Edit Desk: A love letter to the Bay Deli

When I was a junior in high school, my older sister Malia left home for college at Chapman University in California. She left behind a treasure trove of goods — instant cameras, a Polaroid printer and, most importantly, the keys to the car.

We had previously shared the car, but at that point, I now had free rein to explore my corner on the north shore of Long Island. By my senior year, I was constantly out the door.

I still remember the first trip I took with my best friends.

While November’s autumn wind swirled, I left my house and followed the train tracks to pick up my childhood best friends, Tom and Tyler. Then, our troupe combed the perimeter of town to grab my friends Derek and Anthony.

In our packed car, we sped down Northern Boulevard and took the scenic route along Huntington Bay before arriving at our destination.

The Bay Deli.

Conrad, my friend Nick’s father, owned the place for over 30 years, but its history spans nearly double that time. The building itself feels like a time capsule you can’t miss, inserted in the middle of the area’s modern upscale restaurants and yacht clubs.

With its white wooden roof, string lights draped along its banister and block letters reading “BAY DELI” streamlined across the top, it’s how I envision the general stores my parents grew up in. There’s a cozy, nostalgic aura about the place that feels just like home.

We entered through the back, greeted Nick and his older sister, Julia, and subsequently ordered bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches — what some might say is the prototypical Long Island meal.

Soon enough, it became second nature for our plans to revolve around journeys to the Bay. Once we were free from the confines of school, we’d pull into the dirt parking lot of our special hangout spot two to three times a week in the dead of night.

Same group, same time, same destination. Like clockwork.

Nick would go in, turn off the alarm, and file all six of us in one by one. Only then would the fun begin.

With the excess inventory from the storeroom, I’d graciously fire up the stove and cook my friends a late-night snack. Nick and I would serve up six fresh sandwiches in a matter of minutes.

On some days, Sunday Night Baseball would blare through the speakers, or a joint playlist of our choice would follow.

We’d thread the needle between the doorways of the kitchen and storeroom with a football, and play baseball with spatulas and leftover Saran Wrap.

While these pent-up childish instincts to play would unleash when we first got there, they would often settle once the clock struck midnight. Then, we’d set up stools in a circle in the back storeroom and have heart-to-heart conversations.

The reality that our childhoods were history became clearer with each passing day. Those simpler times of discussing the most recent offseason transactions were replaced with planning out our futures.

Our haven in the deli helped us find solace in one another while growing up. We could voice our dreams and aspirations without fear of judgment from others in the place that unconsciously raised us all.

The hours spent in our confined, makeshift living room are the reason my friend group became so close. We were always there for each other on those nights, reluctantly accepting our transition to adulthood. But at least we were there, facing our feelings together.

That summer, nearly half my days were spent tucked neatly within the walls of the Bay. However, the endless summer didn’t last. By late August, Tyler had packed his bags for Pittsburgh, while Anthony and Tom settled in Tennessee and Coastal Carolina.

The day before I left home to embark on a new chapter of my life, Nick, Derek and I made one last trip to the deli.

But this time, no chairs were set up. Behind the register, Nick held up three Bay Deli hoodies — maroon, purple and grey — as a departing gift. They felt special; only employees were supposed to receive these, and I was far from one.

I chose maroon. Nick took the grey one, while Derek sported the purple.

Each represents our own individual allegiance to the friend group, and a color to remember each other by when we’re far away.

That maroon hoodie is the longest-surviving article of clothing in my Lehigh wardrobe, proudly worn throughout my college years. The design on the back is fading and crumbling from the many times it’s been tossed into a dryer or ventured out into the wilderness.

With my busy schedule, I’ll be the first to admit that finding sufficient time to catch up with my childhood friends has been difficult.

Wearing that hoodie is a reminder of the most important people in my life. It keeps my home close to my heart and a part of the Bay with me at all times.

However, my story remains a small blip in the recorded history of the deli. For my friends and me, it became our second home. For the thousands of locals who went there, it was the best way to start their morning off with a good meal.

For Nick’s father, it was his gift to the world. A gift he opened to everyone, especially me, with open arms from the very day he took over the business. It’s the way he always was.

And I can say without a doubt, there’s no greater honor than sharing his gift every time I put that maroon hoodie on.