deli haus
Written for my Literary Journalism class at BU, 1999
It's a cool October night, and haphazard drops of rain instill the
fear of a downpour in pedestrians. The ceiling of clouds has descended to a threateningly
low position over the semi-conscious city. The hour of midnight might scare some folks
away from Kenmore Square, but then again, by this time, most folks are tucked away in bed.
Boston, save for the places that deal with pints of lager and polyester pants, shuts down
at around 10 p.m. But somewhere in Kenmore, in a restaurant set down from the street, the
nightlife and the French fries keep warm well into the night.
Deli Haus, founded in 1962, is located below, of all things, a Zen
hair salon. The wide ribbon of sidewalk which runs alongside the restaurant is riddled
with cracks, most of which have been caulked with cigarette butts. Garbage that the trash
cans could not contain spills onto the street. Across Commonwealth Ave., on this
particular night, a fraternity house blasts Shania Twain from its window-mounted speakers,
nearly drowning the rush of rubber on slick asphalt.
In the midst of this chaos stands a greasy spoon, a college hangout,
a cozy deli, and a nightspot all in one. The fact that it fits each of these separate
categories gives credence to the lighted sign outside the establishment, which reads
"Truly Unique".
The aspect of Deli Haus with which I am most intimately acquainted -
that of a college hangout - can best be explained by referencing a particular Friday night
when I had been out with two friends. After a night of wandering around, the hour had
reached 11:30 p.m., and the late night munchies had settled in. We stood in Kenmore
Square, near to the subway entrance on the northern side, and pondered where we could go
to eat.
"Let's go to Deli Haus," my friend Jen said. We all shook
our heads and proceeded to rattle off every other eatery in the area that could
conceivably be open. After ten very cold minutes of debate on the corner of Commonwealth
Ave and Raleigh Street, someone reasoned, "Why don't we just go to Deli Haus?"
We all nodded in assent, and, laughing at ourselves for not coming to this decision
earlier, we made our way across the manifold intersections of Kenmore Square to that
destination which, rarely to anyone's chagrin, is where a night's wandering often ends up.
Adam Shuman had no problem ending up at Deli Haus. His first job was
as a cook and dishwasher in a deli, and ever since then, he knew he wanted to spend his
life around restaurants. As a student at Emerson, he was a Deli Haus customer. He couldn't
have known then that he would one day own the place, but he had a pretty good sense that
he would own something.
"I always pursued restaurant jobs," the Somerville native
recounts. "Waiter, busboy, bartender cook - you name it, I've done it. And I kinda
knew by my mid-20s that I wanted to own a restaurant," Shuman says.
Shuman worked in catering in Los Angeles, a venture that ended when
he was "taken", as he puts it, by his partner.
"I didn't know the nuts and bolts of managing a
restaurant," he explains. After that experience, he managed a Pizzeria Uno for eight
and a half years before deciding to buy a restaurant of his own.
Shuman had been scouting for a restaurant to buy, and no
opportunities were turning up in Somerville.
"Scott and I were looking for a vehicle that would allow us to
be ourselves," he begins, referring to Scott Jellins, his partner, "and do the
best job that we could do. Now, I get to be exactly who I want to be. I never put on a
suit and tie anymore."
Shuman looks ordinary compared to his employees, with short,
thinning dark hair and plain, casual clothing, though it looks like he is trying to grow a
goatee. He is also almost twice their average age, at 39, and he has owned Deli Haus for
seven years. Judging by the thickness of the grime on his black Converse hightops, it
looks like he might have bought his shoes at about the same time.
Tonight, it seems that each member of Shuman's wait staff
inadvertently chose to wear Deli Haus t-shirts. "Sleep? We don't need no stinkin'
sleep" reads one. "Rock the Haus" is emblazoned on another. Almost without
exception, they look sufficiently punk and indie, with thrift store wardrobes and somebody
parts copiously pierced and other parts tattooed. But they are gracious and attentive -
not surly or angst-ridden, as people subscribing to some stereotypes or misconceptions
might expect.
