Every Sunday morning my father went to Sam’s.

Well, first it was Max’s, then he and his partner had a fight and it became Sam’s.  What I remember most is the pickle barrel, with half sours that you can’t buy anymore, no one puts in that amount of TLC.  And the chive cheese. Made by hand.  As much as you might like the Philadelphia version, it doesn’t compare with Sam’s.  With giant pieces of chive, so when spread upon a bagel you got an exquisite combination of barn and field, dairy and vegetable.  That’s what I ate for brunch, chive cheese, spread thick on a toasted bagel.

Bagels…don’t get me started.  What they sell today is bread in the shape of a donut.  A real bagel has a crusty exterior, and a chewy interior.  And let’s not forget the moistness.  My father used to joke about breaking a tooth biting down on a good bagel.  Which only came in water, egg, onion and poppyseed back in the day.  There were no bran bagels back in the sixties, never mind chocolate chip.  That was heresy.  Although we did have green bagels every St. Patrick’s Day…  Jews have a sense of humor.

But my father didn’t purchase only chive cheese and bagels, he bought corned beef, pastrami and fish.  Smoked fish.  Usually whitefish.  And pickled herring.

My dad loved pickled herring.  I wouldn’t eat it until I was deep into my twenties.  Shit, it took me forever to love lox. Yup, he got that too.  And sometimes chub and sable…  I had no idea what I was missing.

Today we were on the chairlift with Andy Astrachan, a donor to Felice’s foundation (you can donate too, just go to http://www.mhopus.org/).  While we waited for his buddy to emerge from Mid-Vail, I asked him where he grew up.

New Haven!

What did your father do for a living?

Well, first he owned dry cleaning establishments.

I wanted to phone my dad right then.  He was the king of Jewish Geography.  He knew every retail establishment from Greenwich to Westerly, Rhode Island.  There was a link, I was sure.

But my dad’s been gone for eighteen years.  Hell, no one even used hand-held cell phones when he died.  So I continued to get Andy’s history, from public school to Penn to…Jack Binion.

Jack Binion??  Like in Binion’s Horseshoe?  Like in the World Series of Poker?

Yup.

Jack’s seventy three years old.  And he lives to ski.  Has eighty five days so far this year.  Lines up when the lift opens with his instructor, he can afford it, why ski solo, and usually skis till the lifts close.  What a character.  I told him I hoped to ski as well as he did when I reached his age.  I mean it’s hard as a rock and about as vertical as a steeple, and Jack’s carving it up.  Amazing.

But when it got close to one, the debate arose, should we take one more run?  They told their buddy Ron they’d meet him at the Game Creek Club.  I lobbied for another descent, it was just too good.  And after mumbling that he hated to be late, Jack and his posse followed us down.

But I felt awful when it appeared we couldn’t get in, that we’d squandered the window.  But, eventually it all worked out.  They found a few extra chairs and we sat down.

Whereupon I found out that Ron went to Camp Laurelwood.  Where I spent not only the best summers of my youth, but my entire life.  He’s waxing rhapsodic about Cutler’s, and Jerry Greenberg.  We were united through music.

And Jack and Ron were united through Vegas.  Ron used to run Wynn’s empire.

And all I’m thinking is I wish my dad was here.  I could see the shiteating grin on his face.  He’d tell this tale for years.  Of lunch in the private club with the Vegas heavyweights.

Then it was time to partake.  We got up, and sauntered through the dining room to the buffet.

It being congested with our party, I started by investigating the desserts.  The blueberry cobbler.  The chocolate treats.  I thought of my father at bar mitzvahs, at weddings…  He was the king of the buffet.  He’d hit it first, come back with a cornucopia of food on his plate, describing all the delicacies to be devoured.

My father loved to eat.  And his wallet knew no limits if it was a good meal.  He’d voice his mantra…  We might not live in the fanciest house, we might not have a Cadillac (although he eventually bought a Mercedes and took extreme pride in it), but our lives were pretty good.  It was about family.  And experiences.  Vacations and dinners.

Finally, the congestion eased up, I picked up a plate and started down the line.

Vegetables, all kinds of salad fixings.  And then…

Smoked fish.

Lox.

And pickled herring.

If only he were here!  If only I could call him up and tell him!  He’d be proud of me, he’d relish the retelling.

I thought of phoning my mother.  Or my sisters.

But I felt it was best to tell you.  I felt you’d get it.  How your father dies before you’ve found your place in the world, and long after he’s gone, you yearn to reach out and tell him, "Daddy, LOOK!"