BEE-YOO-TEE-FUL...A DINING GUIDE FOR PHILADELPHIA

My wife Sue and I went to Philadelphia two weeks ago, to see the stage production of, "BEAUTIFUL," the musical story of songwriter and singer, Carole King.

BEGINNING AS A TEENAGER, CAROLE KING,  (1942-PRESENT), WAS A HIGHLY SUCCESSFUL SONGWRITER.  LATER, SHE STARTED TO PERFORM AND HER MUSIC BECAME THE SOUNDTRACK OF A GENERATION. 

For a short while, there was some real doubt whether we'd actually make it to the show.  But first, a little backstory.



                                                                               *



In the summer of 1969, two friends and I were walking to "the pool," aka, the Seaview Pool and Yacht Club, (for the sake of accuracy, please be aware that due our fourteen year-old mentality, "yacht" should be pronounced to rhyme with, botched).

Halfway there, a shiny, old, black car slowed to a stop, (I was a kid, so beyond knowing a jalopy from a Rolls Royce, my knowledge as an autophile was limited).  A smiling man, smoking a stogie called out, "What's the only thing that's important in life?"  My friend J answered, "Parking spots."  The man said, "Bee-yoo-tee-full!  You remembered.  Now tell your buddies; a man shouldn't be judged because of his character, a man should be judged by the quality of his parking spaces."

The big car whipped around the corner.  I said, "What was that all about?"  J said, "That's Bobby V's dad."  S, my other friend whispered, "Was that really Joe Vanilla, the Patron Saint of Parking Spaces?"

I knew only Bobby V.  as being my friends' friend but I never heard of Joe Vanilla. Apparently, on their side of Canarsie, Joe Vanilla was a household name.  Still, most adults avoided him or claimed they didn't know this shady character.  That's why back then, Joe Vanilla was what we call today, an urban legend.

Joe Vanilla, (before he was arrested), was a  mythical spirit like Robin Hood. Except in their section of my neighborhood, if something fell off a truck and you knew a guy, who knew a guy, that second guy giving you the incredible deal, was usually Joe Vanilla.

During my budding puberty, I wasn't savvy to anything that resembled the Witness Protection Program.  But that's what it seems like now because Joe indeed vanished and his own son never confided in his friends as to the situation his dad was in or his whereabouts.

This  level of criminal behavior  was heroic to my moronic, young mind. I listened with great interest as J shared what he knew.  I found out that Joe had a scrap metal business in Staten Island.  But because he was "connected," (associated with mobsters), he earned a lot more selling untaxed cigarettes and whiskey as well as a wide range of "hot" items.

J ended with, "We all thought Joe was in jail...maybe he made other arrangements...either way, he has the mark of the squealer."  I said, "What?"  J said, "There's tons of people out to get him, so he shouldn't be driving around in that thing."

THAT "THING" WOUND-UP BEING A 1959 ELDORADO CADILLAC BIARRITZ CONVERTIBLE.  TODAY YOU CAN'T TOUCH A FULLY RESTORED ONE FOR UNDER A QUARTER MILLION.  BUT TO ME, IT WAS JUST AN OLD, SHINY CAR.  BUT ACCORDING TO J, IT MAY AS WELL HAVE HAD A GIANT RED "X" PAINTED ON THE HOOD.

Years later, (1976), I socialized a few times with Bobby V.  That's when disco was king and it brought my friends and I into Manhattan.  Bobby always insisted on driving.  His father's reputation for great parking must have been in the genes because soon, he, in his own 1975 Eldorado, developed the knack of finding million-to-one parking spots.

THE ONE TIME I WENT WITH BOBBY V.  THE DISCOTHEQUE WAS ON FIRST AVENUE IN EAST SIXTIES.  TEN BLOCKS BEFORE WE GOT THERE I STARTED SCOUTING FOR A PARKING SPOT.  FOUR BLOCKS FROM OUR TARGET, I SAW ONE.  BOBBY V. IGNORED ME.  A GAZILLION PEOPLE WERE MILLING AROUND OUTSIDE THE CLUB WHEN WE GOT THERE.  THEN LIKE THE RED SEA PARTING, SOMEBODY PULLED OUT FROM A PRIMO SPACE.  BOBBY V. PULLED HIS "BOAT" INTO THAT TIGHT SPOT SO WELL THAT WOULD HAVE WON THE OLYMPIC GOLD MEDAL FOR PARALLEL PARKING.  ON THE WAY TO THE CLUB,  I CONGRATULATED HIM.  BOBBY SAID, "SHIT, IT KILLS ME THAT WE HAD TO WALK ACROSS THE GODDAMNED STREET." 

