Top Hat Deli
Since the ‘about’ section of Top Hat Deli’s website isn’t about food, this picture isn’t about food either. It’s the server’s nails, and they are fabulous.
Normally, a restaurant's “about” section has something to do with the food they serve. Not the Top Hat Deli. It’s the story about some stupid hat that no one wants to throw away. I may have paraphrased a bit here, but here goes:
Max bailed on Germany in ’36, showed up in NYC with a TOP HAT. He married Betty, had Jerry, and started slinging specialty foods.
Jerry grew up, married Harriet, moved to Miami, built Monel Foods, and brought that damn TOP HAT to every party—including his wedding. Gross.
TOP HAT: For the family that built it—loud, stubborn, unstoppable.
This “New York Deli" inspired place has a fun menu, cool drinks, and solid deli basics. It’s a big space, so I didn’t have to wait. They have a bench outside for such things, so it must happen. In the valley of tall buildings popping up in Fat Village, one wonders how long before the whole building gets stomped. I’m half Jewish, half Italian, and half Irish, though ethnically Mexican, so I felt right at home.
And, I guess they have food there. I got the Breakfast Ramen, which I usually love, but maybe I’m over it. It’s what it sounds like; smoky bacon ramen broth, sliced breakfast sausage, pork belly, and 3/2 of a poached egg…. yes three halves… in a big bowl with ramen noodles. It was all kinda one note. The novelty has worn off, and despite the different textures, it all had the same super salty flavor. I think that is the last time for me. I need to change it up next time.
I also got a toasted and scooped everything bagel with cream cheese and nova lox. It’s the Jewiest thing I could think of, and a staple of a “NY-style deli.” Maybe it was my seventh mimosa, but the sandwich wasn’t half bad. After reorganizing the tomato, onion, and nova into equal measure (seriously, why can no one do this correctly?), I ate the whole thing. Don’t fat-shame me for eating like I’m two, or maybe three, people—I have big bones and a high metabolism. And I am hongry.
Now, I must have been more liquor than LaZonya at that point, because I blacked out on the rest of the meal. Luckily for you, dear eater, I’ve been back to Top Hat since then. Once again, I searched for the Jewiest thing on the menu short of showing up in a Cadillac with plastic seat covers. And holy crap. All I have to say is: get the Classic Pastrami Sandwich. It comes on challah, but you can get it on pumpernickel/rye, which I recommend. Our waitress suggested it—she not only kept us liquored up, but also made fun of the people at the next table after hearing us do it. (We call that “foreplay” in certain circles here in SoFla.)
And who is “us,” you may ask? On this culinary odyssey, I was joined by my renowned eating companion, Fat Merp. Sadly, Fat Merp did NOT take the server’s advice and ended up with the dry-ass brisket sandwich, which needed a side of gravy to save it. Naturally, I offered Merp a bite of my masterpiece, and suddenly we went from brunch buddies to brawlers. Fat Merp saw the light and tried to wrestle my pastrami away from me—can you imagine? BAD MERP.
Well, it wasn’t a brawl so much as, “Oh, LaZonya, you were right, this is amazing.” By the time the dust settled, I was questioning every friendship decision I’d ever made—but with that many mimosas flowing, even poor life choices feel warm and fuzzy.
I will be back, and I will be getting another Classic Pastrami sandwich. I think it’s just called “The Classic.” They smoke the pastrami in-house every day, goddammit. Don’t get me started on the potato salad that Fat Merp was guarding as if starring in an episode of “Hoarders.” I managed to try it at least, but before I could get another dainty little forkful, that shit was GONE. BAD MERP.
