Nick's Gourmet Deli

Nick' Gourmet Deli


Let me explain. The start of the "process" of going over to Nick's Gourmet Deli on the southeast corner of West 49th Street and Seventh Avenue in Times Square on Manhattan is akin to catching the scent of a woman. Remember the movie with Al Pacino?

What I mean is that when I think about actually going to Nick's, I get caught up in a compulsion. (All my compulsions are kind of low-grade, easily broken off at my age--66 today--after a couple of years on Lupron, a hormone treatment for my prostate cancer.) And since there are no negative consquences envisioned--like for kleptomania--I catch--latch onto, really--the wave of excitement. (Remember, for me, that's a New Jersey Shore wave, not the Pipeline at Ehukai Beach Park on Oahu's north shore.)

I am promiscuous toward this kind of compulsion. I had the same feeling about Crabb's Corner in Central, Alaska, when it still existed and I lived in Fairbanks. (Crabb's was actually at a whole other level of excitement. Gawd, those were the days, my friend!)

Planning, then getting ready, then going, then getting there ... the process fulfils my fondest desires for pleasure. I love it so!

Yesterday, I had a free evening to do with as I pleased. Without a second thought I planned to go to Nick's ... and I caught the wave.

I drove into Hoboken, parked in a municipal public parking garage, caught the Path at the NJ Transit Terminal to the 33rd Street Path Station on Manhattan, walked over to the Herald Square Subway Station at West 34th St. and Broadway, caught the R Train to West 49th St. and Seventh Ave., emerging from subway onto the West 49th St. sidewalk directly in front of the side entrance to Nick's.

Need I tell you? Nick's is my kind of place.

I ordered a tuna salad sandwich on wheat bread, lettuce but no tomato, with a dill pickle on the side, and a small cup of black coffee. I was quickly and pleasantly served in the no-nonsense manner that offers no personal names in the customer relations script. Over time I get their names, if they last--which they do--and if I keep coming back often enough--which I do. (Is there another way that matters?)

Taking my food and coffee, I found an open table and ate, drank, and wrote copious notes for this blog entry. One thing I noted was that once in the rhythm of going, like to Nick's, if I am interrupted in what I consider the "normal" steps, I become irritated--another sign of the emotional component of the process.

Finished eating, I left Nick's and headed south on Seventh Avenue through Times Square, walking slowly to the Times Square Subway Station at West 42nd Street, catching the 1 Train to West 14th St. and Seventh Ave.--destination, Greenwich Village. There I headed south on Seventh to Greenwich Avenue, south and east on Greenwich to Sixth Avenue, then north on Sixth to West 9th Street where I caught the Path back to Hoboken.

Walking through the Village in the early evening brings a feeling which I suspect for a writer is akin to being in Paradise. I am susceptible to sensing the spirits of those who have walked the Village streets before me.

I had arrived at the 33rd Street Path Station on Manhattan at a little after 5 P.M., and I boarded the Path train at the 14th Street station a quarter past 7 P.M. or so. I had just spent a couple of hours in ecstacy ... muted, of course, by age ... but then, again, a finer, subtler feeling ... permeating the marrow of my being ... then I was back on the beach ... satisfied.