On Deli Pickles: My Madeleine
Tucked away in a shopping center in the suburbs of New York, Rye Ridge Deli is known for their traditional sandwiches, perfectly cooked omelets, and freshly baked desserts. But for me and my brothers, the real magic of Rye Ridge Deli has always arrived before the menus did. Our deli highlight? The cold, metal bowl of pickles given to customers like a pre-dinner bread basket.
At the deli, pickles are a ritual. As kids, we’d watch the server come towards us with the silver bowl, the sour smell of the pickle brine complemented by the aroma of french fry grease that escaped out of the kitchen. Our small hands lunged towards the garlicky dills before they were even placed down on the table.
Today, when our clan sits in our classic corner booth, its leather bench fraying and peeling, two servings of the pickles are placed in front of us, the longtime staff privy to our decade-long obsession. I opt for the more olive-toned pickles, but my brothers remain loyal to the forest green half-sours.
When we return to the deli, wrists deep in a bowl of misshapen cylinders, time flashes back. For a brief moment, we are kids again, reaching across the table, bickering over the best pickles. For Proust, nostalgia is baked into a warm Madeleine, but for me, it’s in the crunch of a Rye Ridge pickle, its acidity unmistakably redolent of a childhood shared with my siblings, dining at the deli, exchanging spit balls made from paper straws.
For our dysfunctional family, Rye Ridge was something of a panacea, a neutral space where conflict dissipated. My best childhood memories live there: chiding my brother for getting pickle juice on his new T-shirt, signaling the waiter for another bowl of pickles like a drunk demanding another round of tequila shots. We begged our parents for scratch-off lottery tickets and scraped at them with pennies from my mom’s wallet, celebrating even the smallest wins (never more than five dollars) with yet another round of pickles.
RRD pickles are, to me and my brothers, a catalyst of unity and a brief moment of tranquility in the chaos of family life. These pickles will forever serve as an olive branch among the three of us.
