Saul’s Deli: Pastrami Sandwich

Oct 9

Oct 9 Saul’s Deli: Pastrami Sandwich

I haven’t been to Saul’s Deli since my powerlifting days. Back then I’d cross the Bay Bridge to bump knuckles with Roy at the Berkeley Gym. We’d grind out our sets, then head to Saul’s to replenish our blood sugar. We’d always sit at the same booth, where we’d make chit chat, compliment our server’s relentless hospitality, and frown and salute the best pickles in town.

In those bygone days, back when a quarter was worth something and grocery stores gave you bags for free, Saul’s was a unique indulgence. I held it in contrast to Wise Sons, my neighborhood deli. At the time, if I had to pick, I’d probably give Wise Sons the edge for their matzoh ball soup, egg cream sodas, and immediate proximity, even though they made an inferior sandwich at a higher price. And the pickles, well, that’s no contest. Back then Saul’s would give you three pickles in three different styles for free, just for showing up! What a time, what a place.

But life under quarantine has changed us all, and Saul’s is no exception. There was a change of ownership in February of 2020, just in time for the pandemic, so I’ve got my eyes peeled to see what’s been preserved. The price changes hit me first. You’ve got to pony up for those pickles now, and a 7 oz pastrami sando will set you back $20 and change. But despite it all, the ambiance is still intact. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart,” I overhear a server say. I thought it was to me, but it was actually to another server, ostensibly jonesing for breaktime. Behind me a couple Indian gentlemen are joking and cussing over their soup. The other booths, though sparsely populated, are a good mix of families, couples, and elderly folks scanning menus and newspapers. Noone is here to impress or be impressed, and around here that’s a precious vibe to find. Everyone is here for that uniquely Bay Area experience: shelling out inordinate amounts of cash for an obsessively perfect take on mundane food.

I opt for the Pastrami Ruskie. It’s just 3.5 oz of meat on grilled rye, but it comes loaded with fixins. I spring for a half sour pickle and knish to round out the order. Before I notice I’m waiting, my food has arrived. I hoist a half sando and take a chomp.

The bread is the hero here. It’s hearty and full, revealing a chewy, glutinous interior under it’s coarse and smoky toasted crust. Rye and caraway form a nostalgic blanket of aromas. Within lies the coleslaw. It’s startlingly yellow and crisp--almost dry--and it lends sweetness and a gentle crunch without competing with the bread’s texture or aroma. The pastrami itself is also tender and yielding: the fatty parts hold and comfort, while the leaner bits burst with briney savoriness.

While the bread is clearly dominating the sandwich stage with its texture and body, it’s the coleslaw that bridges the bread and pastrami, turning disparate ingredients into a coherent sandwich. Only in its gentle arms, sweet and fragrant, do we experience the depth of nostalgia on offer here. It’s like when you visit a distant and affectionate aunt who welcomes you and loves you, but whose house and self share a strange and distinct scent you could place anywhere even if blindfolded. As she hugs and feeds you, you also remember why you don’t get along that well: the little jabs, the guilt. The way she alternately brags and complains and compares your family to others. You do love her, and she certainly wants the best for you. But there’s a little strain in your faces as you each try to express that love. At the end of the night, as you hug goodbye, the mutual relief of separation is palpable. It’s not always simple, it’s not always fun, but you can always count on each other to show up, be yourself, and stay awhile.

That’s the coleslaw.

I came too hungry. The sandwich disappears too quickly. Only a hint of rye remains in its wake, ostensibly now emitting from my mouth. I turn to the pickle to purge my palate.

The pickle is unexpectedly masculine. Thick skinned, crunchy, and fresh, it carries a salty bitterness and almost no vinegar to speak of. This cucumber put up a fight during its pickling. It is your wizened uncle, stooped but still strong. You may have to repeat yourself more loudly to be understood, but he gets the idea. He’s dependable. You don’t depend on him, but you’re glad your aunt does.

The sandwich was more fun than the pickle (and went down far more quickly), but the pickle feels better for you. You don’t need this much pickle--no one does--but I’m determined to get the full experience. And indeed, the end of the pickle feels somehow different, even crunchier and more concentrated. I don’t regret seeing it through to the end.

Finally, there’s the knish with its side of harissa sauce. It resembles a cinnamon roll with a turmeric tint. The baked outer shell yields to a powerful potato interior. I appreciate the rough texture (fine-ground potato uniformity is a perennial knish complaint of mine) and the sense of excess in its size, fullness, and flavor. The profile is a smear of Indian and middle eastern flavors: the potatoes are curried, with a nippy bite that must be garlic or ginger or both, and the harissa sauce lends a smoky complexity that warms and lifts you.

Even for a half-starved late-lunch eater like myself, the knish is too much. I tuck it most of it away in a to-go box. At the front counter there’s an array of baked goods and meat by the pound. I eye the rugelach, but think of my adopted coleslaw aunt and decide I’ve had enough for the day. It’s time to return to the world outside, heart and stomach full, familiar fondnesses and anxieties now at my back. I shade my eyes and look to the sky. Somewhere out there, maybe I’ll find my own pastrami to love.