On a subsequent trip to the same club without Bobby, we circled the neighborhood for forty minutes Until someone had the good sense to say, "It's time to pray to Joe Vanilla, the Patron Saint of Parking Spaces."  Strange but true, a minute later we found a spot...of course the ten-block walk to the disco in those damned platform shoes was so far that we should have taken a cab.

Down through the years, I have enlisted the help of the Patron Saint of Parking Spaces often enough that my wife Sue uses it too.

Sue and I, with parking issues in mind have a private joke that in our thirty-two years of living in South Jersey, we have NEVER had a sit-down dinner in Philadelphia, (she has...without me).

I have written other blogs that concern my unrealized attempts to have dinner in a Philadelphia restaurant...the common theme to those failures were...parking.

My parking ineptitude in Philly took an interesting positive turn when Sue and I flew to Hawaii, in December 2015.  While in the planning stages, a stranger overheard me grousing about the cost of airport parking and said, "Google Philadelphia off-site airport parking."

He was right. His random act of kindness saved me close to a hundred dollars.  On the computer, there were several nearby places (usually hotels), that allow you to park on their premises and provide shuttle service to and from the airport.  Our choice was located ten minutes away in, Essington.

Four months later, Sue bought tickets to see, "BEAUTIFUL," the musical about singer, songwriter Carole King's life.  Sue used the similar idea by googling, parking in Center City Philadelphia.  The result was an incredibly low (pre-paid) rate of $16.00 that would be valid from 3:30PM until 3:30AM.

The luxury of guaranteed parking inspired us to stop the thirty-two year jinx of never having a sit-down dinner in the city of brotherly love.  But it wouldn't be blogworthy if there weren't any ifs.

Sue's GPS easily got us to Center City at 4:30.  Despite the heavy rush hour traffic, at crawling speed, we found Locust Street, (where our parking lot was).  However, the geniuses who put-up the garage's web-page failed us, in three key ways.  First, the business name and the corporate name were different. Second, two rival parking lots were on the same street.  Third, despite having the address on our receipt, building numbers along the street were impossible to find.

By design, we were early for a relaxing dinner, so time was in our favor.  Still, it was hyper-annoying to unnecessarily go around the block...only to find out that you can't make a legal left turn there.  So our bumper-to-bumper circle back for a second try, took an eternity.

To the annoyance of the drivers behind me, to make an informed guess, I inched back up Locust Street.  I saw all three garages on the left side of the street and said, "I wish I was wearing a 'WWJVD' bracelet.  Sue  grinned after I added, "It's a 'What would Joe Vanilla do,' bracelet."

WHO WOULDN'T WANT SPIRITUAL GUIDANCE WHEN STRUGGLING TO PARK.

I took an impulsive ,calculated risk and pulled into the middle lot.  But there wasn't a human to speak with.  I balked about pushing the button for a ticket because I had pre-paid and was afraid if I was in wrong place, I 'd get charged ten bucks just to make a U-turn.  Luckily a worker spotted me. He didn't give a shit and insisted I continue in.  Before I took the ticket, I made him assure me that even though the web-site name and the business name on the wall didn't match...that they were the same outfit.

Once inside this claustrophobic garage that was probably built in the 1930's, I was directed to take the spiral ramp to the roof.  It was a tight squeeze and there were no mirrors to assist in seeing oncoming drivers.  So I naturally hugged the right wall.  Seconds later, a woman coming down (too fast) was heading right for us.  I slammed on the brake.  Like a scene from a horror movie, the giggly bitch swerved back into her lane without hesitating.  We really, really came close to not having our long overdue dinner Philly that night.

Our hearts were thumping out of our chest when we finally parked, (my instinct was to kiss the ground but the pavement was too filthy).  Downstairs at the exit, life became good again, we could see our show's venue a half block away, the Academy of Music.

THE ACADEMY OF MUSIC OPENED IN 1857, AT 240 BROAD STREET.   SOME OF MY ALL-TIME FAVORITES HAVE GRACED THAT STAGE INCLUDING: CARUSO, AARON COPLAND, VLADIMIR HOROWITZ, PAVAROTTI, ITZHAK PERLMAN, LEONTYNE PRICE, MARIA CALLAS, SERGEI RACHMANINOFF, RICHARD STRAUSS, IGOR STRAVINSKY AND TCHAIKOVSKY. 

