Every Sunday, my dad and I went to Ludwig’s Deli in Stormville, New York.
It sat right next to the post office and the railroad tracks. The post office was always closed—quiet in that official, locked-up way—but the deli felt alive the moment you opened the door.
There was a bell attached to the swinging glass door, and when it rang, the smell hit you first.
Abundance.
Fresh bread with that unmistakable yeasty smell. German cold cuts and cheeses.
Then your eyes adjusted.
Candy and gum lined both sides of the entrance, shelves low enough for a kid to scan slowly, one row at a time. Along the back wall sat the soda refrigerator, filled with oddball cream and cherry sodas, cold treasures waiting behind glass.
Proof that the soda fridge at Ludwig’s really was its own universe.
You didn’t rush in a place like that. You took it in.
And somehow, without anyone saying a word, you knew this was a place that had everything a kid could want.
It felt welcoming and loving—the closest thing to heaven a nine-year-old kid could imagine, better than any toy store.
Running the length of the store was a long wooden counter. Behind it stood Ludwig—an older German man with an accent, glasses, and what I always thought looked like an Amish mustache. There was a small gate built into the counter, and Ludwig would meet you there to ring you up, like you were being welcomed into something more personal than a transaction.
And then there was the bologna.
This wasn’t something you asked for. It just happened.
Ludwig would step back from the counter, turn toward the slicer, and take his time. The machine whirred softly as he cut a single piece. He folded it neatly into parchment paper—once, then again—and placed it in my hand.
It felt ceremonial. Like this was simply how things were done.
My dad stood there the whole time, watching it happen, letting it happen. No rush. No small talk. Just the three of us in that moment—Ludwig behind the counter, my dad beside me, and me holding something small that felt important.
I don’t remember what was said.
I just remember the feeling.
I felt seen.
Sundays were great days. I usually woke up to the smell of bacon my dad was cooking for breakfast. Then we’d head to the deli, where I knew there would be candy, baseball cards, and that slice of bologna waiting for me. My dad grabbed his favorite part of the ritual too—the Sunday New York Times, thick as a phone book, tucked under his arm.
My dad worked multiple jobs when we were growing up. He didn’t coach Little League. He wasn’t always around in the ways other dads were. But every Sunday, he showed up. That was our time. And it was enough.
I don’t remember when we stopped going to Ludwig’s. That’s the strange thing about life—you never realize the last time you’ll do something. It’s just another normal day until it isn’t. I think about that now with my kids. I remember showering with my son when he was younger, and one day we just didn’t anymore. There was no announcement. No final moment. Time simply moved forward.
That feeling came back to me recently while watching the 1982 movie Suburbia. There’s a scene in a deli with pickled eggs sitting right on the counter—something you’d never see today. It immediately reminded me of Ludwig’s. Of barrels of fresh pickles. Of a kind of place—and a kind of childhood—that doesn’t really exist anymore.
Ludwig’s Deli isn’t there anymore. Stormville moved on, like places do.
But when I think about it, I don’t picture an empty storefront. I picture abundance.
I don’t think I realized it at the time, but I’ve been trying to recreate that feeling ever since. Not the bologna or the candy or even the food itself—but the sense of abundance. Of being welcomed. Of walking into a place where someone knows you and you feel taken care of, even for a few minutes.
That’s what Ludwig’s was to me.
And maybe that’s what I’ve been chasing all along.
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