in a pot, I think I’ve ordered no more than a half dozen different dishes in all the times I’ve been to Canters. The aforementioned turkey on rye, matzoh ball soup (with noodles, chicken and carrots), a potato knish, a pastrami sandwich (if I’m feeling really indulgent, though I now know Langer’s is the pastrami sandwich to beat) and of course, the one time I ordered simply a side of chopped liver. I was an intrepid 7-year-old with a palate to prove, and when presented with a glass dish straight from a Fancy Feast commercial asked the table, “who ordered the cat food?” I ate it anyway and loved it.
Except for that famous Langer’s pastrami, Canter's is the best deli in town. Rye bread with a heady distinction between doughy bread and roof-of-the-mouth-shredding crust. Perfect matzoh balls that diplomatically walk the line between fluffy and firm. Dr. Brown’s soda in glass bottles. A platonically ideal knish (ask for it warmed), and, if you ask my step-father, the best cantaloupe any time of year. “I don’t know where they get it,” he says, “but 95% of the time, it’s just amazing.” Like I said, they have everything there. The bakery is overwhelming and impossibly cheap. On my last visit, I picked up one cinnamon and one chocolate chip rugalah, and pressing my .50 cents change from a $1 bill into my hand, the kind old lady insisted, “next time, don’t spend so much.” Up until I was about 15, they wouldn’t even let me pay that much. “Go on. Take it.”
Canter’s hasn’t and probably can’t ever change. There is no one in the world who could possibly field all the potential complaints that would come flooding in from all manners of angry Jews if they changed a single thing. Even the trippy faux autumn leaves drop ceiling that they installed in the mid-eighties is still a point of contention. “I hate it,” my step-sister said, shaking her head with disgust. My mother finds the diffused light soothing. I find it, like every other part of Canter’s anachronistic décor, endlessly kitchy and amusing. Like if you go upstairs to the restroom and walk past a historical picture of “Canter’s bakery, 1950, in the present location.” The picture looks like it could have been taken yesterday. The same doilies, the same pastries, the same baker’s scale. It’s exactly the same. It’s the reason we keep going back year after year. Canter’s, with its utter indifference to progress and dependable consistency and comfort, lets us know that we can go home again, anytime.
posted by canolive at 10:36 AM
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