Can't Beat L.A.'s Cantor's
by Karen Solomon



When it comes to hole-in-the-wall Korean barbecue spots, scrumptious, authentic Vietnamese eats for $5, or filling burritos the size of your head, San Francisco is definitely the place for eating. There are many cuisines the city does right, but there are most definitely a few genres that falter. The pizza is merely adequate. Cuban food is nearly non-existent. And even the best Indian food in S.F. is simply so-so.

These sacrifices are barely noticed day to day. However, the greatest loss to the San Francisco plate is the total lack of high quality pastrami and a decent bowl of matzo ball soup. After a lifetime of good kougel and bialys, it's tough for this relocated S.F. resident to reckon with the utter disappointment of local mediocre Jewish delis. I am witness to such monstrosities as the Strawberry bagel, the Sun Dried Tomato and Cheddar bagel, and the awful and unlawful ham and mayo sandwich on a bagel. Blech. Hello? S.F. entrepreneurs? I would trade a whole truckload of sourdough for a decent knish.

This unsatiated craving led me to repeated visits to Cantor's deli on a recent trip to LA, and if the restaurant had a B&B attached (bed and bagel), I would have rented a room. The bustling storefront would have been enough reason to visit three times. To the left, an extensive bakery of mouthwatering sweets, breads, bagels, etc., including moist challah, ruguluch cookies in chocolate, apricot, and lemon, half a dozen varieties of dense, delectable cheesecakes, and perfect, flaky kichel, traditional sugar-baked egg and flour cookies.

On the right, the savory to-go deli, featuring a huge selection of roasted sandwich meats in all the classic varieties (pastrami, salami, real turkey breast), smoked salmon, chub, and whitefish in generous portions, cheeses, and unforgettable mounds of real-schmaltz chopped liver, tuna salad, and deviled eggs prove unrivaled on the West Coast. Grab your yamalka and your fork. We have entered the gates of Jewish deli heaven.

Though the immediate denial may sting slightly, assuage your hunger pains and trust that you will patronize the deli on the way out. We've got more serious eating to take care of in the massive dining room. Giant, stuffed booths and florescent lighting let you know the atmosphere is friendly and chatty. Platters of food are on the move by the skillful hands of career waitresses, and one of them nods to scooch you toward an open table. Such vast, interior spaces aren't often seen in San Francisco, but how else could Cantor's house the hundreds of Los Angelites and old-time movie moguls who've been coming here steadily since the 1920s?

Service is succinct and familiar, but not overly friendly. The size of the matzo ball in my soup is impressive, but it's flavor and texture makes me shudder to think that Cantor's might be using a mix. The broth would merely make you raise your eyebrows, as it is devoid of carrots, celery, onions, dill pieces, or a rich depth to reassure that it's homemade.

Don't finish the soup, as the delectable Heart Association Nightmare has arrived. To call a Cantor's corned beef on rye merely a sandwich is like saying Mount McKinley is a small bump on the noggin. The pound of meat or more nestled into the folds of real biting and seed-specked rye bread would confuse any bi-coastal gastronome. One bite and even the most pristine diner is speaking with a Brooklyn accent. Yo! Cantor! Good freakin' corned beef!

Salty whitefish arrives, and atop a toasted bagel with cream cheese and tomato, the medley is rich and familiar, the smoky fish lingering like it ought to. Fresh squeezed orange juice reminds me of West Coast once again, until the noodle kougel, a slightly sweet and delicately creamy baked casserole of egg noodles and fruit, winks at its New York roots. After a hearty, meaty meal, the kougel makes the perfect dessert. At least until we get back to the bakery.

Cantor's is a West Coast legend and a rare breed. It doesn't need this review to improve business, as it's been doing just fine for decades. Sure, there's room for improvement, but a more authentic deli experience can't be found anywhere else in California's pesto and sun-dried tomato state.