"We hire nice, intelligent people. I'd rather higher a good
person than some cookie cutter corporate person," Shuman says. "But we
definitely attract a certain kind of applicant." He adds that hiring and training are
the two most essential tasks he has. "We are constantly training everyday," he
explains. "You have to make sure someone has the patience to deal with people. But
the most important thing is just training people to do the job for you properly.
"If you can't be hospitable," Shuman says of himself and
his staff, "you can't be in the hospitality business."
This philosophy is evident in Shuman's work. "Step up to the
white line," Shuman, as host, had politely requested when I entered the restaurant.
"Thanks for your patience." It was 12:30 a.m. on a Friday night - the peak of
the hectic late-night hours for the Haus - and it seems amazing that Shuman can somehow
maintain geniality, with every booth and stool occupied and six customers waiting to be
seated. It's different from most restaurants I'm used to, which mostly consist of
half-asleep, disgruntled employees.
And the hospitality isn't just for the customers. While waiting for
a seat and watching Shuman rush from task to task, I saw him bump into the busgirl, a
small, out-of-place looking Hispanic woman. He did not brush it off by summarily muttering
a "Sorry" under his breath, but rather he stopped, put his arms on her
shoulders, and smiled in apology.
Getting the job done at Deli Haus doesn't mean being uptight and
distant. A good chunk of the clientele is on a first-name basis with the waiters and
waitresses. If there are a few extra minutes, the server might slip into the booth for a
few minutes to catch up with a favorite regular.
"We interact with them so casually that they take that same
attitude with us," Shuman explains.
The casual nature of Deli Haus is readily obvious. The staff takes
no pains to mask the ubiquitous bottle of beer being handed off from person to person as
they make their way to and from the open kitchen, where the cooks have shunned tall white
hats for red and blue bandanas, and white chef's coats for black t-shirts.
"I'm very particular about the kind of service we give,"
Shuman explains, "but I let the waiters and waitresses have their own style."
Sarah Clapham's style seems to be to not say much. A waitress here
for two years, she's sitting on one of the patio tables smoking Marlboros, and the chill
of the late-night October air doesn't seem to be affecting her bare arms. Sarah says she's
in her "late teens to early 20s" and doesn't have a permanent residence,
"but my mail goes to Brookline."
"A lot of people have finished college and are working here to
make extra money," Clapham says of her fellow employees. She was a regular customer
here - as was her mother before her - for about three years before she thought,
"Jesus Christ, I might as well work here."
Is there any mystique to being a Deli Haus employee? Not really.
"It's a restaurant," she states simply. "It's gross and icky and you get
dirty and you make money. It's not that bizarre."
Despite the fact that Deli Haus is adjacent to Boston University's
large, sprawling urban campus and close to a slew of smaller schools, that money does not
come solely from the college-age segment of the population. There is a reason why it is
not only open from 7 p.m. to 3 a.m., the prime college student dining hours. It opens at 9
a.m., accommodating suited professionals, random passers-by and local residents, and
police officers and EMTs, among other individuals.
And it is not always the allure of onion rings that draws law
enforcement officials to dine at the Haus. Shuman recalls an incident on the weekend of
Halloween. A party down the street had gotten out of hand, and a brawl between 15 or 20
people had spilled into the street. Police and ambulances were called to the scene. After
the situation had been resolved, the cops and EMTs came in, got food, and left.
"Usually at five minutes before 3 p.m., we get a big order for
the precinct," Shuman says.
As for the clientele in general, Clapham admits, "We definitely
attract a very interesting crowd," though she acknowledges that it has been a
different crowd since Boston imposed a ban on smoking in eating establishments.
"During the first month of the ban," Shuman recalls of the
ordinance, which went into effect in September 1998, "we probably lost 80% of our
business from the month before." It took Deli Haus about six to eight months to
recoup its patronage.
"If it stayed like that, we probably wouldn't be open,"
Shuman hypothesizes
The only time there has been a significant change in the composition
of Deli Haus' patronage was when the Rathskeller, a punk and rock club with a long
history, closed down in 1997.
"It eliminated an element," Shuman explains. "The
punk rock following."
"We get a lot of people from the Kenmore Abbey [halfway
house]," Clapham adds. "We're between two halfway houses. Also, it gets pretty
heated in here when the Red Sox play the Yankees. The baseball crowd will be here with our
regular goth clientele, and they hate each other."
