Our shop was between the Monarch Cake Shop and Scheherazade café, Berger’s Delicatessen 101 Acland Street. I’d stand at the back of the shop, camouflaged by a curtain of frankfurters and salamis, watching customers make their selections. Chopped liver, potato salad, herring salad, cabbage rolls; you could hear arteries clogging while lips twitched with anticipation. At regular intervals, a customer would face my mother with a feverish look in their eyes and an accent as thick as a bolt of […]![]()
