Back in the day, Mike G. had a slick look that reminded me a bit of Morris Day, from the funk band the Time. Whenever I was around him when we were working at the Penn Square Hollywood Theaters, I was usually singing under my breath “Fishnet...black pantyhose…” to his chagrin.
We’ve been friends quite a while now, deciding to meet up for lunch for the first time in a couple of years. I met him at Scottie’s Deli, 427 N.W. 23rd, a lunch spot I have been wanting to try for a while now, but every time after a show at the Tower emptied—the perfect time for a sandwich, mind you—the place was understandably closed.
Scottie’s seems to be going for more of a New York City-vibe than many of the other sandwich places in town, at least when it comes to their sandwiches. Popular for their homemade pastrami, amongst other meats and breads, looking over the menu on the wall, I settled on the wholly unique-sounding regular-sized Duck Pastrami Sandwich. (While the whole sandwich was, yes, $16, keep in mind that the New York-size sandwich was $22, but you know, it’s fucking duck meat. Get used to it. )
Mike—still looking as like he might break-out in “The Bird” at any minute—and I grabbed our window-seats and immediately started talking about our lives, bringing each other up to speed while mildly reminiscing, that sort of thing. I was surprised, however, when he told me that when I was in the hospital, he came to visit me but I was totally drugged up to notice. I hope he wasn’t one of the people I showed my penis to.
When the Duck Pastrami sandwich reached my table, it landed with a quackable thud. Thick slices of fresh-enough rye bread, cut effortlessly, were loaded with Scottie’s house cole slaw, Russian dressing and, spilling forth when I lifted the sandwich, heavy chunks of the most delectable duck, run through the pastrami machine, of course. Like succulent pieces of fatty gold, I can tell you that it was worth the $16.
The potato salad, as an added side-bonus, is apparently onions, celery and potatoes, of course, mixed with a light sauce that isn’t overpowering like the straight mustard or mayonnaise mixtures were used to; it’s a bit of a shock at first, especially if you’re mostly used to grubbing it out of that damned Walmart bucket with a handle.
For me, at least, Scottie’s is the (non-Bahn Mi) sandwich place this part of town has been desperately waiting for, offering plenty of Katz-esque sandwiches to the hungry Joe Subway crowd. As for Mike and I, we sat there talking for quite a bit as the lunch rush came and went, with one more offer from me to be his personal Jerome Benton at a time and place of his choosing. Cómpralo ya!
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