It was a "beautiful" night, so we didn't mind taking blind stabs in the dark, trying to find a restaurant. We read several menus before ending my three-decade dinner schneid in Philadelphia, at Prieta's, a lovely Italian restaurant/bar, on Walnut Street, between 18th and 19th.

Outside the Academy of Music, I busted on Sue because 94.8% of the crowd waiting to get in were seventy or older, (with 94.8% of them being women). My jibes were forgotten when the doors to the lobby opened.  I felt like I was hobnobbing with royalty because it was that stunningly "beautiful."  The rich and wonderful feeling continued inside when my eyes feasted on the classic theater.

THIS GORGEOUS RENAISSANCE-STYLED THEATER HAS A SEATING CAPACITY OF 2509, (1800 FOR BEAUTIFUL).  OUR USHER TOLD US IT WAS GOING TO BE A FULL-HOUSE.  WE ALREADY KNEW BECAUSE WHEN SUE ORDERED THE TICKETS ONLINE, ONE SEAT (MINE) INCLUDED AN ASTERISK, FOR A PARTIALLY OBSTRUCTED SIGHT-LINE OF THE STAGE, (PLEASE NOTE, THE MANY PILLARS THROUGHOUT THE UPPER TIERS).

The show grabbed my interest immediately and never let go.  The only reasons I got restless was because halfway through the first act, I had to pee and I didn't want to miss anything.  Plus I was scouting out two other empty seats because my partial obstruction of the stage was too distracting and more than I thought I could overlook.

MY SEAT WASN'T THIS BAD.  BUT BAD ENOUGH TO MAKE US MOVE (SUCCESSFULLY) AFTER INTERMISSION.  I GOT AN ADDED BONUS OF AN AISLE SEAT THAT HELPED ME STRETCH MY PREVIOUSLY CRAMPS LEGS.

"Beautiful" received rave reviews both on Broadway and in Philly.  Carole King's story is reflected as the timeliness of her life influenced by her music, (Sue and I saw "JERSEY BOYS," last year and that great show used a similar formula).  Despite catering to a female audience, I loved this show.  I never realized that Carole King's songwriting talent was so vast and important. The deeper message is going beyond mere survival and attaining greatness. The audience truly appreciated that when they find out why after always shunning the limelight of performing...she became one of the all-time greats.

In using Joe Vanilla's famous quote, it's fair to say that "BEAUTIFUL," was, "Bee-yoo-tee-full." Later, the joy continued as Sue and I investigated the length of Ms. King's famous songs that she wrote for others, (to feel the same rush, just google her).

IN 1971, CAROLE KING'S "TAPESTRY" ALBUM EXPLODED ONTO THE CHARTS. IT WOULD SELL OVER 25 MILLION COPIES WORLDWIDE.  IN 2003, ROLLING STONE MAGAZINE LISTED IT AS #36 IN THEIR TOP 500 ALBUMS OF ALL-TIME.  IT'S UNIVERSAL SUCCESS WAS DUE IN PART TO; KING'S SURPASSING PERSONAL MUSICAL INTIMACY AND RAW IMPERFECT VOICE HELPED.  THOSE ATTRIBUTES LED THE WAY FOR OTHER FEMALE SINGERS, AT A TIME WHEN THE WOMEN'S LIB MOVEMENT WAS GAINING MOMENTUM. 

Back at the garage, we discovered that the whole audience also parked there.  Maybe the Joe Vanilla parking movement is gaining momentum too?  Still, it took forever to get out but at least our lives were never put at risk. The usually tedious ride home flew by as Sue played Carole King music from her phone and read aloud about her well-accomplished life.

MY DAD'S SUPER-SIZED VENDETTA AGAINST KATZ'S DELI

From the mid-1960's to the mid-1970's, I accompanied my father, once a year, to the National Toy Fair, in New York City  Dad owned a juvenile furniture store and some of his vendors displayed their new items there.

At the close of each show, (at the Statler Hilton Hotel), many companies found it cost-effective to cheaply sell-off their showroom merchandise instead of packing it up and shipping it back to their corporate headquarters, (or wear ever). Dad's best supplier always reserved a chunk of this once a year privilege, to him.

THE STATLER HOTEL WAS BUILT IN 1919 ACROSS FROM MANHATTAN'S PENN STATION (AND TODAY'S MADISON SQUARE GARDEN).  IT'S NAME EVENTUALLY CHANGED TO THE STATLER -HILTON AND HAS SINCE BEEN RENAMED, HOTEL PENNSYLVANIA.

