Eventually, my father-in-law joined us for coffee and
tacos. I have fond memories of the three
of us sitting by the back door of the café, the area closest to the coffee
thermos and bathrooms. We would laugh as
we watched Emma fumble as she tried to maneuver her gigantic taco into her
gumball sized mouth. As food remnants hit the floor my father-in-law applied the
“five second rule” and devoured anything dropped. It was a happy time.
Years passed.We moved back to Austin last year. I was fearful returning. The friends I kept in touch with consistently depicted the home we left, “You won’t believe how much Austin has changed.” I was uneasy with that word, change.
Coincidentally, our first two weeks back we rented a Hyde Park
bungalow one block behind NeWorlDeli. One afternoon I gave my two teenagers a few
dollars and suggested they walk over and grab a cookie or brownie from the
deli. As they returned, all smiles, they
gushed over how nice the people were and how rich and delicious the brownie
tasted. My oldest went on to say, “Mom
you didn’t give us enough money, but the girl checking us out gave us the extra
.86 cents.” Later that evening my
husband and I dropped by the deli to pick up our takeout order, I wasn’t surprised to
see the Garden State man standing stoically behind his counter, just as he had
a decade earlier. We explained how we
appreciated the staff helping our girls out when they didn’t have enough money
for their sweets. He shrugged as if this
were common and mentioned the deli being “old school.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see a
giddy employee with a Cheshire grin winking at me. Returning to our rental, we unloaded our
dinner order and found an unexpected surprise. A big fat brownie had sneaked in with our meals. We were happy.
Arranging to meet a friend for 9am coffee recently, I opted
for something new, I suggested we meet at a trendy café right off the UT
campus. As I heard warnings on the radio
to stay away from campus: it was the first day of spring semester, I called
NeWorlDeli to see if they were open – no one picked up. A few seconds later my phone rang. A thick
New Jersey accent asked, “Did you just call the deli?” Explaining my dilemma, the voice explained they
weren’t open until 11am, but he and a chef were prepping for lunch. “Why
don’t you come here and we’ll put on a pot of coffee.”
As I pushed the door open, I could see there were two cups
and saucers waiting near the register.
And as I thanked the Garden State man, he grumbled something along the
lines, “We’re old school, it’s nothing. This is what we do.” My friend and I felt special, happy even.
