The Second Avenue Deli at its original location, on 2nd Avenue, on a snowy day in, what, 1998? I’ll have to look when I get home, but whether or not I remember to do that and then come back here to edit this post is a matter of grave conjecture. Grave, grave conjecture. It was definitely in the 90’s and I believe I shot it after old Abe Lebewhol was murdered. He ran a tight ship and I really miss the old place. I suppose I should go visit the new location one day, but such is my loyalty, obstinancy, and deadly nostalgia. Such is my laziness, as well, for the new location is in Murray Hill. I really want to be able to walk into the old location, sit at one of those booths with the amazing photos above them, grab some of those fantastic pickled tomatoes and then start looking at the menu.
I cannot keep going on about how much has changed or is dead about the New York of my youth. I know now that it has always been that way, that part of New York’s greatness is that it eats itself up, it reinvents itself every generation, all the time, and my maudlin nostalgia is someone else’s awe and amazement. Maybe I need to move someplace that will be new to me, someplace with no ghosts. Or do I need my ghosts?