delicatessen
My great uncle recently died, and in his will he left me, his only heir, the delicatessen he had owned and managed for most of his adult life.
The will had several stipulations. First, the delicatessen mustn’t be sold and upon my death must pass to my own heirs—who, however, I had none, having never married or fathered any children.
“That,” my great uncle’s attorney and executor said, “can be worked out later. Who knows? Perhaps you’ll marry and bear children eventually. You need only convey to me your intent to honor his wishes in good faith. As his executor, I hold considerable discretion in such matters—we can revisit the subject later.”
I wondered at that likelihood, D. himself about to retire, the attorney old and frail, my great uncle’s lifelong friend and confidante who I’d known since early youth. He too had produced no heirs, though the sign in his office window proclaimed D. and Son. Then I remembered he did have a son who, however, had died soon after joining his father’s practice.
Sallow-faced, posture shrunken, he sat behind his great desk staring out the window, glimpsing the sign through sad, restless eyes. On the floor lay scattered bankers’ boxes, orphaned papers and files, knickknacks, mementos, framed pictures—among them D.’s law school and university diplomas as well as photos of his deceased wife and child.“And the other stipulations?” I prompted D., who had fallen silent.
Eyes again focused, he turned to me, resuming the matter at hand.
“The delicatessen has employed the same staff for years. Butcher, counter help, cook, waitstaff, and when they retire or pass on, their positions are assumed by other family members who previously had trained under them. You’re to continue employing them as best you can, through boom times and bust, and not seek assistance beyond their immediate circle.
“Furthermore, you’re not to interfere or second guess the decisions the staff reaches concerning salaries, prices, work shifts, changes in decor and menu, and so forth. Your uncle grew to trust his employees in such day-to-day matters, and as a result the delicatessen has long prospered.
“Finally, you may avail yourself of your great uncle’s rooms above the delicatessen where he lived for many years.” D. paused, to gather his thoughts, perhaps, as he was about to embark upon an especially delicate, private matter.
“Your uncle knew about your long-standing financial difficulties, your frequent bouts of homelessness and unemployment. The rooms are rent-free, and you’ll also receive a modest stipend as a result of your de facto ownership of a well-established, thriving business . . . .”
Photo: Butcher shop: John Igel, butcher behind counter, Minneapolis, MN, ca. 1923. A work by Unknown from family photo of relative. Public domain, courtesy Wikimedia Commons.