I was in L.A. on business and had finally made it back to Canter's Deli. It's the most famous Jewish deli in la-la-land. It ain't Ocean Avenue, but it will do. I was eating a man-size pastrami on rye with mustard and cole slaw, a side of kishka, a sour pickle, and washing it down with a bottle of HE'BREW beer.
This is my soul food. When I eat this meal, or brisket with the gravy soaking the bread, or corned beef -- not first cut, it's too dry -- I'm transported someplace else.
I happened to look up, and she brought me back to the here and now. She was facing me, across the aisle and about eight tables down. Had a big slice of chocolate cream pie in front of her that was nearly finished. She was eating very slowly, with a spoon, sliding it in and out of her mouth, with a dreamy look on her face. That motion was just icing on the cupcake, so to speak.
There was something amazingly sexy about her. Not L.A. starlet sexy, but Jewish-smart-but-slutty sexy.
There is no better package than really smart Jewish girls who are into sex. One minute they're engaging you in a discussion of philosophy or politics, and the next minute they're sucking your cock. What's not to like?
I tried not to stare, or at least not to get caught staring. She finished and got up, walking toward the exit, and that meant she was walking my way.
She had tousled, I-look-great-after-I-fuck, hair. On her face, understated brown eyeliner and beige shadow with slutty red lipstick. She wore a pleated-Catholic-guilt-wielding mini skirt, fishnet stockings, three inch high Mary Jane's and a plunging-show-those-breasts-v-neck blouse.
She was not starlet thin -- thank God -- but well-proportioned with stunningly great curves. She swung her hips as she sashayed down the aisle with the confidence of a woman who knows she is a prize.
The final touch were her tortoise shell framed glasses. That just sent me over the top. Girls who wear glasses... well, Helen Gurley Brown was just wrong!
I had to say something, and I knew lame-o was better than silence. "You should try the rugelach sometime."
She stopped in her tracks and just looked at me.
"I like the kind with raspberry jam."
Still stopped, still looking. A smile crossed her face. She said "That's so goyishe. Everyone knows apricot filling with nuts is best."
I said, "To each his own."
She said, "I don't think so. I know what's good because I ate it at my bubbie's table."
I stood up, probably too close. "Well, I wouldn't know from that, my bubbie was from the strudel school."
She closed her eyes for a moment, breathed in, and said, "I love the smell of beer on a man's breath."
That, for my non-business-type friends, is a buying signal, so I tried a trial close. "I'm Al, and I'm in town on business. I realize it's short notice, but would you like to have a drink with me tonight? I'll be happy to drink beer and breath on you."
She smiled again and said, "You're on buster!" She told me her name was Leslie Schwartz. We made plans to meet at the roof bar of my hotel, the Mondrian, at 8.
I could barely contain myself. First of all, that name, Leslie. Leslie Newman was a classmate in 6th grade and I know my first wet dream was inspired by her.
I also knew I shouldn't get ahead of the situation. A drink is sometimes just a drink. But I couldn't help thinking about going up to my room, us arguing over economic policy, and then plunging into the middle of those double Ds.
After our meeting at the deli, I couldn't get Leslie Schwartz out of my mind. Fortunately, my work that afternoon was a catch up meeting with one of the sales reps who works for me, and didn't require any intellectual calisthenics. I'd save those for later.
The Mondrian is one of the trendy hotels in Hollywood. I run the sales department of a boutique software publisher, so it fits our image for us to stay there when we're in L.A. on business. I don't mind. The rooms are very well furnished and everything is in shades of white.
On the roof is the SkyBar and pool overlooking the city. It's quite a romantic spot and when you're there, you're among the beautiful people. Yes, beautiful, thin guys and gals, the kind you see in the fashion pages of magazines.
I decided to wear my Suit of Doom, a charcoal Italian job, with a white open collared shirt and red Chuck Taylors. I got upstairs early and started drinking to find my courage. I ordered my regular, Fish and Fowl. That's a Bass ale and a shot of Wild Turkey bourbon. Get it?