When people ask me how I met my wife, the short answer is that we met in a deli. The long answer is also a deli but naturally has more details and is hopefully more entertaining. This is the long answer.

The Eats and Arts Deli was owned by a kindly Portuguese fellow named Fernando and was on Piedmont Avenue in Oakland, California. I say, “was” because it’s long gone now. Back then, Eats and Arts was a popular place for both breakfast and lunch. The breakfast menu included the usual assortment of omelets and two eggs done any which way, while lunch featured a variety of “gourmet” sandwich combinations. Here the word “gourmet” was only loosely applied in that it referred to items such as the #11 combination of Turkey, Cole slaw and Swiss, or the Eats and Arts version of a Rueben sandwich, which consisted of Pastrami, Sauerkraut, and Swiss cheese.

Unfortunately the Rueben, once assembled, was then nuked in order to melt the cheese. You know, gourmet style.

I had just arrived in Oakland after my first, but not last, trip across the country via bus. The deli, which was just down the street from the tiny studio apartment I now shared with two other people, had recently posted a hand written help wanted sign. Despite my limited restaurant experience (I briefly worked at a Friendly’s in high school), Fernando agreed to hire me.

The staff at the Eats and Arts Deli was an interesting mix of people. It seemed to be an island of misfit toys kind of place. I was both the youngest and the least educated of the bunch. Among the employees was a man with a PHD in psychology, another man with a Masters degree in physics, and a woman with some sort of advanced degree in French.

I had yet to make it to college then but somehow I fit right in. I took to the work right away. After all I’d mastered the art of sandwich making at a very young age. Plus I was full of energy and enthusiasm, and that, combined with my positive attitude, soon led to popularity with both my coworkers and the customers.

Life went on. The three of us moved from the cramped studio apartment to the slightly less cramped one-bedroom unit down the hall and eventually exchanged one roommate for another. The job was going well and as they often do, the weeks turned into months and before I knew it Christmas was on the horizon. Although I liked my job, I decided I really wanted to be home in Connecticut for Christmas. I gave my notice and boarded a Greyhound for my second, but still not final, bus trip across the country.

After the holidays, I found myself stranded in Connecticut with very little money, no job, and no car to get to the job I didn’t even have. When I wasn’t busy kicking myself for leaving California, I managed to find work that was close enough to hitchhike to. While I was busy hitchhiking through the January cold, the Eats and Arts Deli was busy hiring a new employee. In fact, it is entirely possible that the new employee was hired to replace me.

Meanwhile, I was spending a lot of time scheming up ways to get back to California. I thought if I could just get my W-2 forms, my eventual tax refund might be enough to get me back across the country where I could walk to work with no fear of frostbite. I called Fernando and to my surprise, he was happy to hear from me.

He’d been scheming as well and had recently come up with a plan to open the deli for dinner.

Consequently, he was in need of a chef and he insisted he could teach me to cook. Although I was an expert sandwich maker, my culinary skills to that point were limited to pancakes and bacon. Despite my lack of skill, it sounded better than hitchhiking through the snow to work. I told him I’d be there in two weeks and borrowed some money for what would at long last be my final bus trip across the country.

While I was going Greyhound, word of my impending return began to spread amongst the Eats and Arts staff.

The new employee kept hearing about the great guy who was on his way across the country. The build-up at the deli went on for two weeks, after which the new employee was no doubt tired of hearing about the soon to be chef who traveled apparently by bus.

When the bus finally arrived, I went immediately to the deli. Finally the new employee was about to get a look at what the misfit toys had been raving about. I walked in wearing an old t-shirt with torn jeans. My long curly hair was partially hidden under the bandana tied over my head and I hadn’t shaved in who knows how long. The new employee, who of course was Donna, looked and thought, “This is what you people have been going on and on about?” She was not initially impressed.

Eats and Arts did open for dinner and with Fernando’s help, I did eventually fumble my way through the cooking, which was every bit as gourmet as was the Rueben sandwich. Donna and I spent a lot of time together at work and we got along well. About a month after my arrival, on my twentieth birthday, we were both scheduled to work. When the shift was over, we decided to celebrate the birthday with a little wine (technically it was a lot of wine, more like a jug). This coming Sunday, we’ll celebrate that birthday again, along with the 35 wonderful years in between. This time we’ll have only a little wine, as our jug of wine days are long over. And it all started in a deli.