The deli was busier than Leo Miller expected, especially for a Wednesday. The rushing, the conversations, the clanging in the kitchen all blended together into a painful muddle. Leo tried to adjust his hearing aids, but he didn’t quite remember how to work the app.

He waved his arm in the air and called to Marcy, a young, harried waitress with a red face. “Hey, how’s that pastrami coming?”

She had seen him; he was sure of it, yet she continued her conversation with the line cook at the pass-through.

A young couple sharing lunch in the next booth stared at Leo. He didn’t care. Let them stare. He was not going to be ignored.

He could smell the pastrami as soon as he sat down, so he knew it was already on the grill. The scent of garlic, black pepper, coriander, savory, and a little bit smoky, all that, just like when his mame fried it up in her little pan. Leo swallowed and straightened his posture.

At eighty-three, Leo still cut a sharp figure, or so the ladies told him. His hat, a gray homburg embellished with a pheasant plume, sat on the seat next to him.

“Yes, Mr. Miller?” Marcy was at his table now.

Leo looked at his watch. “It’s been fifteen minutes. What’s up with the pastrami?”

“It’s been five, and perfection takes time. I put the order in as soon as you came in, like always.” And she was gone, just like that.

Leo tapped the face of his watch. Five minutes? Well, it felt like fifteen.

Marcy slowed at another booth, where a woman was telling her companion an animated story. Marcy laughed with them and then ran to the counter to grab some ketchup for another table, but was back in time to hear the last beat of the story. More laughter.

Leo just shook his head and sighed, then took a sip of his coffee, cold now. He set the cup in its saucer with a rattle.

Gabe, one of the waiters, crouched at his booth. “Hey, Leo. We’re working hard today. Patience, my man.”

Leo grunted. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“How’s your son? I heard he made partner.”

Leo looked down, suppressing a smile. “James? Never hear from him, so I suppose he’s good.”

Gabe laughed. “He’s busy, right? But I’ve seen you two in here just a few weeks ago. He fussed all over you. Felt good, I bet.”

Another grunt.

Gabe paused a moment. “Well, patience is a virtue, so dial it back.” He stood and was gone.

Just then, someone dropped a tray in the kitchen, and the metal clang resounded through the restaurant, startling Leo. He turned toward the sound and saw the cook swearing under his breath. Their eyes met, and a small contempt revealed itself in the cook’s gaze, silent but unmistakable. And when the cook finally looked away, the insult lingered.

“Sorry for the wait. Just a few more minutes.” Marcy was back, and then she was gone again. She rolled her eyes as she passed the young couple. Leo saw it.

He caught the arm of one of the busboys going by. The young man spun around, his eyes wide.

Leo forced a smile. “How about some coffee? Mine’s cold.”

The man stared but didn’t respond.

Leo held up his cup. “Coffee! Café!”

Finally, the man nodded and turned, bumping into another waitress. “Easy, Ric,” she said. “Slow it down.”

Ric scurried off into the kitchen, but still, no coffee came.

Now Leo slid out of the booth and strode to the waitress station. He grabbed the coffeepot from the warmer, but it was heavier than he expected, and it slipped out of his hand and shattered on the tile floor.

“I’m so sorry.” The back of his hand burned where the steaming coffee had splashed. He’d have a blister.

Two men with mops appeared and began cleaning up the coffee and glass.

“I’ll get your coffee. You have a seat.” Marcy. Her face was tight.

“I’ve been waiting …”

“It’s the lunch rush. Just like every day, Mr. Miller.”

“… and I hate the coffee here!”

He went back to his booth, avoiding eye contact with the other customers.

Let them stare.

Everyone else had food. Even the young couple with their Greek salads. Leo wiped his wet lips with his napkin. His pastrami’s probably sitting under that heat lamp, drying out. Perfect.

Finally, Marcy dropped the plate of food in front of him and was gone. The sandwich had to be three inches thick, with a kosher dill and a dollop of coleslaw.

But no mustard. He sighed and raised his hand.

Al Lehmann, the owner, stood at his booth. “Leo. What’s not right today?”

Leo motioned to the sandwich, the word not coming to his lips. “You’re torturing me here. What’s missing?”

He motioned again, and Lehmann nodded and looked toward the kitchen, then pointed a finger at Leo. “No more roaming! I will get your mustard. Stay put.” And he hurried off.

The pastrami. Its crisp edges. Steaming. Aromatic. Thinly sliced. There had to be twenty layers of meat there. The coleslaw, he could take or leave, but they knew their pastrami here. If only he could take a bite.

The mustard.

The busboy arrived with three dishes full. So much of it. “What do you think, I was born in a ballpark that I need so much mustard?”

The man shrugged his shoulders and was gone.

He picked up the monstrosity and opened his mouth wide. A big bite, then the slow chew, pure heaven. He closed his eyes and moaned. The sandwich was better than Leo ever remembered. But how could it be better? It was the same pastrami, the same deli, the same cook, but this was the best today. Better than even his mame’s. She knew pastrami, too. She would get it from a deli over by the tracks because the local grocer, his stuff was too fatty. No, she only bought the best for tate, and Leo would snitch it from the fridge when he got home from school, when his mother was still at the shop. Always on rye. Always with mustard.

His hand still stung. The skin was red, but no blister had formed.

“Mr. Miller, your ride is here.” Marcy picked up his plate.

“Hey, I just started.”

“Sorry. Time for you to go.”

Leo turned to the young couple. “Like I don’t even exist, she just takes it away.”

Marcy set a tube of ointment on the table and a Band-Aid. “Do you need help with that?”

He flexed his fingers and shook his head. “But I have to pay the check.”

“Mr. Lehmann got your sandwich today. On the house.”

Leo crawled to his feet. The driver was staring at him now from the doorway, his face unreadable. A quiet ride home, then.

By the door, Marcy, Gabe, and Lehmann were waiting.

“Marcy.” Leo gave a small nod. He dug in his suit coat pocket and found a five. Passing it to her, their hands touched, and he lingered.

“Thank you, Mr. Miller. Tomorrow?”

Leo gave her a wink.

Mr. Lehmann handed him a paper bag. “Your sandwich. You’ll enjoy that tonight.”

He was right. They knew their pastrami here. He could smell it through the bag. Leo straightened. “You know, I had to wait today.”

Lehmann said nothing. He just smiled.

“See you tomorrow,” Leo said.

“I hope so.”

Then Gabe. “You forgot something.” He pulled the homburg from behind his back and set it on Leo’s head.

Leo adjusted it. “Thanks.”

The driver took Leo’s arm and said, “We have another stop, so we need to get going. Mrs. Bloom has to pick up something at the pharmacy.”

But before Leo stepped through the door and onto the street, he glanced back one last time. They were all staring now. Well, let them.