Written by Bobby Sloan, 2021

One of the family traditions at our house was Sunday brunch. This involved a car trip to Hepps Deli by my Dad and me. Hepps had a U-shaped display case, and when you walked in the door, you were greeted by Paul, a tall skinny man who stood behind the case and took your lox order. Then the owner, Dorothy Hepps, a sweet Jewish lady who looked like Shirley Booth (from Hazel), took the bagel order. The intoxicating smell of those bagels fresh from the oven has never left me to this day.

All the Jews in town came to Hepps Deli on Sunday, and my Dad took his time joking around with all the customers. Everyone loved him. We always bought fresh orange juice, but if my brother was with us, he would gulp most of the juice out of the carton before we even got home. After Hepps closed, we bought our Sunday delicacies at Martin’s, a wonderful delicatessen owned by Martin Godofsky, the father of Suzy’s best friend.

My Mom would prep the brunch table dressed in a long silk robe as she placed yellow octagonal plates and cloth napkins at each seat. When we sat down to eat, there was a large lox platter with cheese, tomatoes, and raw white onions in the center of the table. Because lox was an expensive delicacy, there were never any leftovers.

Mom cooked the eggs and served them on a different platter. On one side were perfectly cooked scrambled eggs. On the other side were loosely cooked eggs to my Dad’s liking. It meant they were runny and included what my brother called, the spermatozoa - an embryonic-looking attachment. What’s funny, is dad liked his toast and bagels burnt to a crisp.

When my Grandmother came for brunch, there was always whitefish for her. Dad loved whipping up his own recipe, a combination of sour cream and cottage cheese he called Smetana, but no one other than Dad ever dared eat it. That is until Rocky started joining us and knew just how to get to my Dad’s heart. And speaking of Rocky, the Gentile, I’ll never forget when he asked my Mom to please pass the ta-kill-a-fish when it’s actually called Gefilte fish. We’ll never let him forget it.

There were six chairs at our kitchen table, and sometimes an unexpected guest would drop by unannounced. It was usually someone sharp-witted who could keep up with my Mom and Dad’s very funny interrogations. Steve, Suzy, and I were the audience and sat entertained the entire time. If the guests were boring or odd, my brother would kick or pinch me under the table, hoping to get me in trouble for laughing out loud.

Conversations at brunch revolved around heated debates on politics and current events and usually ended with Mom explaining her passionate opinion on each topic. After brunch, Mom would sit on the kitchen step making phone calls to friends and smoking cigarettes while Suzy and I cleaned up the kitchen. Dad took his New York Times into the den, and the guests usually ended up taking out the trash.

I’ll always cherish our Sunday brunches together, but my favorite Sundays included not only an incredible brunch at noon but mom’s homemade brisket for dinner that night. I could smell it from every room of the house.