Flakowitz Deli and Restaurant, in a minimall at the corner of Hagen Ranch Road and Boynton Beach Boulevard in Boynton Beach, is a Jewish-style deli and no stranger to controversy. Its matzo ball soup, brisket and pastrami are grudgingly accepted as passable, even good, while the service and cleanliness are derided. This is not the opinion of the reporter, but of the masses of relatives who endure its indignities. Still, suffer we must, for there really is no other choice for the inhabitants of the many 55 plus communities in the vicinity, unless they want to drive over to Toojay's or Ben's, like, another five minutes away. Maybe ten.
Tonight I went with my grandmother, whose days of throwing potatoes in hot oil are long, long gone (and frankly whether she ever did is a matter of debate, not that you'd ever hear me say such a thing if she knew how to read a blog). Flakowitz is incredibly cheap or expensive, depending on how much food you want. If you want a bowl of soup, it's expensive: $4.95, and you'll see Joan Rivers without makeup in the corner before you'll see a free basket of bread. However, pay another five, seven bucks and you can add five pounds of meatloaf, dessert, three sides... or something like that. Here is a charming plate of baked scrod.
The scrod was somehow satisfying, as fresh as Joan River's Edgar jokes (I'm not on a roll, I know) but crispy and well coordinated with the plate. The latke, my Hanukkah celebration, was good. I like my latkes to taste more like potato mix than potato. My grandmother had little to say about her plate of stuffed cabbage other than the ridiculous size of the portion (she has a habit of offering me her food the moment I get my plate- really, I'm not saying this for your health). And then getting the doggy bag from the waitress, who was of the old school, the one which doesn't have time to bring you a doggy bag, was like pulling teeth.
As the food was fairly predictable, my grandmother began quizzing me on what I'm doing with my life (she is a very good grandmother). Tired of this line of interrogation, I decided to turn the tables, and could come up with nothing better than a review of where she lived when she was young. I swear, the story always changes. Last week she spent her whole life in the Bronx and Queens, tonight she added Orchard Street and, as god as my witness, East New York. Do I know a single old person who did not grow up in those mean streets?
"East New Yawk?" the guy next to my grandmother pipes in. He's alone, and sports an obvious toupee.
"Sure. East New York. And the Bronx."
"The Bronx? Where ya from? I'm from the West Bronx."
"You must have been rich. I'm from Beck Street."
"Beck Street, I knew that. Grand Concourse. The Paradise."
"Ah," my grandmother says, "that's where I was married."
"The Paradise?" says a voice to my grandmother's right. "Nothing there's the same."
"You from the Bronx?"
"Sure, I went to Monroe High."
"Times is changed."
"Ah, those were the good old days."
My grandmother was beaming at me. Perhaps she hadn't known she'd find herself with no mere New York Jew, but someone from the Old Neighborhood. I was amused. But I was not surprised.
Just then, a voice cut through the chatter of the crowd. It was a little louder, and it was mine.
"So you met someone from the Bronx. Is there anyone here who is NOT from the Bronx, Brooklyn or Queens? Anyone?"
I rest my case.
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