So, we tried out a new deli, well not new but a deli that doesn’t know us and we don’t know them. Mickey told us, it’s where him and his wife ride their bikes for Sunday brunch. Tucked away in a corner, behind a building that hides their yellow sign with black letters that says, “Deli”, it’s why they’re nice. Nobody knows where the deli is unless someone else, who does, shows them. The food is good and not much money.

We go and sit among the old Jews of Encino, which reminds me of a joke about the Jews of Encino, they call Beverly Hills, “The Old Country.”

Everybody smiles and eats, smiles and eats. The help smiles, we smile and eat. It’s what I like best about delis. People go there to see who is in the neighborhood. Have some matzo-ball soup, smile a little and when you’re lucky---when you sit near the right crowd: gossip.

It never occurred to me that old Jewish men courted hookers in Encino. I thought they went to Beverly Hills, the old country for whores, but there in the booth behind us sat two hookers. I’m not sure if they were Jewish hookers. They could have been, but they were indeed prostitutes. Not young, aged but, I’m sure, safe.

Old Jewish men like their blowjobs but they love their families too. So, a nice safe Jewish hooker, who knows not to recognize them in public, not to embarrass them, has a job for life.

The two of them were talking about another hooker. She’s sick and they helped her as best they could but it’s hard making a living now, at their age and, well, that’s the life for hookers. The sick poor thing is living in a trailer in Sun Valley. One elderly customer still comes to spend some time but that’s about it.

A man and his wife came in. I can see a brief glance from the man at one of the women. He directs his wife to sit so she won’t have to see the two ladies and he never looks again at the hookers. That’s the custom, that’s the heart of the deli. People come to have something to eat, to smile, and maybe hear a little gossip.

“Sarah, she doesn’t look so good anymore.” The voice smoked cigarattes. Deep and dry it sounded, then she bent her head a bit while stirring a ‘Sweet and Low’ into her tea.

“No--uh.”

“No she don’t look good.” She paused a moment to tip the cup and sip on her tea. “She looked better a month ago, but she don’t look so good now.”

“She go to a doctor?” The other voice said and then a bit higher, “She see a doctor? What he say?”

“Said, she didn’t look good that’s what he said. How the hell would I know. I wasn’t there. But I can tell you this.” She paused and waited, looking straight at her friend across the table.

“What?”

“She don’t look good.”

“She doesn’t huh, what is it. She know?”

“Won’t say.”

“Won’t say?”

“Won’t say.”

“She don’t look good and she won’t say what it is?”

“That’s right, won’t say. But I can tell you this,” another tilt of the cup and a longer sip of hot tea before she put it down.

“Tell me what?”

“I don’t think she has long on this earth.”

“She’s dying? Is that it?”

“Who knows? I don’t know. Do you?”

“No, I don’t know.”

The coversation stopped. I dranked some ice-tea and then squirted ‘Beaver’ brand deli mustard on my pastrami and rye. The sandwich, piled with tender thin slices of pastrami and the mustard’s tang made my mouth water before it reached my lips.

“Pastrami’s good.” I said to Wally.

“Eh?”

A bit louder this time, “The sandwich. It’s good.”

“It is huh? So’s mine.”

He ordered the egg salad. I hate egg salad. I like a fried egg with mustard on white. I like that, but not an egg salad sandwich.

“Foods good.” I said, and we sat there eating our sandwiches and smiled at each other after washing the sandwiches down with more ice-tea.