The Sunday Memory Drawer - The Pork Store and Other Saturday Errands

On one of my recent trips to New York, I was shocked to discover that the pork store my family used to frequent around 223rd Street in the Bronx still exists. In some fashion. The name on the front is Adi and I believe that's the Polish guy who purchased it from the Klemm family. It looks like it's in major lockdown and probably, given the neighborhood denizens around it, specializes now in cold cuts from the Caribbean. But, nevertheless, this photo alone gave me a jolt from the past.

Weekends for my family were pretty much the same each week, right down to the minute. Nobody ever deviated from their routine one iota. Take, for instance, Saturday morning errands. NASA launched men into space with less pinpoint precision. I often went along for these excursions and always marveled at the sameness each and every time.

The journey always began and ended the same way. Dropping my mother off at the beauty parlor and then picking her up at the completion of the errands. God forbid that Mom missed the weekly hair shampoo, the curlers under the dryer, and the infusion of several cans of Caryl Richards Hard-to-Hold hair spray. She was there every Saturday morning at the same time and the whole process lasted about three hours. Plenty of time for Dad and me to do all the other stuff that needed to be done. Keep in mind that supermarket grocery shopping had already been executed on Thursday morning. Why? Because that's when my grandmother always wanted to do it and she never deviated from a routine either.

Our first stop was always One Hour Martinizing. Better known as the dry cleaners. A pick-up and a drop-off. At any given time in our house, there was never a complete wardrobe in the closet. Some garment was always hanging in a plastic bag on one of those carousels that spun around the store.

The second spot was always the same, although we often would rotate between several places. The bakery. And it had to be a German-owned one. Luckily, there were a bunch of them strewn around a five block radius of the Wakefield section in the Bronx. The purchase was always mechnically the same. A bag of about a dozen rolls. Four Kaiser rolls with poppy seeds. Four Kaiser rolls with no seeds at all. Four onion rolls. Done. Somehow, the amount was calculated precisely against our usage for the week, even though most were as hard as quarry rocks by the following Thursday. Then, my father would meticulously select the family's coffee cake for the week. Sometimes, a cheese strudel. Sometimes, a crumb cake. Rarely, anything else. I remember once, years later when I did the errands myself, I brought home an apple pie.

"That's the wrong cake."

Huh?

No one spoke to me for days.

The last stop would be Klemm's Pork Store, which was one block away from John the Barber immortalized here last week. This was a family business and everybody behind the counter sounded like Sargeant Schultz from "Hogan's Heroes." Of course, given that everybody in our family, distant relatives or otherwise, frequented Klemm's for their sliced meat needs, I frequently asked Dad the obvious question. Why does everybody go to Klemm's?

"Because we always did."

Oh.

The weekly order at Klemm's was always the same as my father was also in possession of my grandparent's shopping list as well. Grandpa needed his head cheese, that gross concoction of a pig's entrails. Grandma wanted bologna, which she inexplicably put on a sandwich with grape jelly. My father got his Saturday night kielbasie, which always prompted Sunday morning burping. For me, there would always be some Taylor Ham, a 1/4 pound of olive loaf, and a German salami called Cervelat, which I still get to this day.

Within fifteen minutes, Dad was walking out of there with about ten pounds of processed and nitrate-laden meats. Oddly, despite the fact that Klemm's sold salads, we never bought them there. On the way back to pick up my mother and her new Darth Vader-like hairdo, we always stopped at a German delicatessen to finish off the purchases. That's where we got our German potato salad, cole slaw, and other sides for the week. Of course, I asked the obvious question. Why didn't we just buy the salads at Klemm's?

"Because we never did."

Oh.

After the Klemm family sold to Adi, the Saturday routine was soon rocked to its everloving core and changed forever. I've written about it here before. It was never discussed openly amongst family members, even in whispers. But, it happened and it was a reflection of the day and the times.

I remember the day we stopped going to the pork store.

It all started innocently enough. My dad and I were poised in front of the counter. This was the time before food handlers wore cellophane gloves. My father made his first selection.

"A quarter-pound of Westphalian ham, please."

Out from the back of the store came the clerk designated to slice the cold cut. A Black guy.

My father looked like he had received a bayonnet through his skull.

I never heard the talk at family gatherings, but I am sure such devastating news went around faster than it did on Sunday, December 7, 1941.

As far as we were all concerned, Adi's Pork Store was now completely off-limits.

If only they could see the neighborhood now...

Dinner last night: French dip sandwich at the Arclight.