In my pre-pubescence, I had many Toy Fair adventures, (playing with toys and getting free samples). In my early teens, my father's annual bonanza lost its luster because I was put to work, (disassembling goods, packing them up and piece by piece carting it to dad's Ford Econoline).

NOVEMBER - 1961, CANARSIE BROOKLYN. THE ORIGINAL FORD ECONOLINE VAN WAS MADE FROM 1961-1967.  THIS "WAGON," (AS WE CALLED IT),  AND SIMILAR ONES IN THE FUTURE, SERVED BOTH AS DAD'S WORK VEHICLE AND FAMILY CAR. 

Our '"wagon" was not big.  So the monumental, back-breaking and tedious Toy Fair task got worse when, to fit in the last few items, we had rearrange what had already been packed. Luckily dad's artistic flair reduced the time, (I hate to imagine how long it would have taken if I was in charge).

Unfortunately, dad's artistic flair didn't always net us a parking spot at the loading dock.  Sometimes, dad parked illegally on the street.  This situation resulted in the low man on the totem pole...me...having to sit, alone for hours while rehearsing how I was going to tell a summons-happy policeman, "My father is coming right down."

I hated sitting there (and usually freezing) so bad that I actually preferred being upstairs doing the grunt work.. However as an unrelated sidebar to this story, on February 28, 1971, I was waiting for dad to come down at 1:00AM.  Across the street, a man on crutches with a cast on his leg came out of a bar.  A few seconds later, someone else poked their head out from inside and called, "Good-night Brad!"  I realized it, was New York Rangers star hockey player, Brad Park.  I abandoned my post with pen and paper and tracked down my hobbled, beloved hero.

I STILL HAVE THAT CHERISHED AUTOGRAPH.  EARLIER THAT NIGHT,  MARKED THE NHL DEBUT OF PARK'S REPLACEMENT, ANDRE "MOOSE" DUPONT...WHOSE RANGER CAREER WOULD LAST ONLY 7 GAMES BEFORE BEING TRADED TO THE ST. LOUIS BLUES.  

The route back to dad's store, (to unload the wagon, was south on Second Avenue, a left onto Houston Street, over to Delancey Street, to the Williamsburg Bridge.  By this time of the night whatever dinner I had was long forgotten.  So on each sojourn home as my husky-sized belly whined for a refill, we'd pass Katz's Delicatessen, (on earlier trips, sometimes they were still open).

A NEW YORK CITY LANDMARK, KATZ'S DELI AT 205 E HOUSTON STREET (CORNER OF LUDLOW STREET) HAS BEEN OPEN SINCE 1888. 

Once, to satisfy my hunger, I asked (begged) dad to stop.  My father probably didn't relish getting home at 3;00AM so stopping for a bite, in a sketchy part of town with valuable cargo was out of the question. To deflect my request, dad went into a detailed explanation of why Katz's was a terrible place to eat, (I'm sure as soon as he said "no" I went into pouting-mode and tuned-out his rant.  That's why I don't recall any specifics).

HAWAII, JANUARY 1975.  DAD WAS ALWAYS A SKINNY GUY.  MY MOM USED TO SAY , "HE ATE LIKE A BIRD."  THEREFORE HE WAS PARTICULAR ABOUT HIS MEALS AND HOW THEY WERE SERVED.  SO PERHAPS HIS DISLIKE FOR KATZ'S WAS REAL ON THAT LEVEL?

At some point in the 1970's, the prices at New York's kosher delicatessens skyrocketed.  Coupled with changing neighborhoods, the higher prices caused many delis to go out of business.  To combat this trend, most of the remaining restaurants found it prudent to go to "kosher-style" menus.  The result (to me) was an increasingly difficult task of finding my favorites, the way I liked it.

In January 1979, I moved to Las Vegas.  By the time I moved back home (Canarsie Brooklyn, in 1984), even the kosher-style delis had become nearly extinct.

Fortunately, Grabstein's ,the delicatessen a few streets from home was still there and still good.  But later that year after my wife Sue and I permanently moved to south Jersey, all my favorite deli delectables became a thing of the past...often imitated...but never duplicated.

A few months back, my long dormant desire for real deli food was rekindled by  a credit card commercial, filmed inside Katz's.  I realized that my father hated the place.  So I assumed he was wrong and fantasized about the glory of perceived sweet ambrosia for stomach and soul.

Coincidentally, right after seeing that advertisement, my sister called from out of town and said she was bringing my three great-nephews to New York City.  After we figured out a time and place to meet, that could include my son Andrew, she suggested dinner at Katz's.

