Hey Matt

A 5,000‑mile surprise, a 10 PM curfew, and the egg sammich Frank had been preparing me for since the Earth was cooling. By “Matt”

For years… years, Frank had been asking me, in that unmistakable Long Island goalie dialect:

“Matt… ya eva had a egg sammich?”

Every call. Every text. Every FaceTime. Like he was testing me. Like he was the gatekeeper of some sacred deli enlightenment reserved only for the chosen.

And every time, I gave him the same deadpan answer:

“Yes, Frank. I’ve had bread and eggs before.”

But that never satisfied him. Not once. He’d shake his head like I was some poor, uneducated “grass skirt type” from Honolulu, a man who’d somehow never known the spiritual majesty of a New York bodega breakfast roll. As if my entire culinary career had been leading up to this moment of enlightenment.

Now, before we go any further, let me clarify something essential:

Frank and Renata are big‑time Goyim.
The kind who think lox is a security device and schmear is something you wipe off a countertop.

And me?
I’m Jewish. Born on Easter Sunday, no less. My whole life has been one long cosmic joke.

“I’m Jewish. Born on Easter Sunday. My whole life is a cosmic joke.”

So of course I narrate two Goyim in full Yiddish like I’m teaching Talmud on a Farmingdale porch.

So when Lin and I decided, totally unexpected, out of the blue, to fly 5,000 miles from Honolulu to New York to surprise Frank and Renata for their Labor Day bash, I should’ve known the prophecy was about to be fulfilled.

We arrived on their Farmingdale porch at 9‑something PM, smelling like the North Shore, glowing with the pride of two people who’d just executed the perfect surprise entrance.

Instead, we got Renata.

This is a woman whose internal power grid shuts down at 9:59 PM sharp. As we stood there with our suitcases, I could see her calculating how many minutes remained before her “Nothing good happens after 10 PM” doctrine kicked in. She looked at us not like long‑lost friends, but like a delivery of trayf foodstuffs she never ordered.

And Frank?
Frank was inside, probably dreaming about the egg sammich he’d been spiritually preparing me for since the Obama administration.

The vibe that told the truth

Here’s the part I didn’t clock in the moment: when we showed up, glowing, excited, proud of our 5,000‑mile mensch move, something in the air was already sideways. Frank and Renata weren’t just tired. They were off. Snapping at each other. Moving around us instead of toward us.

“The vibe was uneven, like a cutting board that rocks every time you put a knife to it.”

At the time, I chalked it up to the late hour, the curfew, the shock of our surprise arrival.

But looking back, that weekend was the beginning of the end.

We spent two full weeks in New York, and by the time we flew home, the friendship had quietly cracked, and not on our side.

The roll of disbelief

The next morning, after surviving Renata’s pre‑10 PM death stare, Frank emerges with the swagger of a man about to fulfill prophecy.

“Matt,” he says, solemn as a priest.
“We’re goin’ to the spot. For the treat.”

The spot.
The treat.

I’m thinking: kettle‑boiled bagels, hand‑sliced lox, maybe a schmear so silky it could negotiate peace in the Middle East.

Nope.

We pull up to a corner deli. A regular, fluorescent‑lit, “we also sell Lotto tickets” deli. And Frank presents it with pride:

The Egg Sammich.

A greasy roll.
A fried egg.
A slice of yellow cheese with a shelf life longer than Renata’s patience.

Frank watches me like he’s waiting for my professional soul to ascend.

“Frank watched me like he was waiting for my professional soul to ascend.”

“See?” he beams. “Told ya.”

My eyes rolled so far back I literally saw my own thoughts, most of which were wondering why I didn’t stay in Hawaii and eat Spam Musubi like a sane person.

But I took a bite. Because I’m a mensch. Because I didn’t want Frank to plotz from disappointment. And as I chewed that dry roll, I realized: you can take the boy out of the kitchen, but you can’t take the chef out of the mishegoss.

We survived the flight.
We survived the sammich.
We even survived Renata’s curfew.

Next time, though.

“Next time, I’m bringing my own schmear.”

Your Turn

What’s the most underwhelming “culinary miracle” a friend has ever tried to impress you with? Tell me your stories of survival in the comments. Renata-grade bonus points if it happened before 10 PM. Matt-grade ones if it made the wee hours.

Glossary for the Goyim (Frank & Renata’s cheat sheet)

Mensch: A person of integrity; someone who flies 5,000 miles just to eat a dry roll with a smile.

Mishegoss / Meshugas: Absurd behavior or craziness (e.g., hating Derek Jeter, evangelizing a deli egg like it’s a sacrament).

Plotz: To burst or collapse from strong emotion (like my soul upon seeing the “treat”).

Schmooze: To chat, charm, or talk your way through a Farmingdale porch standoff.

Farbissina: A sour, moody, or embittered person; see also: Renata at 10:01 PM.

Schlemiel: An unlucky bungler; anyone standing on a porch with luggage while a curfew is being enforced.

Oy / Oy Vey: An exclamation of dismay, frustration, or disbelief — especially when someone says “egg sammich” with pride.

Trayf: Literally non‑kosher; used here for the spiritual wrongness of feeding a chef a deli‑counter egg roll.

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