I. PROLOGUE

This was supposed to be the first contribution in the year long “Drink in the 29th” Write-Off, which was organized by a group of well-meaning epinioneers in support of Jim Scileppi’s 2002 push for the congressional seat from the newly re-shaped 29th District of California. It was originally intended to start last month, and include one review each month for 12 months leading up to the election, but in honor of our honoree, I’m posting late. Doesn’t matter. Someone else jumped the gun.

The rules were simple but numerous: (1) You must write about a real-life meeting with the candidate (internet relationships and flirty emails are already adequately covered by the record) (2) You must include at least one paragraph of impenetrable syntax (3) You must include, at the very least, an alliterative aside, (4) it must be included as part of a review of an actual product or place, (5) you may not give away the name of the next contributor, (6) you must reply to every comment, and (7) you may not discuss Jim’s man-boobs.

So, on the eve of the anniversary of Jim Scileppi’s definitive contribution to the Merry Christmas And Goodbye Cruel World W/O:


II. PEDOPHILES ON PARADE PARTAKE OF PASTRAMI AND POLITICS

Radio personality Rodney Bingenheimer is famous. He’ll tell you. He won’t shut up about the fact that he was Davey Jones’ stand-in on The Monkees. Or that he discovered the Pandoras and Shonnen Knife. But Rodney’s got a little disconnect working between the goal he’s hoping to accomplish and the means by which he attempts to accomplish it.

Rodney on the ROQ, he likes his wimmins young, or so the word around, well, different places has been for some time. But he’s a crusty old geezer, and other than the 15 minutes a day he spends on L.A.’s KROQ, no young’un would be caught dead letting Rodney get within a flabby-arm’s length of ‘em. Which is why it’s kind of funny that Rodney’s got his own little after hours table right there in the venerable West L.A. deli, Canter’s. ‘Cause who’s gonna stroll into Canter’s at one in the morning looking for an impish fogey with a bowl cut wig to tell ‘em about the time Davey had a sore throat and he had to say a line?

Nobody, that’s who. But Rodney’s there just about every night, one table over from Jim Scilleppi – our own 29th Candidate -- who occasionally has some success regaling the ladies with his tales of internet conquest and Waxman baiting. But I’ll get to all that, I guess.

So Canters is right there on Fairfax, where it’s been since at least when I was a little kid. I want to say it’s smack in the heart of the Jewish district, but the hard core tallis-wearing Jewish District in L.A. is more kind of an extended L shaped thing that stretches from Canter’s all the way south to Pico then west, up past Jaime’s Fish and on to Factor’s Deli near Century City. I suspect they’re trying to work their way into a powerful flanking position from which to attack Beverly Hills. But in any case, Canter’s is at least squarely part of Yid territory. So it has street cred with the yentas.

And why shouldn’t it? It’s not enough that they make a perfect chicken soup (not too salty and always hot) with exquisite matzo balls (floaters, not sinkers)? They should have a better pastrami on rye? Don’t even get me started on the knishes.

Okay, get me started.

Canters doesn’t have street cred solely because of its location or because of the Scillepi-presence. It has street cred because the food, the service, the atmosphere, are all exactly what a New York style Jewish deli is supposed to be.

But again, I digress.

III. CORPUS: OF THE CAT N’ FIDDLE, THE CAT-FOOD, AND THE CANDY-DATE

My point is this: I was scheduled to meet up with well-known epinions hotties Jazzbocrow and Lessaleigh for the first time back in May. Although I was staying downtown, the slutty middle-aged divorcees decided to play hard to get, and made me travel all the way to Hollywood’s Cat n’ Fiddle bar. They knew I was going to be late, but told me not to worry about it, since 29th_Candidate would be coming and he would probably be later. I was surprised to find them still sober when I got there.

I assumed they wouldn’t recognize me, since I’m not really the dashing Hebrew I portray myself as on-line; rather, I resemble a sort of pale Oompa-Loompa with a Crystal Carrington hairdo. But the cognitive dissonance visited by my actual appearance failed to stop Lessaleigh from jumping into my arms, wrapping her legs around my ample waist, and giving me a deep, practiced tongue kiss before I even reached the table. Jazzbocrow sneered, but it was the kind of sneer that told me her instant disdain had room to grow into full-fledged loathing. Given the six pack midriff poking out under her Spongebob titty-tee, and the lanky javelin-throwers’ biceps, Jazzboloathing wasn’t something I felt prepared to deal with. So I bought her a drink and let her eat the cherry out of my Manhattan, and she told me she loved me.