APRIL 8, 2016 AT THE MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY,  ANDREW WITH HARRY (8), BARRY (6) AND GARY (5).

From the museum, during our drive downtown, we googled Katz's menu.  I decided on a hot, corned beef sandwich slathered with spicy mustard and stuffed with sauerkraut with a potato knish and a Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray.

DR. BROWN'S CEL-RAY, (aka JEWISH CHAMPAGNE), IS A GOLDEN, CELERY-FLAVORED *SODA POP (TONIC).  IT ORIGINATED (1869), IN MANHATTAN.  TODAY, YOU NEED TO KNOW WHERE TO LOOK, TO GET IT IN THE CITY, (AND HARDER IN PHILADELPHIA OR SOUTH FLORIDA...ANYWHERE ELSE, IT'S ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND).

* EDITOR'S NOTE. - Since my hernia surgery, (February 1, 2016), I have weaned myself from a 40-can/week addiction to Diet Cherry Pepsi and other sodas. Coupled with avoiding carbohydrates, I feel less bloated while losing twelve pounds. So at Katz's, I looked forward to risking the empty calories and my positive progress for the sake of non-dietetic Cel-Ray, a knish and rye bread.

Sue opted for Katz's famous pastrami, fries, an order of cole slaw and a Dr. Brown's Creme soda. Andrew wanted roast beef with tomatoes and mayonnaise.  Sue and I then tried to talk him down from the strawberry thick shake he wanted...after binding arbitration with his uncle, (my brother-in-law), my boy settled out of court for an orange soda.

Katz's was a throwback restaurant.  That's nice way of saying, the atmosphere sucked...but we knew that ahead of time, as well as the staff's reputation for being theatrically cranky.

(STOCK PHOTO).  THIS SHOT IS A FAIR REPRESENTATION OF THE BUSYNESS WE ENCOUNTERED. HOWEVER, ON THE FAR RIGHT, THE SIX "CUTTING STATIONS" HAD LINES OF PEOPLE WAITING FOR THEIR SANDWICHES THAT EXTENDED BETWEEN THE TABLES.

My sister found a table us.  She sat with her three grandson's directly behind the man (above), standing with the cap.  Just as I feared, the folks on those lines surrounded my sister and the kids. Luckily, I ran to the restroom.  Unseen in this photo, I discovered a more private alcove in the back, (to the right).  At first, sis didn't want to up-root Harry, Barry and Gary...but in doing so, she saved us from the claustrophobic feeling of being enveloped by strangers, having our conversations nullified by leering, loud talkers and the unappetizing threat of getting our seats jostled.

Oy!  Soon, my problems with this so-called holy shrine to delis really started when I saw the cutter making my sandwich from a huge hunk of meat (corned beef) that obviously had been sitting on his counter for a while.  I also didn't like that the cutter was not using a machine to slice the meat. Instead, he cut-up long, thick slabs.

My perception of old school delicatessens is that the meats are stored in stainless steel steamers until needed. Like a fine artisan, each hot sandwich is prepared to perfection.  However, Katz's was more like an assembly-line where speed (and size) trumps quality.

Part of the gimmick is for the cutters, to offer you a sampling.  Ugh!  The "fresh" meat was misshaped, cold and tasteless.  I must have been out of my mind with starvation because I rationalized (WRONGLY) that the sum of the pieces would be greater than an individual piece.

Later, I reflected on my corned beef and concluded that the texture should have been grainy yet moist, not smooth and slimy.  I thought that perhaps the evolution of kosher delicatessens included synthetic meats. Certainly, smooth, slimy-surfaced corned beef felt wrong. Maybe Katz's fanciers forgot what was the gold standard for meats once was... and now accept inferior facsimiles that feel like cold, tasteless plastic in your mouth. Of course in defense of my father, it's possible Katz's was never good?

The result was a gargantuan, super-sized sandwich that cost $19.00, (later I joked, they probably use 20% more meat so they can kick you in your nut-sack, by doubling the price).  It's only fair to say, that as disappointing as it was, I indeed ate (half), my sandwich that included cold, tasteless sauerkraut, topped with unimpressive, unspicy, brown mustard, ( I could have finished the whole thing...but I didn't want to).

On the positive side, My knish was warm (not hot) and the inside was close to being soft enough but not quite, (still I did actually liked it).  The true highlight of my epicurean "delight" was a free, generous supply of delicious, (to die for), sour pickles.  And I loved every ounce of my Cel-Ray.

