Are you kidding me? I had read about the weird habit of this board to conveniently log out the 'idle' user who wasn't doing anything other than bashing out hundreds of words on a particularly beloved chow topic. Fool me once and so forth.
So, bent out of shape, but not broken, the boy gamely tries once again to submit his maiden post. Coming back on the boards after being away for awhile felt like being an expat returning to my country only to find that all the dissidents had been silenced and deported to live in exile'yet free at last to discuss liberty, freedom of speech and non-chow related topics. For my first post in this brave new world I commemorate my visit to Manny's, a familiar name that until last Sunday had been unfamiliar to me. As a lifelong Chicagoan, there is more than a little shame in this admission--like confessing that I've never read James or Nabokov, or seen E.T. all the way through.
My Johnny-come-lately status makes my criticism of Manny's all the more difficult because I disliked their corned beef. It was dry and lacking in any flavor beyond a muted saltiness and stale spice note. In the interest of full disclosure, I'd have considered the flavor profile of the meat more thoughtfully if only I hadn't had to contend with the very real fact that I was on the verge of choking. You see, this corned beef was dry as in "Lord, I will proceed immediately to confession and say the Rosary until my fingers bleed if You will only allow this desiccated hunk of brined meat to pass into my stomach without blocking my airway."
Now, I have always known that I would die on Roosevelt Road - who doesn't? - but not here, and not in this unseemly, Mama Cass way, circled by slack-jawed oldsters with lime Jello on their breath as my soul hovers above my lifeless body. At the last possible moment before I was to throw my hands up to my throat in the Universal Sign of Choking, the grace of G-d and a little timely peristalsis saved my bacon (but not my corned beef, which, I have already illustrated, was beyond salvation).
As I sat sipping my Dr. Brown's cream soda trying to regain my composure, I was left to wonder just what had happened here. I mean, this was Manny's-Manny's. The paragon of deli in Chicago. And what of the clammy-cold congealed latke sitting on my tray with its funky onion aroma smelling for all the world like French B.O.? Was it that it was a Sunday, an hour before closing time? What the deckle? Was I supposed to wink at the slicer-man and ask him under my breath for the special, edible corned beef? The only hint of Greatness I was to find on this grim visit was in the few shreds of pastrami, which I normally order to add flavor to my corned beef sandwiches. In this case they were asked to do yeoman's duty in saving my sandwich, but even their tender spiciness could not save the day.
I am no culinary sleuth. I have no encyclopaedic knowledge of the origins of the meat stuffs at places around town. I know my Scala from my Vienna and that's pretty much it. I'll be back: for the pastrami, for the old-timey menu sign, for the cigar and gum counter and the Byzantine payment system. Question is, should I come back for the corned beef?
So, greetings to all you Sakharovs and Dalai Lamas of the chow world. I offer you these words: you are home.