When I was a young boy there was an old man who held a secret recipe for the best pastrami. I would love to sit and listen to the stories of how his grandfather passed the recipes along to him. Whenever Irving prepared the pastrami, he always had a happy look on his face while mixing up the secret sauces saying, “wait until you taste this one.”
One day, after helping Irving shovel snow, he took me to his small kitchen, which he nicknamed, “The Pastrami Shack.” Irving had a sad look on his face and said, “Kid, I got some bad news from the doctor today,” and he quickly left the kitchen. As you would expect, I was saddened.
Irving slowly walked back in and handed me a small, timeworn lockbox. “In this box, kid, is all of my grandfather’s original recipes from the old world. The secrets are in your hands now. My grandfather always wanted me to open a pastrami shack and share his recipes with others. I was never fortunate enough to do anything other than make it here in my kitchen, but promise me, if you ever get the chance, you will share my pastrami with the world.”
I promised Irving that I would, and that was the last time I ever saw him alive.
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