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Movie Review

‘Deli Man’ is corned beef in need of wry

David “Ziggy” GruberCohen Media Group/Courtesy of Cohen Media Group

Like the traditional, straightforward fare served up for generations by its subject, Erik Greenberg Anjou’s “Deli Man” doesn’t try anything fancy. Just the standard shtick of conventional documentary — a smattering of talking heads including experts, authors, and token celebrities (Larry King, a limp pickle, whines about bad corned beef sandwiches). Plus the deli men themselves, served up with a side of archival footage and photos. Nothing much to complain about. But what makes you want to send this overcooked corn back to the kitchen is that it goes too heavy on the schmaltz.

That schmaltz comes mostly in the form of David “Ziggy” Gruber, third-generation deli owner and proprietor of Kenny and Ziggy’s Deli in Houston. Houston? As one of the experts reveals, the Jewish presence in the South goes back centuries, and before the Civil War, more Jews lived in the South than in the North. In fact, there were more Jewish generals in the Confederate army than in the Union army. None of this I knew — now let’s have more of that.

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But instead we get more of Ziggy, whose story at first arouses interest before it begins to feel superficial. Ziggy’s grandparents fled Budapest and escaped the Holocaust. His grandfather, who founded the first family deli, put an apron on Ziggy when he was 8. He worked in the family business until he impulsively entered a culinary school in London at 18, and went on to work with Gordon Ramsay. But a visit to a convention of deli owners proved revelatory: They were all old men, with no new generation in evidence to carry on the tradition. He decided that would be his mission.

I’m wondering if working with Ramsay, abusive host of various culinary reality-TV shows, factored in his decision. Be that as it may, it’s time for Ziggy to go back into the kitchen. Instead, he becomes the main entrée, and “Deli Man” resembles an extended version of one of those locally produced TV commercials in which the proprietor unctuously praises his establishment.

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In balancing the more objective cultural history of delis with a personal profile, Anjou serves neither well. Perhaps he should have chosen one course or the other.

Insights into the significance and status of the deli as a last bastion of Yiddish culture are undeveloped. Once there were thousands of delis in New York City alone, now there are only a couple of hundred nationwide. Why? “The customers all died or moved to Florida,” someone suggests.

A closer look at Ziggy might have revealed that, under the bluster, he’s a microcosm of Jewish culture, fighting to keep the traditions alive. In one of the film’s more affecting scenes he marries his physical therapist, a gentile who has converted to Judaism. (She is one of the few interviewed who has anything bad to say about deli food, pointing out her husband’s girth.) Their wedding takes place in the Budapest synagogue where his grandfather was bar mitzvahed.

But Anjou ignores the value in digging deeper, and instead settles on a final product that seems unnecessarily canned. He could have used guidance from someone like the brusque deli waiter who tells an indecisive customer what to order.


Peter Keough can be reached at petervkeough@gmail.com.