"This soup is cold."

In local Culver City news, I learned that Wise Sons had shuttered their doors on arguably the westside's only NY Style Jewish Deli. And I say that with more than a fair amount of generosity.

In reality, Wise Sons was about 1/8th the size of a what constitutes a standard NY sized deli. If an acceptable matzo ball compares with a pickleball, then the tiny doughy dumplings produced at Wise Sons could accurately be described as akin to a Benwa ball. 

Wise Sons was never anything more than a small storefront on a corner of downtown Culver City that has never done well. Which is surprising since it is adjacent to what was once Rush Street, one of the more popular saloons in our fair city. And across the street from the fire station. And firemen, apart from their legendary manly mustaches, are known for the voracious appetites.

But I digress.

The bigger issue here is the sparsity of real delicatessens on the West Side of Los Angeles, home to the third largest Jewish populations in the entire world. That's not saying much as there are only 15 million of us on the planet. We are the Benwa ball to the Moon size population of gentiles, who by the way also enjoy a good bagel and a schmear.

The problem is we Jews are our own worst enemy. 

At least when it comes to delis. And dentistry.

When I first moved to California, I didn't know a soul. Nor did I know how to get out of the restaurant industry and into something more sustainable. My father came to the rescue and secured me a job as a forklift driver at his company's warehouse in Compton. 

"I don't have car, how will I get to Compton?" I asked.

"Get a bicycle" said my father, blissfully ignorant of the sprawling LA landscape.

It turned out the Vice President of Sales, Dan Lang, lived in Brentwood and he volunteered to pick me up and drive me home everyday. This suited me fine because Danny Lang was one of the funniest, streetwise altakakas I ever had the joy of knowing.  

A fireplug of a man who could get a laugh from a mannequin. 

Before doing battle with the 110 freeway, he'd buy me breakfast. Every day. At Junior's Deli off Westwood Blvd. Junior's was the real deal. Huge food. Huge booths. And huge waitresses who nibbled on the Black & Whites (cookies) and probably took rugullah and creamed herring home with them every night.

We usually arrived early. Sometimes in the blue light of a pre-sunrise. And usually left late. Danny was the boss, so my ass was always covered. In between that time there'd be other altakakas joining us. There'd be flirting with the staff. There'd be kvetching and kvelling. Sometimes in the same sentence.

In short, there'd be a lot of sitting in those pleather booths until our butts got swampy.

And there-in lies the problem. When a 45 minute breakfast turns into 90 minute gabfest, with all the incumbent refills and non ordering, there's no table turnover. And when there's no table turnover, hangry customers who didn't have the good sense to get there before Danny Lang, end up waiting. And kvetching with no kvelling. 

It also puts a damper on the revenue stream.

In the end, Wise Sons went the route of Juniors. And Izzy's. And Lenny's. Belly lox up.

There's an old saying that illustrates this issue, "Put 2 Jews in a room and you'll end up with 3 opinions."

I would amend that, "Put 6 Jews in a deli booth and you'll end up in a soup kettle of red ink."