Lou and Bob Koch were great friends to me as I struggled to complete my graduate work at the University of Pennsylvania. I came from a family that survived thanks to my mother's babysitting jobs and the much-needed social security checks we received after my father's death. The Penn campus might as well have been a formal dinner and I was the guy eating my peas with a knife. Koch’s Deli was…well it was a deli in a world of formal dinners.
Graduate school was a heavy dose of culture shock. The brilliance of my fellow students was intimidating, but not nearly as much as their ambition and competitiveness. It may be a dog-eat-dog world and Penn may bring out the best from the brightest, but for me, I wanted a me-eat-sandwich world, followed by a slice of cherry cheesecake for dessert.
Going to Koch's, a place too small to be called a hole in the wall, more like a nick, grounded me in the belief that everyone has something special to offer, and that kindness and laughter were desirable traits, probably more so than understanding econometrics and public finance
It was a privilege to stand in those hour-long lines and listen to the same corny jokes as the week before; I felt a connection the people standing beside me as we shared sweet muenster cheese stacked on wax paper. The signs about the deli yellowed with age, but the incandescence from such a friendly place burned brighter than an acetylene torch. Oh, it was also a gastronomical nirvana to eat a Drexel or Corned Beef Special with a cold root beer to wash it down.
But most of all, it was Bob and Lou. They were like Frank, and Sammy at the Sands: headliners for sure, but people who harkened back to a different, what some may consider a kitschier time--five story casinos in Vegas and, of course, the neighborhood deli.
The first time I went to Koch's I called in my order. I know, I know, that's sort of like going to Disney and skipping the rides, but I was new.
They asked my name and I said I was "Big Lew." At 6'3" and with a long last name that begins with Lew, I felt I earned that nickname and used it often. After being told they already had a Big Lou, I conceded. "Fine, then I'll be 'Little Lew'" I said.
Picking up my order, the call went out to the guys in the back (which in a place so small was practically the front, too). "Order for Little Lew!"
For some reason, all eyes converged on me as if I accidentally stumbled in on the planning session for D-Day wearing a party hat and throwing streamers. Feeling the electricity generated by the shoulder-to-shoulder touch of a line full of hungry patrons, a feeling that can only be experienced in the atmosphere of old places like Koch's and the Palestra, I realized that the folks in that room were expecting something of me. They were waiting to hear from the new guy, Little Lew.
Using the skills I learned in Old Bridge, New Jersey, a place where quoting the Little Rascals was far more valued than quoting Plato, I summonsed up a response that acted as a sort of resume, an all-encompassing remark that says, "this is who I am, all wrapped up in a single response or rejoinder.” Little Lew was ready.
“I swear,” I said with a voice full of confidence and swagger, a far cry from my shaky knees, which better revealed my true emotions, “none of these guys have seen me naked!”
Big Lou giggled at my very public (and lame) attempt to generate laughs, and I think Bob may have given me bonus points for alluding to a dangerous topic without using offensive language. But then something strange happed: life went on. People resumed their conversations, Lou kept slicing off pastrami, and I shelled out $7.95 for a Rueben.
I spent several evenings a week for the next two years at Koch’s. I became so common that I was allowed to eat my food in the deli, laying out my lunch on a window ledge that was usually reserved for the dozens of cops who ate there.
It has been years since I have been there. I made a special trip back in 1995 upon learning of the death of Lou. Bob and I picked up where we left off. One thing was evident; he was clearly lost without his brother Lou.
Now, I have come to learn of Bob’s passing. He, like his brother, was young, too young to die. I curse myself for not going more often, primarily because friends should see each other, and I consider both Lou and Bob friends. But more often than not, I pine for the rest of us. What will we do without Koch’s? It was a counterweight to all life’s pressures. Its warm and friendly atmosphere raised my own bar for kindness, charity, and a sense of humor. It also raised my cholesterol a few dozen points, but that’s another story.
Then, I think about my first experience at Koch’s: the eerie attention being paid to me and my goofy attempt at humor which, after it left my trembling mouth, seemed to relax the congregation of meat-eaters and hence welcomed me into a not too exclusive club.
Maybe that’s how Bob and Lou wanted it. It wasn’t their deli. It was our deli. Like good maestros, Bob and Lou knew how to get the most out of their orchestra and the sweet music of friendship and food, the symphonic splendor of their chopped liver and hackneyed jokes will fill the air only as long as we keep playing, as long as we keep eating, and as long as we keep being good to each other. While the baton will be passed to other people, the instruments remain in our hands. I say play on! And pass the corned beef, please.
