Yitz’s is the sort of deli that creates a longing in me. Perhaps in you, too, particularly if you have some jew in you. I do. It has never been nurtured, but it’s there, like a deep vein of chopped chicken liver in my soul – fatty and rich and comfortable.
Yitz’s is the sort of deli that creates a worry in me, too, because worrying runs in my veins as well, making me a certified member of the tribe. Yitz’s is so NOT of the moment – thank you – that one wonders if it will last as long as it should. Forever, that is. Forever and then another week, in case we got busy and didn’t make it in for a bowl of borscht and a corned beef on rye last Tuesday.
Yitz’s is the sort of deli that reminds you that your hipster self is tired. All you gotta bring is your appetite and your most bare, soulful self. Think cultural tethers , think leave my pretensions in the car, think we are one big rugelach loving tribe.
Yitz’s is the sort of deli that serves delicious food. And no one needs to critique/review/remark on it. It’s a good place. Always, one hopes.
Friend and neighbor, Michelle, sent us to Yitz’s. She knows Toronto, lucky girl. And she gets us, lucky us. Thank you, Michelle!