Ann had never been to the Carnegie Deli. I haven’t been since college. I expected the quality to be awful (the Ben Ash across the street is the worst restaurant on Earth) but, I must say, despite the absurd prices, it ain’t bad. And, to be fair, it isn’t *that* expensive when you consider that you are eating in one of New York’s most famous restaurants. Ann and I split a hot pastrami sandwich, one potato knish, she had a chocolate egg cream and I had a Cel-Ray. With tip (and including the fascist $3 “sharing fee”) — $35 bucks. The food was filling, the people next to us were chatty and entertaining (we were there fairly late. . .I wouldn’t want to be there when things are in full swing) and we had enough time to giggle at the photos on the wall. (In a nutshell: Jews, local news anchors, Clinton.)
It was shortly thereafter that the problems hit.
Like Hiroshima, Ann was hit first. And like Nagasaki, I came second, with equal devastation. Searing, awful gas pains. Comical gas pains. And, like, on the way home! There we are on the N train, hunched over in agony. . .and racing as best we could to get back to the apartment, leaning on parking meters every few blocks just to catch our breath. Like a gentleman I allowed the lovely Ms. Farrell first dibs on our W.C. I nearly passed out from sphincter pressure while waiting.
I can’t say I’m in a rush to return to the Carnegie.
(Besides, everyone knows that Sarge’s is the best deli in New York. Followed by Cafe Edison, Ben’s, Artie’s, Bloom’s or even Katz’.)