Yonah Shimmel and the Perfect Knish

It is cold out, early October-the summer is nodding off to slumber. I walk bundled in scarf and shell down Houston towards the Lower East Side of New York City. My stomach nags at me reminding me of Grandma's house in Westchester:

"Take some bread. Have some soup. There's broccoli, London broil, onions, fruit, lettuce. What do you want? Eat." I sneeze from the peppery soup. "Tzu gesunt," Grandma says. The broccoli is boiled and wilted, the heads have all come off and the stalks float face down in a soup of green speckles. I sneeze again. "Tzu leben," she adds. The food is both miserable and memorable, an edible testament to Grandma's house.

My stomach growls. I pass the Whole Foods with its electric sterility and acrylic foods. The apples are stacked precisely in the window. Each one shines glittery red like giant beads of nail polish. Next to them are plump pumpkins, a touch under-ripe so that the yellow streaks blend through the orange pigment. My stomach yearns for plain goodness, something wholesome, something Grandma's house.

I reach Sara D. Roosevelt Park and my stomach roars again. And then I see it. A yellow sign faded with baby blue lettering: Yonah Shimmel...Knish Bakery. "The knishery!" I exclaim to myself. "Perfect." I enter.

Inside the place looks deserted. The lights are on, but no one is home. A series of New York City-sized tables adorn the small space. Each is long, about six feet, but small-two people sitting across from each other wouldn't be able to fit two normal sized plates in the space provided, which is perfect considering knishes only require a plate the size of a tea saucer. Against the wall-end of each table is a most important item: mustard.

A short, stout man composed in a white smock walks out from the back kitchen and down the narrow aisle that splits the bakery into a small symmetry of tables and chairs.

"Yes?" he says.

"A mushroom knish," I say. "Please," I add watching him grab a slip of parchment paper to select one of the giant potato bon-bons.

"Hot?" he asks, his thick accent reminds me of Grandma.

"Yeah, and cheese."

"No cheese," he says and places the knish in the small toaster oven. I shrug and wait, looking over the Plexiglas showcase of knishes: potato, sweet potato, kasha, mushroom, broccoli (heads still intact), spinach. I look right. Another showcase: blueberry, cherry, apple, chocolate. My stomach has gone meshugana.

"To stay?" My knish is warmed and ready.

"Yes, please," I say. He places the knish on a plate with a fork and I head to the nearest table with nosh in hand.

It is perfect. Just like Grandma's house. The mustard is perfect. The potato is perfect. The plate, the table, the wall of photos (Larry David and Woody Allen's eyes watch me eat like two Jewish Mona Lisas hounding me for a nibble), the little stout man, the solace-it is all perfect.

I pay and thank the baker and exit this wonderful little shop. The air is less biting. The past summer now slumbers, but the new fall is congenial in its arrival. I loosen my scarf. Back across Sara D. Roosevelt Park, I look for an entrance for the orange line. The Whole Foods looms above the small green subway entrance like an illustrious giant. The apples and pumpkins seem to have lost some of their colorful sheen. I dip into the subway and wait for the V uptown. Licking the corner of my lip, I taste some stray mustard. I smile: perfect.