In the end, it all comes down to the regulars. "We depend on
the regulars for money. We have about 50 regulars who come in once or twice a week.
There's even one woman from the Kenmore Abbey who bakes cakes for us when one of us
leaves." Overall, she asserts, "People are definitely diehard for this
place."
Most of the diehards are, however, members of the area's large
college student population - 70 to 80 percent, Shuman estimates. But even this group has
its diversity. On this particular night, one group sporting fluorescent
highlighter-colored hair and zip-up, hooded sweatshirts laden with safety-pinned patches
was making its exit from the restaurant as I stepped in. You are bound to find the
sweatered and the khakied, the polyester-pantsed and the pea-coated, and the
run-of-the-mill jeans-and-a-t-shirt individuals. On this night, I spied a group that
featured one girl in a feathery coat and clunky platform shoes whose wardrobe probably
cost more than that night's receipts.
There is, however, one somewhat unexpected group of customers drawn
by a particular group of items on the menu. Potato pancakes. Blintzes. Knockwurst,
knishes, and kishke. Even chopped liver and stuffed cabbage.
"It's Jewish cuisine," explains Shuman. "I'm Jewish,
and I was brought up with this stuff. I know how to make it. And they were on the menu
when I bought the restaurant. People keep their roots." Shuman proves his heritage by
explaining the historical background and significance of the foods. According to him,
Jewish people in Eastern Europe could not afford expensive cuts of meat. Kishke, for
instance is chicken stretched into sausage. Chickens are cheap and productive, Shuman
says. They are also the source of the chopped liver.
Surprisingly - to me, anyway - people eat this stuff up. Having
these items on the menu is a rare pleasure for Jewish people and other folks who find
these dishes extremely hard to come by in a world with plenty of Italian-style delis, but
increasingly fewer Jewish ones.
"There are very few [Jewish] delis left in Boston, as far as
carrying the banner of Jewish cuisine is concerned," Shuman explains. "You find
them in Brookline and Newton, but in the city, there aren't many. We get a lot of people
just for the Jewish food."
Given the variety of people who patronize the admittedly offbeat
Deli Haus, it seems like it would be a challenge to accommodate all sorts of customers.
But Shuman says it hasn't been a problem.
"Students are very allowing of us to be our own way,"
Shuman says, but as for the maturer crowd, "older clientele take more time to assess
what's going on and to get past the initial appearance. Then again, I get people my age
and older who just really like it. We're not excluding anybody."
Shuman is right, but also in a broader sense. Deli Haus does not
only take great pains to accommodate its patrons, but also the community at large, and
many of the restaurant's unconventional features attest to this. The music - tonight being
some quasi-disco selection - is a major means to this end. Against the wall by each table
is affixed a jukebox, "stocked with 45s from neighboring used CD store,
Nuggets," a yellow card on each machine reads. Unfortunately, I have lost countless
quarters in those jukeboxes; I think they've only ever actually worked for me once. There
is also a rack of CDs behind the counter that has a section labeled "Bawston
Rock". A sign posted near the exit solicits additions to that selection by asking for
local bands to contribute recordings of their work to be played in "haus". On
Shuman's list of things to do is to install the approximately forty 45s that local artists
have submitted to him.
"Most of the people I hire are musicians or D.J.s," he
says, "I play guitar. One of my manager's boyfriend is in a band. The music in here
is deliberate. We often have musicians come in here. Scott brings in local and
up-and-coming bands. We have a real connection with the music scene in Boston."
Deli Haus also connects with the art scene. Upon close inspections,
one sees that all of the paintings on the walls are for sale. A small label below each
piece lists the seller - this month, Twisted Illustrations - and a phone number.
"My mother's an artist," Shuman begins, going on to recall
how his mother used to own an art gallery on Newbury Street. "We rotate the art on
the walls on a six to eight week basis."
Referring to this eclectic atmosphere, Shuman says, "I never
thought of it as not being part of what we do here. It's always been a deli and diner. We
just added the music and more of an offbeat style.
"The extraordinary is the norm," Shuman says of the Deli
Haus experience.
