A Day at The Deli

This short story is based on real life events from 10+ years ago when I was an undergraduate student. I wrote this story in the Creative Nonfiction I writing class at UCLA Extension.

My morning ritual just before we open the restaurant at 11 am: I breathe in deeply, close my eyes and savor a tablespoon of golden liquid energy. Olive oil from the Koura valley of Lebanon, gathered from a single plot of land and pressed by the Shaheen family for generations. The polyphenol rich oil tastes buttery and peppery on my tongue. Far better than anything sold in chain grocery stores, I exhale contentedly.

I whisper to myself, “I am grateful. Grateful to be in college, grateful for this job and grateful for my health.” I open my eyes and see the Middle Eastern deli in all its splendor.

Persian rugs draped over red brick walls — colors of sun kissed wheat intermingled with fiery orange and sky blue.

To my left is a forty-foot-long glass deli case containing a legendary spread — over seventy platters including mainstays like tabouli, fattoush salad, baba ganoush, eight different types of hummus, to more obscure dishes like ful medames, mujadara (a spiced lentils and rice dish eaten for hundreds of years by the peoples of the Levant who were too poor to buy meat), and muhammara (a spicy dip made of red peppers, pomegranates, molasses and walnuts — recently popularized by Trader Joe’s).

To my right beyond the sea of tables and chairs is another room containing a small grocery store with a variety of products — Najjar Turkish coffee (with or without cardamom), Ahmad Tea, Jordan Almonds, jars of pickles, olives, sacks of rice, two gallon glass bottles of olive oil, etc.

Adjacent to the grocery store is a speedboat sized Pita oven imported from Israel.

The smell of baking pita fills the air.

The Deli is serene.

- — — — — — — — — — — -

It’s lunch rush and I’m sweating — a dark patch under each armpit and a trickle of perspiration runs down my back.

A lull in orders, I leave the register to help the line cooks. Roderico, an affectionate man from Guatemala with a port wine stain covering the left side of his face, whom we call Yaba (a bastardization of the Arabic word ‘baba,’ meaning father), tells me we need more falafel. “Hurry my friend, please hurry.”

I scoop the greenish falafel flour mix which smells of cumin, sesame seeds and herbs. I tamp the mix with a little mallet quickly but precisely into egg sized spheres, like a sculptor working with clay. I drop each sphere into the cage-like basket. Seven minutes and thirty crafted spheres later, I lower the cage of falafel into a vat of hot oil and take a moment to enjoy the sizzling sound of deep fry.

I rush back to the register and take more orders from customers. Then I…

Mop up a spill.

Rush food to hungry customers.

Run back behind the deli case counter and check on the falafel — not done yet.

Hurriedly wipe down table tops and put abandoned dishes into the massive bin in the center of the restaurant. Customers are supposed to put their dishes in the bin themselves, but only about half of them do this. There are three types of patrons who dine at The Deli: heavenly regulars who know to put their dishes in the bin, innocent newbies who don’t know what to do, and demonic regulars who know what to do but refuse to lift a finger. This latter group are inconsiderate lazy ass…bismillah and breathe, or whatever. Breathe. Yes. Gratitude. Yes.

Refill the silverware and napkins.

Wipe up the splattered sauces, shawarma herb mix, and dropped pickles at the community olive bar.

Check on the falafel — perfectly brown and cooked, it’s done!

I dump the falafel balls into a giant sized bowl and present them to Roderico / Yaba who gives me a little side squeeze, a sort of one armed hug, while his other hand deftly turns kebabs with tongs. The little hug takes some of the stress away. I silently return the hug and go back to my register behind the counter. The line has grown long while I was tending to other tasks-this is really a two cashier kind of day, but I’ll make do.

An older woman approaches the register — rapid breathing, confusion, overwhelm, curiosity — I see it in her eyes… new customer, a first timer. I can tell. Ahh, here it is… one of the several times per day where I embrace make-believe and pretend to be a guest onThe Food Network. I assume the mantle of expert chef and cultural anthropologist. Summoning wisdom from the great Anthony Bourdain (Rest in Peace), I begin evangelizing our food to this newbie.

The seventy ish year old woman asks in southern dialect : “What should I order? What’s a MuHAMmara, a special ham? What’s Bardi? Wait, that one… what is that Mujaddara dish?” I explain what Mujadara is and the history behind the spiced lentils and rice dish. Based on her anxious behavior and her strong southern dialect, I surmise that she doesn’t want to venture too far into the foreign Mediterranean and Middle Eastern cuisines The Deli is known for.

The falafel I made is similar to food that she is familiar with — southern hush puppies. For the sake of the waiting line, and my sanity, I recommend that she order falafel with sides of pita, hummus, tzatziki and tahini.

Later, while I’m fielding orders, she returns to the register and says “Young man… that falafel was delicious…mmm, better than hush puppies. I’ll be coming back here again..” I tell her “next time you visit, try our kofta wrap… it’s like a white castle hamburger…but, in a wrap. And with tasty sauces and spices instead of cheese and ketchup.” She smiles, nods, and adds a five dollar tip into the jar at the register.

A normal lunch rush in my normal role as a Jack of All Trades Cashier.

Normal, until I deliver food to the sidewalk eating area…

As I place chicken shawarma hummus platters on a table outside, I hear a shrill voice behind me, “Oh my gawd, oh my gawd he’s choking!”

I spin around, breathe in deeply and time slows down as I take in the full scene.