After the initial getting-to-know-you pitter-patter, things were little awkward. The clandestine gropage going on under the table barely distracted any of us from the lengthy, uncomfortable silences It’s a difficult thing, I’ve found, meeting those you know only from the internet. It’s hard to know what to talk about when suddenly you’re without benefit of hours to dream up your next glib comment.

So we talked about which writers we hated, mostly, and little about who we liked. But it only takes about 6 seconds for 3 people to say, “Yeah, me to.” Plus, it’s pretty weird to sit in a bar, surrounded by other people, saying things like, “I’m impressed with the prodigious brilliance and of zenhues, but his ODB fascination and poor spelling frightens me,” or “That sordid one can be clever” or “What’s with the bitter faux-intelligentsia of the lady vamp.”

You get the idea. Normal folks move slowly away when they hear you talking about people named Grouch, Jay K.Y. Jelly, Fez Monkey, Sumo Rhino, Kristina KFC, Sloucho and Psycho Vant. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before a new member of the party arrived to give us things to think about and talk about other than epinions.

Jim didn’t look exactly as I expected, but that familiar gleam I knew from his profile page head-shot still shone brightly from his good eye, and that small twist of hair from his bangs still hung with the same insouciance over the upper reaches of his boyish, yet expansive and liver-spotted, forehead.

“I’m here,” Jim announced, “The party can start.” He approached the table, and gave a nod of recognition to the wimmins:

“Jojo. Lessa.”

And, hesitantly, to me:

“Lobstergirl?”

The three of us sat in the lush, dew-covered darkness of the Cat ‘n Fiddle’s front courtyard, talking of A.J. and other great loves, of Libertarian-influenced fence-sitting, and of the violent attacks on the symbolic pillars of American capitalism and military might that Jim “foresaw” in the near future. It was strange to me, in a way, how quickly the four of us became comfortable with one another, given how much none of them were quite as I expected.

For instance, Jojo and Lessa were uncannily hot, and it was clear that neither of them wears underwear, which surprised me, because neither writes in the free-form staccato street patois that I normally associate with pantiless authors.

Shillepi was even more surprising, in that he spoke with such considered, sparse language. My every query to him was met with a brief, deliberate, monosyllabic response.

Until he got drunk. After three Coors Lights, the simple, direct sentences took on a Hemmingway-esque declarative moroseness.

“Jim, can I get you another drink?”

“Drink,” said Jim, “Damn your drink. With my last 50 lira, I purchased some true and honest Coors Light. I took a pull from the bottle. It was good. It burned my mouth and felt good and warm going down my esophagus and into my stomach. From there it went to my kidneys and my bladder, and was good. I remember when I last saw repulsemonkey, who was still a damn fine writer. It was in Santa d’Monica and we looked out the windows at the sand and drank Coors in the dusk. It was dusk and had been dusk for some time...” [1]

“Blue Hawaiian it is then.”

After another half hour, and enough of his drink that the umbrella had fallen almost completely below the rim, Jim’s language morphed into something ... else. The trickle of sparse declarativeness became a sort of, well, Scillepian downpour. The organic give and take of a four way conversation yielded to a barrage of alliteration and assonance; I think he may have even thrown some onomatopoeia and personification in there.

Quickly, two things became clear about Shillepi: (1) Jim only becomes verbose and syntactically challenged when he’s drunk, and (2) Jim is a lightweight.

None of this really bothered me. I liked Jim. He was hard not to like, even in Rainman phase. His ingratiating manner put me at such ease, I didn’t even mind getting up to fetch him a new straw when he complained that the end of the one he had been using had gotten ... “Icky.”

But when I returned to my seat, I found that Jim had slid into it, and that Jazzbocrow looked a tad peeved by his closeness. And I guess I understood why when I heard what he was saying to her: “You know, my pacifistic porpoise could be purposefully playing in the passions of your panoramic playground.”[2] She removed his hand from her leg – calmly, as though she had done it a million times before – and looked at him with a bemused look of bemusement. Jim looked down at the electronic thesaurus in his other hand, then attempted to clarify: “I propose we depart this party, repair to my pad, pop on a platter by Prince – perhaps play some Pictionary – and proceed to permit me to powder your pudenda prior to placing some pipe ... con prophylactic, of course.” [3] As calmly as she had removed his hand from her leg, Jazzbocrow lifted a finger and poked Jim in his good, yearning, eyeball, then suggested he drive us to Canter’s for a bite to eat.

