This Must Be The Sandwich

I went in because of that salmon sign.

I remember opening the door and realizing I was in an institution. There were rows of write ups in every famous New York publication, in Gourmet. I stood there, looking at foods I had never seen before, smelling fish and pickles and chocolate, listening to orders being called out, the slap of salmon on the wooden counter behind the case, banter in Yiddish, prices being discussed, laughter, tissue-thin slices of brilliant pink fish crossing the air, disappearing into mouths, containers of cream cheese and caviar piling up on the zinc counter top, right at eye level. The walls were lined with sardine tins, vintage caviar cans and photos of the neighborhood for the last 100+ years.

The place was full of history and heritage, none of which was mine. Everyone else seemed to know what to do, how to order, what was good. There were ways of doing things, items that were not eaten together. I felt like a stranger, totally out of my element. Yet I wanted to be there, breathing in the smells of herring, white fish and unfamiliarity. I was drawn to the difference. My number was called. Of course there were numbers. I looked up.

And Sherpa looked back at me. I suddenly noticed that most of the people behind the counter didn’t look like I expected them to; they were Nepali, Dominican, Puerto Rican, speaking Spanish to each other as they cut fish. How did they find this place? Something must have said to them: You found us. Come in. Welcome. I took a breath; maybe I could be here after all.

“Hi.” I said.

“Hello. How are you?”

“Good thanks. Can I have an everything bagel with scallion cream cheese?”

By then, I knew that combo was my jam.

“You want lox?” he asked.

I froze.

“Uhhhh…(I said, for what felt like an eternity….should I get lox? I didn’t really like them at the time but are you supposed to? Is it not ok to not get them? Was I violating some well-known law? Would I be laughed out of the store?)

….no, just cream cheese thanks.”

“Are you sure? Try some.”

Sherpa walked me through the 5-6 different kinds of fish, putting a perfect translucent slice on its own piece of wax paper and sliding it across the counter, like he didn’t have a line of 20 people behind me. My mind was blown, each different and more delicious than the next, a salty fatty layer dissolving on my tongue. The one that killed me that day was the grav lox, exploding with dill and the taste of the ocean distilled while buried deep in the ground, like the fish was trying to concentrate and hold on to the memory of swimming as it cured.

“That one.” I said. “The grav lox.”

“Good choice.”

I remember unwrapping the thick paper wrapping and biting into that bagel, the flavors mixing with each other, so many spices and salts and fats. I’ve probably had that same bagel 20 times, each one phenomenal. Over the years, that sandwich has become a touchstone for me, a taste I crave.

For the four years that I lived in New York, Russ &Daughters became an enormous part of my life. I went pretty much once a week, at all times of day: for lunch after hitting Union Square, still drunk or reeling from a ripping hangover, sweating in the evening after hustling from the subway, Beastie Boys blasting, teary-eyed in search of some comfort. I tried everything: pickled tomatoes, Holland herring, halva, shrubs. I ate black&white cookies until I was sick. I brought salmon home for every holiday.

Like almost everyone else who comes in, I felt like I belonged. Coming home means going to Russ &Daughters, running my hands along the edge of the counter, taking a number, part of myself resurfacing; feeling whole.

And, of course, getting that sandwich.

Emma Impink appreciates chocolate babka.