* * * * *
On this Friday night, patrons streaming down the worn, wooden
staircase and through the door stickered "Please Step Up" are met with an
immediate cacophony and claustrophobia afforded by the narrow paths and blending of
multiple conversations. Even from just the foyer, you get a clear sense of the place right
off the bat. A bench is rudimentarily constructed out of a plank and two cinder blocks. A
half-destroyed cork board is wallpapered with local bulletins, "For Sale"
advertisements, and concert announcements. An autographed photo of E! network television
show host Kym Douglas - a name that begs the question of "who?" - hangs on the
wall. And patrons are welcomed to whet their appetite with a gumball from a classic red
and silver chrome gumball machine.
Inside, the floor is tiled green and white, as are the walls. There
is a slightly uneven quality to the floor and the benches and tables which occupy it;
everything seems slightly off-kilter. It's an old restaurant, and Shuman admits it. One of
the biggest problems for him, all business and food-related issues aside, is the
maintenance of the space.
"One of the biggest hassles is that this is such an old
restaurant that I have to focus on fixing the physical parts of the restaurant,"
Shuman says.
One memory that sticks in Shuman's mind is the crisis that
transpired nine months into his first year of ownership of Deli Haus.
A grease fire devoured the kitchen, and the restaurant had to shut
down for two and a half months. For a young man just beginning to see the returns from his
investment, a major setback such as this may be daunting. But Shuman could find the
positives in even that event.
"It was fortuitous," he recalls, "because in three
weeks, we were going to redo the kitchen anyways. This way, insurance bought the new
equipment," he smiles.
Another time, the floor in the basement gave out and had to be
relaid, and the stairway leading down there had to be bolstered. The off-center quality of
Deli Haus - this time in the literal, not the figurative, sense - indicates a problem that
Shuman will doubtlessly have to deal with again. But he is prepared.
"I have to spend the money the way I have to spend it," he
acknowledges.
After about twenty minutes of standing in line, I am directed to a
seat at the counter. I have had my order in mind for the better part of the evening - the
rich, frothy chocolate frappe that has been calling my name since I had one a few weeks
prior. A blond-haired, black-shirted waiter comes up and, upon hearing my order, informs
me that I can't have my frappe.
"There's a three dollar minimum on busy nights," he said.
Frappes are $2.85. I sigh, mask my embarrassment over taking up their time and space on
this busy night, and ask for a few minutes alone with the menu.
The last time I had a frappe here was that same time that my friends
and I arrived after spending a good while debating where to eat. I'll remember that
evening not only for the delicious frappe and the not-so-delicious beef stew which took up
a short and vile residence in my refrigerator following the evening, but rather for an
incident which occurred during the meal.
It had been a busy Friday night, too, and my friends Lisa, Jen, and
I had been seated at the booth directly next to the door. For most of the evening, our
only complaints were of the chilly breezes to which we were easily susceptible. I sat
alone in the half of the booth that faced the outdoors, and I spied a homeless man
outside. He was lingering suspiciously near the stairs, teetering as he began to descend
them and enter the restaurant. Shuman was there that night, and he quickly went to address
the situation when it became apparent that the man wasn't intending to be a paying patron.
"I'm sorry, you have to leave," beseeched Shuman, but the
man seemed resolute. After a few moments of tense exchange, the man - who was black -
began backing towards the door, muttering something about racism. But the words that hung
in the air like lead weights were the ones he uttered in passing as he exited.
"I'm gonna come back and blow your fucking heads in," he
rumbled, before leaving the restaurant. Being the closest to this threat out of all the
patrons and staff in the restaurant, my friends and I were left a bit unsettled, to say
the least. Each sip of stew was punctuated with a quick glance out the door to see if his
heavy-jacketed frame had returned to fulfill his promise, and the trek back home was made
with eyes more alert and wary than usual in navigating those treacherous Kenmore
causeways.
Deli Haus is more welcoming to the homeless population of Kenmore
Square that occasionally patronizes the restaurant than other eateries. "We're a bit
more open-minded," Clapham says of the restaurant's attitude towards transients
compared to other establishments.
"When you open your doors to the public, you can't control who
comes in," Shuman adds. "I have a good rapport with the street people. I know
who's trouble and who's not. I have to assess what's going on."
