Rocky’s Millwood Deli is the Sacred Epicenter of Danger and Deliciousness for Westchester’s Coronavirus Woes.
H.S. YEAMON
Rambling hordes of Westchester residents pilgrimage to Rocky’s Millwood Deli, in middling liberation and in spite of a deadly pandemic to celebrate the craftsmanship of this storied deli.
At the heart of coronavirus chaos, Westchester residents willfully and gleefully risk their lives for a certain sandwich at the celebrated Rocky’s Millwood Deli.
Over two months into the hellish, grinding, family-destroying reality of indefinite lockdown, the oblivious, droolingly idiotic Westchester middle-class — a multigenerational eyesore of incestuous, small-town entitlement — has collectively decided to disregard the guidelines of the WHO, CDC, and Governor Cuomo, drawn in by the nose towards greasy, delicious cutlets.
Crammed from wall to wall in this mine shaft of a deli, patrons salivate and gawk at a distance of much less than six feet from each other. The costumers, a mostly local group from the surrounding area of Northern Westchester, fill the narrow, hallway-like corridor of this deli with glossed-over stares, greasy hair tucked into well-worn trucker hats, and the standard uniform of tee-shirt and over-the-knee gym shorts, or for those aged forty and up, an oversized polo shirt and over-the-knee cargo shorts.
This deli, in addition to its deliciously reliable service, serves as a social landmark for this strange breed of New Yorker, particularly as a mating zone for single and dating adolescents alike. With no choice but to meet and flirt under the romantic pretense of sandwiches and deep-fried, cheap pleasures, teens brush up against each other, ever so seductively, masking nervous sweat and awkward silence with the hum of grill fans and the distinct musk of a deli in its prime. In a ceremonial and deeply symbolic renewal of commitment, couples sift through the drifting singles, proudly clasping hands and defying social distancing policy, in a declaration of greasy, deep fried, loud, and sweaty love. Giggling and maskless, the youth of Northern Westchester — the future generation of a bizarre, not-quite-suburban fever dream — huddle in groups of four to five, empty out of their cars and systematically droning towards the deli doors, guided by a higher power.
Protected by a thin row of plexiglass, line cooks at Rocky’s Deli relish the barrier and this pandemic as an opportunity to fully and publicly unleash their booming Italian American hollers without triggering the reactive glare that automatically meets their shouts under normal circumstances — not that this glance, no matter how searing, would deter them in the first place.
After this, march ten paces from the front to where you just came from, and join the queue of equally hungry, and slightly shell-shocked customers. Now, wait your turn. Get your unmarked brown bag. Surrender some cash — the only acceptable form of payment. And pray that the bag has what you think you ordered and the loose change you were just handed is uninfected by the menace of COVID-19.
These employees, however, are not to be mischaracterized as an obnoxious, pushy ear-sore. They are something of a higher breed, genetically modified for the atmosphere of the delicatessen. Juxtaposed with their hoarse voices and toughed facial features — a hereditary trait forged from decades over the open grill and greasy fryer, not unlike the adapted lungs of West Virginian coal mining families — these beloved craftspeople have softened and caring maternal hands, cradling each cold cut, cutlet, and condiment with adoration that can only be likened to innocent, Disney Channel-esque love.
As unconditional and precognitive as the love of a mother, these masterful, cutlet cradling mitts seem to operate without any need of particular intent. Instead, the artisans of Rocky’s operate with mechanical grace, and may be mistaken for an alien, robotic adaptation of the American deliman, if not for the distinctly human love that permeates each sandwich. It is hard to capture the gratification that is achieved through each bite. I am specifically referencing the experience of eating the signature “Hashtag” sandwich. The experience of capturing the perfect bite — a layered delight of egg, hash brown, hot sauce, cheese, bacon, and cutlet, folded into a neat and malleable poppy seed roll — can only come close to being compared to good sex. The kind of sex that is not even focused on sex but upon the total obliteration of all premeditated desire.
The idiotic celebration of limited freedom finds refuge at Rocky’s deli. Quarantine begins and ends at these hallowed doors. The crazed, inadvertently suicidal masses of Westchester’s own enjoy ever-so-slightly adapted service, and consistently delicious food in these narrow halls. The search for continuity in our upended, pandemic-stricken reality, and an opportunity for ill-advised and unavoidable social contact ends at this Deli. Join the cult, drink the Kool-Aid, and tune out the self-preserving pestering of your better self. Go to Rocky’s, leave your health to chance, and enjoy a sandwich that just might take your life.
