customer. This uptown store owner, Ed, was also a second-generation Italian. Not much of a conversationalist though. He’d check your order and send you on your way in under three sentences.
Today DiBruno Brothers has grown into a Philadelphia retail Leviathan, taking up a city block in downtown. But Emilio is as friendly and as humble as ever. He gives me a hug and says he’ll swing by the booth later. I finish walking the top floor not seeing anything all that new besides a company selling fried fish skins like potato chips. Back at the booth everyone is busy talking or promoting product, a Fancy Food Show like any other.
That Sunday and Monday are a blur of repetition. The only thing that stands out is the same annual rumor; the infamous Fancy Food “orgy”. As urban legends go, look around the show at your potential partners and know real fear. On Tuesday morning as we set up the booth, for a second I see Greg Solomon of Eli’s. Except Greg is dead. He moved to Long Island a few years back. I talked with him from time to time about coming out to see him. But stupidly something always came up.
The very first sales call I ever made in the food business was to Greg when he was running the cheese department for Eli Zabar. If there is royalty in NYC then the Zabars family would be it. Eli and his two brothers Stanley and Saul had a falling out at their West side Manhattan store. So Eli went to the East side and set up his own shop. To a Manhattanite back then that was like moving to a different city.
His latest emporium on 80thstreet and 3rdAvenue was appropriately named “Eli’s”. Greg was his big cheese. I rode the store escalator down to the basement, turned left, and walked over to his prep area. There was no Whole Foods then, and their larder showed the lack of competition. I’ll never forget that day. Greg was talking to a silver haired gentlemen in an expensive suit. I waited, but Greg took one look at me and said “You’re Damir’s kid?”
I said yes, apologized for not having an appointment and offered to come back at another time. Greg, disarmingly mellow and with a thick, raspy Long Island accent said “No, that’s ok give me a moment.”
He then, I shit you not, opened a cryovac pouch of smoked fish, smelled it, paused, opened the bag wider and threw it into the face and suit of the other salesman. That man and myself were in complete shock. He just sort of stumbled away. Greg turned to me with no change in facial expression and said “What do you want?”
Over time he developed a soft spot for me. While Greg was famous for being tough, he was always patient and tried to teach me a bit about food. And deep down he was a really nice guy. Think of him as a smart, hard-working cookie monster of cheese. He could’ve given some of the most famous people in the industry a run for their money in expertise. But while Steve Jenkins from Fairway was being featured in the NY Times, Greg would drive in ridiculously early, get his job done and head home.
Back then rumors were rampant about how some retailers hired the right public relations firm with employees related to the right food critics. Or let the more famous ones shop for free on a weekly basis. This was something the Zabars family, East or West, would never stoop to. As I get older more and more people that I know in food are dying. While it is often the assholes, occasionally a few of the good ones like Greg get caught in the mix.