In front of me wriggles a panicking woman in her mid twenties with frizzy red hair flapping in the spring breeze. She seems to be running circles around a young boy, about six years old, who is grasping his throat and struggling for air. She grips the boy’s shoulders, shakes him and slaps his back. “It’s not working, somebody help him!,” she yells.

Half the patrons have their phones out. Click, clack, pop go fingers on cell phones. People Googling what to do in this situation, others texting, some calling 911. The other half of the patrons remain frozen.

A geriatric couple on the fringe of the sidewalk dining area continue eating, unaware of the drama unfolding.

The boy begins turning blue. No air is reaching his lungs. His fingertips and skin are turning blue.

I realize a certain truth at this moment: someone must take action. Now. Right Now.

Time slows down even more.

“Are you his mother?”

“No, I’m his cousin.”

“Ma’am, can you give me permission to help him? He needs the Heimlich”

“Yes,” she croaks.

It’s worth noting that at this point in my life, I had never done the heimlich maneuver. In fact, I learned the name “Heimlich” in a CPR class four years prior but our teacher didn’t manage time well and we never got to practice the move on the dummies; he just gave us a pamphlet with a cartoon illustration of the move and told us to Youtube “how to heimlich” after class.

I don’t remember the Youtube video or the pamphlet. However, in bright and vivid clarity, I remember Robin Williams saving a choking Pierce Brosnan by using the Heimlich maneuver in the movie ‘Mrs. Doubtfire.’

I squat down behind the young boy and ease him out of his chair. He is delicate and light, about 50 pounds. I wrap my arms around him and squeeze up and into his abdomen, above his navel, in a pumping motion. On the third pump, classic third time’s a charm principle of the Universe, the boy’s food shoots out of his mouth and smacks his guardian in the forehead. The soggy mass falls to the table with a thud.

It’s one of the falafel balls I made earlier.

The crowd claps, the boy’s guardian cries with joy and I notice everything in my peripheral vision while my focus is on the boy and time remains slow. Tears in his eyes, he laughs and gives me my second hug of the day. In a frail and breathy cherubic voice he says, “thank you.”

Adrenaline in overdrive, I walk into The Deli and Jamal walks up to me, a puzzled look on his face. “Was there a birthday? I heard clapping — oh shit. You look like you saw a ghost. Are you ok?”

I reply, “Yea Big J, I’m ok. Just feeling a little light headed. Can I take a 10 minute break?”

“Of course my man, take care of yourself. I’ll cover for you. Take twenty minutes. Or thirty. Whatever you need.”

I go to the back of the restaurant, down a hallway that leads to a dark staircase that leads to a door. I go out the door and sit on the stoop and look at the little alley, the black top pavement, the brick of another building, and beyond the cracked parking lot to my left encircled by a fence, the trees moving in the breeze. I feel wetness on my cheeks; I wipe tears from my face.

A few minutes later, I hear the door open behind me.

Jamal sits down next to me. “I heard what happened. Thank you.”

We sit on the stoop in silence for a few moments. Then I hear the strike of a lighter and the sizzle of something catching fire. I turn towards him and see a red glow as Jamal puffs a Swisher Sweet cigarillo that smells of cloves. Jamal drapes an arm over my shoulders.

“You know… many people freeze in emergency situations. Freezing can be a temporary response while their brain catches up and they gauge the situation, and then take action. But from what I’ve seen, once frozen, most people stay frozen. Or worse, they flee. Even worse, they panic. I assume this is what the child’s guardian and the crowd did when they noticed the boy choking.”

I nodded. “Yes, no one was helping.”

After a long drag on the cigarillo and an equally long exhale of sweet smelling smoke, Jamal continues: “Consciously or not, many people weigh the pros and cons of taking action. They consciously or subconsciously evaluate risk, because making decisions and following through is risky.”

“Risky?” I ask.

“Yes, risky. They might think: If I try to help this child and I fail, I’ll feel guilty and I’ll be haunted by his death. Or they might think: I could get sued if the kid dies after I try to help. Or what if the child survives but he is still injured and they blame me? Fear of failure, of consequences, of losing status, of losing a position of superiority in society…fear causes these thoughts. But you didn’t think about any of this, did you J? You didn’t think about what would happen if you failed?”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t think about those things. I was afraid…but not afraid of those things…I wasn’t afraid of getting in trouble. I was afraid of what would happen to the kid if no one helped him. I was scared for the child. He needed help. No one was helping. So I helped. I did my best.”

“That’s what I love about you little J. Your attention was not on yourself. Your focus was on serving your community.”

“Serving my community?”

“Yes. Serving your community. When you focus on something besides yourself, fear becomes manageable. You were concerned for the child, your focus was on him. It is easier to act courageously when your focus is on someone else or something else besides the self.”

“That’s one way to look at it I guess.”

“You’ll understand when you’re older. Anyway, take the night off, you earned it. And don’t worry, I’ll pay you as if you worked the full shift. Make sure you eat dinner and also take some food home with you. I told Yaba to make you a lamb shank and to pack up some kebabs, humus, salads and baklavas for you to take home.”

Jamal gives me a one armed hug, my third of the night, and then tousles my hair.

“Thank you for helping that child. You saved his life.”

He puts his cigarello out by crushing it into the wall brick with his other hand. The door closes behind him.

I take a deep breath, hold it for four seconds, and then exhale slowly.

The cigarillo ash flakes come off the brick wall, carried away by a gust of wind.

I realize how precious life is and how random it is. How a lovingly crafted falafel ball can end a life or the creator of the same falafel ball can save a life.