When I arrived in Ithaca from Brooklyn, years before that
refuge for the huddled masses yearning to breathe free became hip, I WAS the
wretched refuse, a lost blue-collar kid at an Ivy League school, where kids had
their own fur coats, brought from homes where they didn’t have to share a room
with anybody and had live-in maids. Did people really live like this?
LOST! I was lost. For consolation I drifted
down State Street’s then-yellow-brick road for lunches at Hal’s, the New
York-style deli that had also just arrived in Ithaca. There I could console
myself with a potato knish, a hunk of kishke (a section of a cow’s large
intestine filled with don’t-ask-what), or a big fat “special,” a hearty kosher hotdog
that would give six inches of kielbasa a garlicky run for its money. The menu
was printed on paper cut in the shape of a loaf of Jewish rye. The owners were
welcoming. It felt like home.
The original Hal’s stood next to the previous Greyhound bus
terminal, across from what is now the Commons’ east end home of the Trebloc
Building. When those structures were urban-renewed (destroyed, along with far
too much of Ithaca’s architectural history) the Kuntz family relocated the deli
to a central spot on Aurora Street. Its other next-door neighbor, the Asiatic
Garden, moved to West State Street, and is now long gone. If you wanted “fancy
food” you dined at the Ithaca Hotel’s Dutch Kitchen. The Commons was just a
gleam in Mayor Ed Conley’s eye, and traffic still flowed up and down State
Street.
As you have probably assumed, lunch there the other day
brought back memories. Though it was destroyed by fire in 1977, reconstructed, and
re-opened, the place hasn’t changed much since 1971 when it moved to Aurora
Street. Dark wainscoting and a dark-paneled back wall make for a long but cozy
den, with light-colored walls reminiscent of formica countertops above the wainscoting.
Gone from the menu are the kishke and the “specials,” but you can still get
cheese blintzes and sour cream, a chopped liver sandwich, crunchy little potato
pancakes served with apple sauce, and to wash it all down, Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray.
Some fancy-pants mixologist really ought to run with that not-too-sweet celery-flavored
soda.
Despite the day’s cruelly chilling wind, the welcome at
Hal’s was warm: Hal’s daughter Jacky buzzed about cheerfully greeting customers,
taking orders, and checking to see that everyone was happy; his son Mike worked
the register and took luncheon delivery orders; at the front window, Hal’s
widow Sandy reigned over the books and absorbed a little sunshine, which she
reflected into the shop.
Behind us, two gentlemen in suits (Attorneys? Financial
advisors? Insurance solicitors?) ripped through the latest episodes of Downton
Abbey critiquing actors and plots. Across the way a six-top of lively, casually
dressed young women compared privileged childhoods.
The food: Hal’s is known for its sandwiches, which seem
relatively inexpensive, the dearest of them weighing in under eight bucks, and
ranging from peanut butter to unusual-combination triple deckers, many named
after local characters and sports teams.
A salami sandwich on fresh rye was packed with meat and yearning to be
slathered with mustard. Cole slaw was
just damp enough, slightly sweet, and crunchy. The Reuben sandwich (corned
beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese, and Russian dressing, all of it griddled to
gooeyness between slices of rye) is about the best one you can get in these
parts. The half-dollar-size potato latkes were well spiced and crisp, and would
make great hors d’oeuvres topped with dab of sour cream, a bit of lox, and a
caper or two. Good thing they cater. Of course, the Cel-Ray brought back
memories. And the warm welcome is perennially comforting.
At breakfast, Hal’s early riser regulars gather around the
bar, chatting with their server and proffering cups for coffee refills. Where else in
town can you get a pastrami omelet?
Hal’s is open seven days a week from 6:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.,
serving breakfast and lunch, and they deliver. Phone 607.273.7765. No Web site.