THE BEST PART OF OUR TRIP TO KATZ'S WAS OUR FAMILY SOCIALIZING, IN THE FAR MORE COMFY ALCOVE.  (above), A BRUTISH MAN IN NEED OF A SHAVE WEARING A BLOND WIG, A RED DRESS AND MATCHING PUMPS, VOLUNTEERED TO TAKE THIS SNAPSHOT.  IF YOU SQUINT, YOU'LL SEE SUE, ANDREW, MY SISTER AND I ALL LEFT OVER HALF A SANDWICH.


Another nice touch is, the collection neon signs and printed slogans throughout Katz's.

(STOCK PHOTO)  MY FAVORITE WAS THIS SIGN, BECAUSE IT WAS CUTE AND SENT A PATRIOTIC MESSAGE. 

The collection of celebrity customer photos that lined the walls was also a big plus.

BEHIND ME, I SAW RICHARD SIMMONS' PHOTO...SPEAKING OF DIETS,  HE'S THE LAST GUY YOU'D EXPECT TO SEE EATING THERE.  MY FRIEND ERNIE AT ESA ENTERTAINMENT HAS BEEN PRODUCING SIMMONS' 'WORK-OUT VIDEOS FOR YEARS.  INTERESTINGLY,  HOW FORGOTTEN IS ELLIOTT GOULD?   HIS WAS THE ONLY PIC I NOTICED THAT INCLUDED A LABEL WITH HIS NAME. 

Katz's has been around for over 125 years, so I'm certain, they don't give a rat's ass how shitty I thought their hallmark sandwiches were. But this review gets worse.  If the quality of their meats weren't bad enough, instead of a standard check, your bill is tabulated onto their trademark ticket. This ticket (slightly larger than an old-fashioned movie theater ticket), will have everything you order hand-coded onto the back.

On the way out, with their ticket ready, hordes of satisfied diners (as well as the dissatisfied) are funneled onto a line to the cash register.  Like bomb-sniffing TSA dogs, each out-going person is scrutinized as they advance. At the door, ill-tempered, gestapo-like bouncers watch the queue and wait for criminal-minded schmucks to try running out without paying. After I saw that my dinner for three was $102.00, I had to wonder if management compelled creative cutters, (by providing a bounty), to inflate their scribbled charges. I was so pissed by the my final tab that conservative little old me I pondered a, "dine and dash."  How bad could a $102.00 beating be?

When you add-up the low-quality meats, the rush-hour subway platform ambiance and lofty prices, Katz's is a once in a lifetime, poor choice.

BACK IN THE FRESH AIR OF LOWER MANHATTAN, THE ONLY REASON I COULD SMILE THROUGH MY MOLTEN AGITA WAS THAT I GOT A MONDO BOFFO PARKING SPACE, INSPIRED BY THE PATRON SAINT OF PARKING SPOTS  "JOE VANILLA."

We got to my car with four doggie bags. My sister didn't have a refrigerator in her hotel room and Andrew disliked his sandwich so much that I wound up with their half sandwiches as well as Sue's and mine. For lunch the next day, I threw away the rye bread and microwaved, the corned beef, pastrami, roast beef and sis's turkey, (luckily Andrew didn't poison his uneaten half with mayonnaise but I did have to peel away the tomatoes).  To improve the situation, I used my old reliable Gulden's mustard, (for the pastrami and corned beef).  Sorry Katz's...even though they were properly heated, all four still were still tasteless...except for the mustard.

GRABSTEIN'S OF CANARSIE IS LONG GONE.  IT HAS BEEN REPLACED BY A CHINESE TAKE-OUT.  BUT I BET YOU CAN STILL GET A BETTER PIECE OF ORIENTAL-STYLE CORNED BEEF THERE THAN YOU CAN GET AT KATZ'S.

It's puzzling how Katz's fool the informed masses with their hype?  But the harsh reality was those four supposedly distinct flavors should never have tasted the same...but they did.  In protest, I made those leftovers what they truly were destined to be...doggie bags. So I fed them to my puppy, Roxy.

TO SUPPORT HER GRANDFATHER, ROXY (above) WEARS ANDREW'S, "HASKELL HAT."  THEN SHE ENCOURAGED ME TO GO BACK TO KATZ'S AND BRING HOME MORE SUPER-SIZED DOG FOOD.

Somewhere up in heaven, my dad's luxuriating over an extra lean pastrami sandwich and saying to my mom, "Vendetta, schmendetta, our little vonce (me), could've saved time, money and energy if he just took my word for it! And my word for Katz's is, FEH!"