Oh my cousins, what a set of light spins it has been here in the ciudad of Los Angels; cool, grey and actually kinda refreshing. The makai was soft and cool, and it jangled the bells of your own Harlequin’s cap ever so softly as he danced through the streets looking for pranks to play and jests to make.
In my odd wanderings your own clown of comestibles came across a Greenblatt’s Deli, a veritable temple of the pickled, the smoked and the cured. Without hesitation I capered in, to find out what wonders waited within.
The place is small with a deli counter to order from, and a wine and spirits store connected next door. There is a small dining area in front and a larger one up the stairs that the rather bored wait-staff rest at. Not once, not twice but thrice did your own Harlequin pass this group of servers, jingling bells and parading his majestic beribboned staff. Not once did they look up from their conversations, which boded only mischief for them from your own victual vagabond.
I set to play my finest prank of the day on the trio of torpid teenagers, I would tie their shoes together, so the gaggling group would become one big server, sprawling and crawling on the floor like a great rat king. How the customers and cooks would laugh to see them tied together like a great octopus.
Giggling wickedly, I set to tying and then I saw her, my Columbine, Kourtney with a “K”. She had a wicked smile, and sparkling glassies, surely she was only being held captive by these muddle headed minions of mediocrity. Determined to free her I sat down in a booth right in front of the three to plan my rescue of fair Kourtney with a “K”, my thoughts of mischief and mirth abandoned to nobler thoughts of my Columbine.
She noticed me immediately, my diamond patterned hat and bells making me hard to miss to the alert eye, and hers was most alert, it made me wonder why she did not see me the first three times. She brought me a menu and a glass of cold water. I sipped at it and found it tasted of soap and old food.
A trick! I thought she knows that Harlequin would appreciate a fine jest even if it were played on him. When I showed her that I did appreciate her joke by blowing soap bubbles, she hurried away to fetch me a clean glass with soap free water..
Clean glass in hand, I set to ordering a grand luncheon to fortify myself for my daring crusade to liberate Kourtney with a “K” from the clutches of boredom. I decided on a favorite of deli dancers of the past and ordered a hot juicy pastrami sandwich with a side of potato salad, sauerkraut and pickles.
When I was ready to order, my Columbine needed to hear it twice, as she was dazzled by my magnificent visage, and forgot the order as soon as I said it. Moments later, she brought me my grinds and I looked upon it with wonder, the sandwich was a thin thing, modesty layered with unimpressive, tasteless gyu. This was not the carne of places like
Billy’s, Langer’s, or even Canter’s, it was flabby without any smoky character or even yummy fat.
Another trick! I thought with a grin, Kourtney with a “K” was trying to signal your own victual vagabond of the desperateness of her plight by substituting his hot and juicy pastrami with supermarket carne. I turned to catch my Columbine’s eye, to assure here that I had understood the sandwich signal for help. She was however talking animatedly with her fellows at the stairs again, could it be that she was not my Columbine after all?
I polished off the peaked pastrami, the perfectly perfunctory pickles, and the pallid passel of potato salad, after all, your own narrator was still famished. I cleared my plate and awaited my check, my plan was to grab up my Columbine when she came with my check and to spirit her away so that she could join us to dance in the sun and gambol away from this grotto of grumpiness.
She did not notice me, still animated talking and laughing with the gormless gaggle of grumbling groupies. I shook my bells and raised my harlequin staff in salute, nothing. It was not until I stood to leave that she even approached me sullen and sad.
“Come with me Kourtney with a K,” I cried, “come see the sun and dance far away from this place where the food weeps because of its mediocrity and shoddy treatment.”
“Foolish harlequin,” Kourtney with a K growled, “I am happy to work here, and now that we have your money, why would I wish to walk with you…a foolish pauper of potables…begone.” I left defeated, my jester’s bells tinkling sadly.
Oh brothers and sisters, Greenblatt’s is nay not the deli for me, the food demands a great deal of the folding gelt, and you say to your own Metrowalker, all deli delights are costly. But cousins, Greenblatt’s food is not excellent, and its servers seem bored and unhappy at their jobs.
Most of all dearest ones, Greenblatt’s is where my Kourtney with a “K” works, and there she languishes amongst the mediocrity.
Greenblatt’s Deli
8017 W Sunset Blvd
Los Angeles
(323) 656-0606
All set was your uncle to doctor up the so called spicy soup with the carnival of condiments on the table, that he nearly did not take a test sip. BOOM! The spices and the chilies in the soup caused my glorious hat to shoot three feet off my head, it was obvious oh my brothers, that this soup not only did not need a doctor, it was gym going and could run a marathon.
The larb arrived not too long after, a wondrous plate of chopped carne flavored with cilantro, chilies, and lime all to be spooned up with crunchy cabbage leaves. 