IV. CANTERS DELI: THAT PART OF THE REVIEW THAT CONTAINS A REVIEW

After a quick stop at Jim's house just outside of the 29th District so he could check the comments section of his latest review and pick up a Dogstar CD, we headed down Fairfax to the deli.

When we pulled up in the Scilleppi-mobile, Jim’s spot out front was waiting for him. We maneuvered our way around the 50 pound sacks of cat food and out through the window of the broken passenger-side door. A woman named Gert held the door open as we strolled in, past the cinnamon babkas and cherry cheesecake, past Rodney Bingenheimer – who shot Jim the double finger-pistol with tongue click, – and on to the Scileppi-booth, in all its burgundy vinyl and speckled formica splendor.

Jim noticed the disgust that registered on my face as we had passed Rodney, and he leapt to his friend’s defense: “Look, while his penchant for pretty prepubescent poon is purportedly passe, his pederastic predilection is preposterously profitable for my push for public position. That pedophile put together my preliminary plans and political proposals to patch and repair the pillars of public pedagogy .”[4]

I pretended not to hear him.

We weren’t seated for more than a minute before Gert showed up to take our order. Well, to take Jim’s order, which pretty much entailed her asking, “Usual, sweet cheeks?” and Jim saying, “It would be positively preposterous to propose I depart from the pattern and practice predicated on my previous patronage.”[5]

“That’s not really the correct usage of the word ‘predicated’, Jim,” Jazzbocrow pointed out. Gert’s belly-rolls trembled with laughter beneath her apron and baby-blue frock, but she continued to gaze upon the candy-date with the affectionate, patronizing eyes of a woman who knew the boyish joys her subject experienced when his face had been pressed between her ample breasts, where he had been – and would be – incapable of speaking.

“Pish-posh,” he replied, “It’s positively appropriate to partake of poetic permit when I alight on an alliterative alternative to accepted address.” [6]

“I think you got a couple things wrong there, too.” she replied.

Jim ignored her, looked up at Gert, “And bring my fans whatever they want.”

Jazzbocrow cocked an arm.

Lessaleigh, ever the supermodel-diplomat, stopped her: “Now, now, kids, settle down. Can’t we go back to talking about face-fucking or something?”

But instead, we ordered our meals.

Canter’s plastic-coated three-page menu is packed with all of the staples of both the traditional Jewish deli, and the late night nosheteria. Corned beef, turkey, tongue and Monte Christo sandwiches crowded one side of the menu, underneath every imaginable breakfast food (blintzes, potato pancakes, omelettes, matzo brie). Pull boxes feature the various blue plate specials: open faced turkey and gravy sandwich with mashed potatoes, meat loaf, pot pies. There’s an abundant selection of salads and soups, and the desert menu on the back contains all manner of fresh baked items.

While the selection and quality alone merits Canter’s placement among the elite delicatessens in Southern California, it’s the prices that set the place apart from such pretenders as Jerry’s Deli, good, but overpriced spots like Nate ‘n Al’s and Factor’s, and havens of gluttony where proportion goes out the window, like Art’s Deli. A sandwich from Canter’s is adequately packed with meat and fixins without being so big you can’t get your mouth around it. And it will run you about two bucks less than you’ll pay at the fancy schmancy delis that don’t even have fresh bread.

Gert, like all of the antediluvian waitresses at Canter’s, was helpful and professional, if not overly friendly. She waved over a busboy with a bowl of kosher pickles, and scribbled the remainder of our order. When she left, Jim edified us with his vast store of trivial knowledge about the restaurant in which we sat:

“This place opened for business in 1928, only a week before my bar mitzvah,” he said, clearly sobering up. “And it’s been a popular spot with the entertainment industry almost from the day it opened, probably owing in part to its late night hours and the cozy, semi-private booths along the wall. Why, if you get Gert alone, she’ll tell you all about the time Kieth Moon was kicked out for coming in in a Gestapo uniform, or when Nicholas Cage was kicked out for throwing a ketchup bottle against the wall to impress Patricia Arquette, or when Marilyn Monroe was kicked out for running around to different tables asking people to ‘pull her finger’...”

“Wait a second,” I interrupted, “Bar Mitzvah? I thought you were Italian.”