Shuman has never encountered any problems he couldn't handle with
belligerent customers, homeless or otherwise. But once, Shuman recalls, "I had a guy
who was over seven feet tall - and he didn't want to leave." This was the time that
sticks out in Shuman's memory as scaring him the most. "But I was able to talk him
out the door. I can always talk them out." He chalks this ability not up to
superhuman courage, but to his years of experience in the business.
When asked to relate a similar account, Clapham replies that they're
"probably things Adam wouldn't want me to tell you.
"We get freaks in here, but not things I should say because it
makes the restaurant look bad," Clapham says.
Recently, though, Shuman decided to get a doorman to work nights at
the Haus. "With IHOP and the other restaurants closing," Shuman explained,
"I felt the need to get a doorman. Even now, we get a higher percentage of problem
customers."
Shuman touches upon a sensitive issue in the Kenmore Square area. He
is referring to expected overflow when IHOP, Baldini's, and other restaurants close in
deference to Boston University's planned use of the next block of Kenmore Square over from
the Haus as a hotel and commercial space.
"Initially, it will help us," Shuman says of the closings,
"but it remains to be seen how it will help us in the long run."
In the long run, Kenmore Square may become a victim of the same fate
which overtook Harvard Square some years ago: "mallification", or large
commercial takeover. A Barnes & Noble and a Gap occupy the northern side of Kenmore
square, while the southern side, where Deli Haus resides, holds strong - for now - with
indie draws such as Bertha Cool, a vintage clothing store, Nuggets, and Comicopia, a comic
book store.
But the Rathskeller, the infamously raucous Kenmore Square club,
closed down two years ago, and a fire in August of 1998 gutted an apartment building which
featured basement occupants like Planet Records and India Quality Restaurant, which
resisted fate and reopened a few blocks down the street. Super Socks, a dollar-style storw
which defies explanation of even its name, is in its final days. Empty storefronts
outnumber "Open" signs on the south side of the square.
"I lived in Harvard Square for four years. What Kenmore is
going through now," he remembers, citing BU's buy-up of property in the area,
"happened to Harvard Square ten years ago. They lease only to corporations,"
Shuman says of BU.
Despite these ominous signs, Shuman, who was running a Pizzeria Uno
in Harvard Square during that area's mallification, is not scared.
"I'm not going to try to fit into any particular décor,"
he asserts confidently, "I'm just gonna do what we do. We do good business being what
we are. I won't concern myself with them."
But Shuman can assure us of one thing: "We won't be a Starbucks
in two years."
* * * * *
After some hemming, some hawing, and some sad glances into my
wallet, I realize that I am going to have to stretch the four bucks in my wallet into a
$3.50 piece of chocolate cake, plus tip. At this point, I am dying of thirst and
sweltering in my sweatshirt - my counter seat near the kitchen, the 76 capacity-level
bodies present around me, and the heat from the vents combined to create a somewhat
stifling atmosphere. Soon, though, I am brought my wedge of cake and a glass of icy water.
As I indulge in the sinful richness, I look around and wonder if I
am the only person there by myself. Deli Haus, at least at this hour, always seems to be
the destination of groups or couples. I find the answer to my question sitting two stools
away from me at the counter. A young man in his 20s with wildly curly hair and a nose ring
is thoughtfully losing himself in the mire of a half-melted brownie sundae. I turn from
him and scan the other folks seated at the counter. One guy in particular sticks out. The
theme from "Shaft" has come on the stereo, and he is in rapture. The man is
drumming his hands on the counter like a man possessed, as his female companion looks on
in half-admiration, half-bewilderment. I echo that bewilderment as I discover that the
waiter undercharged me for the cake. $2.85. I leave four dollars behind and make my exit.
It's ten minutes before one o'clock. Deli Haus almost seems quiet in
comparison to the buzz of the line outside of IHOP that spans the wide Kenmore Square
sidewalk and flirts with the curb. But where are you going to find servers with five
patches on their pants and twice that many piercings on their bodies serving you cake? Not
in the white shirt uniformed world of IHOP, I thought as I eased my way behind the line
and down the street back home under a clearing sky, that's for sure.
Copyright 1999 Georgiana Cohen
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