Although I again am doing battle with anxiety and the creeping formation of a migraine, I want it to be clearly recorded that today was a good day, for a single redemptive act. Although "Onward, Ever Onward" is my motto, I could be said to have an equally important credo, a triad of ideals by which the good life should be measured: Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of a Really Good Pastrami On Rye (with half-done pickle on the side.) Some think this is one of my odd jokes, but there is a profound truth in it. For today, I can proclaim to the heavens that the last of that triumverate was attained. I had a truly awesome Pastrami on Rye today at Roxy's Deli in Fremont, an establishment I had noted in mere passing during my weekend stay on the houseboat, that was at the time closed for renovations.
After a mildly futile consultation about my meds with the psychiatrist, where my anxiety was palpable to him, I felt the pain forming again behind my eyes as I undertook a circuitous bus ride to the branch headquarters of my old security company, the same branch where I was ceremoniously canned two weeks ago, to drop off my uniforms and pick up the contents of my locker, since I am apparently too much of a danger to have retrieved them from the site. I had thought of that deli, since it was just across the canal from the branch office, and figured I might try eating there, even though I knew I shouldn't spend the money. But, we are talking about Pastrami, and nothing mundane as economic conditions could hold be back from my quest, especially since I never feel firmly established in any city until I know where to go for proper deli.
I carted my prior work belongings across the bridge (in a double garbage bag, showing the respect and consideration my prior supervisor had for me,) and shambled over to Roxy's Deli. I've come not to hold too high expectations, due to some incredible prior disappointments, but the outlook was better than I imagined. The pastrami sandwich was sold on the menu by then unknown name of Glick and Froyd pastrami, but naming the butchers was usually a clear sign of prestige, and it was sold simply on rye with mustard. And warmed. This is the most common mistake I have found in deli, is serving pastrami cold. A fatal error for which there is no forgiveness. Also many times have I had to ask, mind you, ask for other so-called delis to remove toppings from the pastrami, including the unforgivable addition of cheese. Blasphemy, thou name is cheese on pastrami. My dream was lifted again to the realm of the possible, because they sold Dr. Brown's soda, the kosher soda line that is like the perfect French wine for the five-course gourmet meal, the absolute necessary companion. Myself, I swear by the black cherry.
With hand over my aching eyes, and worry clenching my soul, I waited for my sandwich. When it finally came, I knew the moment was at hand. Not only had they made sure to overflow the rye, slicing the sandwich into two-halves (which is a requirement into itself,) but beside it was the blessed half-done pickle spear. All was at hand. Light glistened softly off the grease from the warmed pastrami and I had to admire the plate before me for a moment. But the true test was yet to be made. I lifted the sandwich and took my first bite. Transcedance. You may think this is wacky hyperbole on my part, but it isn't. The pastrami was perfect, salted without too much saltiness, chewy but lean enough to fall toward tender, and balanced by the spicy brown deli mustard. Praise be to the sainted Glick and Froyd, who only later would I know were devoted to bringing the perfect authentic cold cut from the East Coast to the West. My anxiety fell away, and again don't doubt my words when I say it nearly brought me to tears. From the cauldron of my troubles, I was lifted into a timeless moment of rightness in the universe. I have never needed a sandwich to be so good, so badly before.
I understand that this pastrami on rye could be construed as grasping for momentary physical pleasure to falsely uplift from pain, that this was a neurologically hardwired comfort brought forward from my childhood, and this is true, but only partially. The true value lies not in what the pleasure is, but how commonly it can be obtained, and how long you have gone without the given desire. The comfort of a pleasure is demolished by over-indulgence, and leaves the experience hollow and useless. Sure, the pleasure didn't last long, in my case, as long as it took to have my mother call me on my cel while I was waiting for the bus home, but even then the memory is cherished. I will still lay down since my head hurts, but after that miraculous lunch, my hand hasn't shook, and my spirit feels lightened for the consumption of the heavy meat. Yes, it is not some truly noble ideal, but neither is it stupid or meaningless to me. The gaining of one of my triad of ideals makes the others seem less distant and more obtainable. Time and space are redeemed, even if just by deli. This is the power of pleasures, that are both simple, and rare. Today will always be a good day.
After a mildly futile consultation about my meds with the psychiatrist, where my anxiety was palpable to him, I felt the pain forming again behind my eyes as I undertook a circuitous bus ride to the branch headquarters of my old security company, the same branch where I was ceremoniously canned two weeks ago, to drop off my uniforms and pick up the contents of my locker, since I am apparently too much of a danger to have retrieved them from the site. I had thought of that deli, since it was just across the canal from the branch office, and figured I might try eating there, even though I knew I shouldn't spend the money. But, we are talking about Pastrami, and nothing mundane as economic conditions could hold be back from my quest, especially since I never feel firmly established in any city until I know where to go for proper deli.
I carted my prior work belongings across the bridge (in a double garbage bag, showing the respect and consideration my prior supervisor had for me,) and shambled over to Roxy's Deli. I've come not to hold too high expectations, due to some incredible prior disappointments, but the outlook was better than I imagined. The pastrami sandwich was sold on the menu by then unknown name of Glick and Froyd pastrami, but naming the butchers was usually a clear sign of prestige, and it was sold simply on rye with mustard. And warmed. This is the most common mistake I have found in deli, is serving pastrami cold. A fatal error for which there is no forgiveness. Also many times have I had to ask, mind you, ask for other so-called delis to remove toppings from the pastrami, including the unforgivable addition of cheese. Blasphemy, thou name is cheese on pastrami. My dream was lifted again to the realm of the possible, because they sold Dr. Brown's soda, the kosher soda line that is like the perfect French wine for the five-course gourmet meal, the absolute necessary companion. Myself, I swear by the black cherry.
With hand over my aching eyes, and worry clenching my soul, I waited for my sandwich. When it finally came, I knew the moment was at hand. Not only had they made sure to overflow the rye, slicing the sandwich into two-halves (which is a requirement into itself,) but beside it was the blessed half-done pickle spear. All was at hand. Light glistened softly off the grease from the warmed pastrami and I had to admire the plate before me for a moment. But the true test was yet to be made. I lifted the sandwich and took my first bite. Transcedance. You may think this is wacky hyperbole on my part, but it isn't. The pastrami was perfect, salted without too much saltiness, chewy but lean enough to fall toward tender, and balanced by the spicy brown deli mustard. Praise be to the sainted Glick and Froyd, who only later would I know were devoted to bringing the perfect authentic cold cut from the East Coast to the West. My anxiety fell away, and again don't doubt my words when I say it nearly brought me to tears. From the cauldron of my troubles, I was lifted into a timeless moment of rightness in the universe. I have never needed a sandwich to be so good, so badly before.
I understand that this pastrami on rye could be construed as grasping for momentary physical pleasure to falsely uplift from pain, that this was a neurologically hardwired comfort brought forward from my childhood, and this is true, but only partially. The true value lies not in what the pleasure is, but how commonly it can be obtained, and how long you have gone without the given desire. The comfort of a pleasure is demolished by over-indulgence, and leaves the experience hollow and useless. Sure, the pleasure didn't last long, in my case, as long as it took to have my mother call me on my cel while I was waiting for the bus home, but even then the memory is cherished. I will still lay down since my head hurts, but after that miraculous lunch, my hand hasn't shook, and my spirit feels lightened for the consumption of the heavy meat. Yes, it is not some truly noble ideal, but neither is it stupid or meaningless to me. The gaining of one of my triad of ideals makes the others seem less distant and more obtainable. Time and space are redeemed, even if just by deli. This is the power of pleasures, that are both simple, and rare. Today will always be a good day.
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