“No,” Jim assured, “My family name is actually Schlepstein. When my father and brothers and I came over from the old country back in ‘23, we thought it best not to be associated with the rest of the money-changers if we were to be a success here, so we Italicized our name. But we kept most of the old covenants, what with the one god and the cash-money manhood shindig and all. Other than the semi-botched experimental foreskin replacement surgery I had back in ‘42 – well, and the nose job and the chin implant – I’m 100% member-of-the-tribe from head to toe.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” said Jim, “And that’s been the great irony of my career, particularly in politics: That I’m actually a Jew, but because everyone presumes I’m Italian, the Jewish power elite of the entertainment industry and the rest of West Los Angeles won’t give me the time of day against a Yid like Waxman.”

“Wow,” I interjected, “That is ironic, like rain on your wedding day, or a free ride, when you’ve already paid.”

“Don’t you think?”

Jazzbocrow interjected, “Yeah. What a fascinating, McClainesque, personal narrative you have, Jim.”

Lessaleigh added, “Gee, it seems unfair, with all you’ve overcome – I mean, your Jewishness and all – that they won’t let you overcome your non-Jewishness to take your rightful place in Congress.”

“Yep,” Jim groaned, as our food arrived, “If it weren’t for that ... well, that and the OCD ... I think I could really be making a difference.”

I had the grilled pastrami on rye with mustard, which was every bit the juicy, salty collection of meaty goodness I had remembered from my youth. The rye bread was as fresh as Lessa’s scent and as soft as Jim’s fontanelle, while still able to hold its own against the juices that dripped from the pastrami the way the juices from ... uh ... other stuff.

Lessaleigh had the matzo brie, a perfect, fluffy mixture of buttery fried eggs and unleavened bread, dusted with a light coating of cinnamon and sugar.

Jazzbocrow had pondered getting borscht, in honor of her brief stint piecing together the governments of several recently independent former Soviet satellite states. My grandmother loves Canter’s borscht, so I felt I could recommend it, even though I hate anything with beets. But she went with the matzo-ball soup instead.

Jim? Well, Jim had the knish, as he apparently always does, which in many ways seemed strange to all of us. Jim had told us earlier that, while he doesn’t really enjoy eating knishes – in fact, he finds knishes sort of detestable – he feels that he’s mastered his knish eating technique, and that the knish itself actually finds the experience pleasurable.

More peculiar still was Jim’s habit of dumping packets of Sweet ‘n Low onto his plate to dip his pickles and his knish into. “Everything’s better with saccharine,” Jim explained. But he saw that we were looking at him kinda funny, so he removed the moist warshcloth from the inside pocket of his Members Only jacket and wiped the sweetness off the knish.

V. DENOUEMENT: IS DEFINED AS THE FINAL RESOLUTION OF THE MAIN COMPLICATION OF A LITERARY OR DRAMATIC WORK, OR THE OUTCOME OF A COMPLEX SEQUENCE OF EVENTS.

As we finished our meal, Jim suggested we move on to the Kibbitz Room, the small back bar where Canter’s occasionally features live music. Even at 3:00 a.m. on a Thursday night, you could tell from our seat across the restaurant that the Kibbitz Room was still pretty hoppin’. But I had a graduation to attend the next morning, and there was still the matter of bedding down Jazzbocrow and Lessaleigh, apologizing profusely for my failure to satisfy them, and getting back to the hotel in time to shower and change.

The ladies and I thanked Jim for coming out with us, wished him luck with his next campaign, and headed out to catch a cab. Jim stayed behind, waiting for Gert to get off work so he could “pay” her for our meals.

In conclusion, a rip-roaring good time was had by all, and you should try out Canter’s if you’re ever in the neighborhood.


___________________________________________________

[1] Yeah, I’m outta cash. Can you get me a Blue Hawaiian?

[2] What’s your sign?

[3] Yeah, whatever. What’s say we go somewhere, play a board game, then make the two-back-ed beast.

[4] Hey man, chill. He may be a child molester, but he wrote my education reform plan.

[5] Sure, a knish would be great.

[6] So?

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Canter’s
419 N. Fairfax
Los Angeles, CA
323-651-2030

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Recommended: Yes

Kid Friendliness: Yes
Vegetarian Friendly: Yes
Notes, Tips or Menu Recommendations Make sure to keep your back to the wall as much as possible. Some people are kind of "gropey", if you know what I mean.
Best Suited For: Romantic Evening