One of the things I love most about New York City is the ability to find something to eat at any hour of the day or night. That’s how I found myself, at 1 AM on a Thursday, in the 24- hour deli next to my hotel. I had been craving a classic pastrami sandwich all day and this seemed like the perfect time to indulge my craving.
The deli was deserted at that time of night; just a couple of burly guys from a nearby construction crew who were on their meal break, a female cop drinking a cup of coffee, an old guy who was sound asleep at a table in the back, and me. I was at the sandwich counter shifting impatiently from one foot to another and clearing my throat loudly in the hopes that the sandwich guy, who was busy mopping the floor behind the counter would see me.
Watching, I was both fascinated and repulsed by how he was mopping the floor: He was immersing his mop into a bucket of filthy brown water, wringing it out and then using it to wipe the floor. Since the water looked like it had most recently been used to clean the Aegean stables I knew there was no way the floor was any cleaner after the mopping than it had been in the first place.
The sandwich guy paused for a moment and allowed himself to make the briefest of eye contacts with me and I saw my opportunity. “Could I get a sandwich?” I asked in a tone that even to me sounded condescending. “Please?” I added hastily.
“One minute,” said the sandwich guy. He looked back down at the floor , and frowned. “Almost done here.” He dipped the mop in the filthy water again, mopped some more but, not satisfied, he put on a pair of gloves, reached into the bucket for a scrub brush that was presumably on the bottom and knelt down to violently scrub a particularly stubborn stain by the deep fryer.
He scrubbed for a good long time, dipped the brush back in the bucket, scrubbed some more and then, finally satisfied he threw the brush back in the bucket, stood up, pushed the bucket to the end of the counter, wiped his hands on his apron and looked at me.
“What you want?” he said, looking down at the prep counter which was littered with the debris from previous sandwiches. He wiped the debris from the counter onto the freshly mopped floor with his hand.
“Pastrami on rye,” I said, wondering.
He nodded. “Mustard?” he asked, and when I nodded he turned, grabbed two slices of marbled rye from a bin behind him, threw them on the counter and reached for the pastrami.
“Wait,” I said. “Aren’t you gonna wash your hands?”
He looked at me like I was crazy and began spreading mustard on one slice of the rye. “I wearing gloves,” he said, as though explaining to a small child. “You want pickle?”
“I want you to wash your hands and put on clean gloves,” I said, and he stared at me without comprehension.
“These gloves clean,” he said as he wrapped the sandwich in paper, cut it in half and wrapped it in another layer of paper. He handed it to me.
“No thanks,” I said, “I’m not hungry.”
He shrugged, unconcerned, and I went to get a yogurt instead. As I walked to the cashier I saw him take the sandwich to the cop.
“You wanna pastrami sandwich?” he said. “On the house.”