Flashback 1995: Landmark Deli Serves Its Last Meals

     I was never an admirer of the Illinois Holocaust Museum & Education Center, but that can be chalked up to ignorance. Every time I went was to write about something else — its opening ceremonies, or police cadet training, or one of the museum founders. My complaint was that they had watered down the horror of the 20th century into a lesson for 5th graders about bullying. 

     That wasn't fair, as I learned when I actually went through the place, and for the strangest reason. My wife had never gone at all, but they had a special exhibit about Jewish delis. Who doesn't love a Jewish deli? She wanted to see it. 

     The show seemed an odd fit, the sort of thing I'd criticize without actually experiencing. But it got us there a few weekends ago, the day before the show closed. 

     We saw the deli show first, which was smart. It was well done, adroitly tying the rise of the deli to Jewish immigration, and linking specific Chicago delis, like Kaufman's, to Jewish refugees arriving here immediately after the Holocaust. 

    Then we saw the museum itself. Not the full nine-ring plunge into Dantean hell like the one in Washington. But a thoughtful representation, well worth the, oh, three hours we spent there. The most sober aspect is how current the 1930s feel today.

     In the deli exhibit, I noticed a sign for Nate's, which sparked a memory. I visited before they closed it down, and bought a jar of herring from the last batch. This is my brief report.     

     The smell of dill pickles, the rhythmic kathuck-kathuck of the corned beef slicing machine, fresh rye bread, the murky green jars of pickled tomatoes and kosher dills and, above all, the happy fluttering of human voices.
     "This is all you want, young man?" says Robert L. Williams, from behind the ancient counter. "You want some hot peppers? You said mustard? Why certainly you can. Thank you, sir."

     The smells, the sounds, the voices — all this will disappear when Nate's Delicatessen closes its doors forever today, after 74 years at 807 W. Maxwell.
     "It's going to be sad to walk out of here after 48 years," says Nathan Duncan, 64, who has worked at the deli since 1946, and owned it since 1972. "I've never had another job."
     The deli is a true anachronism — an artifact from the days when Maxwell Street was a sprawling Jewish ghetto. The Jews have moved away, but Nate's, and its hearty Jewish fare, has remained.
     As humble as the deli is — with its decrepit tin ceiling, hand-cut wooden floor rails and seating for, maybe, six — it has known its share of fame. Blues legends such as Muddy Waters and Hound Dog Taylor have eaten there, as well as a range of celebrities from Red Skelton to Sen. Everett Dirksen. A scene from "The Blues Brothers" was filmed there.
     But Nate's isn't about fame. It isn't even about Jewish food. It's about people — meeting, talking, eating together.
     Duncan points to a bespectacled gentleman sitting by the stove.
     "Frank has been coming here since he was a little boy. He'd rather sleep in that chair than sleep at home."
     "It's a tremendous loss," says Frank Williams, 45. "This place is a relic. Politics was discussed here. It was a meeting place, people met here and talked."
     Unlike the old Maxwell Street Market, Nate's was not forced out. But Duncan realized it was just a matter of time. So he sold to the University of Illinois at Chicago, which plans to build a parking lot and an athletic field.
     Displaying a jar of pickled herring, Duncan says, "I just made my last batch. This is a Russian dish."
     He savors the irony.
     "A black guy making a Russian delicacy." He smiles. "I learned the recipe from the mother of the former owner. You know, the Jewish ladies, they tried to get the recipe out of me. They tried to con it out of me. But I never did tell them. They still don't know."
       —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Jan. 15, 1995