When Yakov Zalewski stepped onto the bustling streets of New York City in the year 2025, he nearly fainted.
The last thing he remembered was the year 1892, fresh off a steamship from the Russian Empire, coughing from the stench of Ellis Island and dreaming of America. He had come with nothing but a bundle of clothes, a handful of kopecks, and an insatiable hunger—one that only a New York deli could satisfy.
And now? The city had transformed into a glittering beast of glass and steel. Carriages had no horses, lights blinked with strange symbols, and the people… so many people! Rushing past him with glowing rectangles in their hands, their voices clipped and fast, like an auctioneer on speed.
But Yakov had no time to be bewildered. He was on a mission.
His stomach rumbled, and he did what any self-respecting immigrant-turned-time-traveler would do: he followed his nose. The scent of pastrami, mustard, and rye called to him like an old friend.
The Deli Hunt Begins
Yakov made his way down a street called Houston, scanning the storefronts. He half-expected to see the name Ginsburg’s Delicatessen, the hole-in-the-wall where he had spent his first meager wages on a pastrami sandwich thick enough to make a rabbi weep.
Instead, he found a place called Katz’s Delicatessen. A line snaked out the door. The smell—oh, the smell! Smoky, briny, beefy goodness. He walked in, overwhelmed by neon lights and the sound of an electronic register beeping like a tiny demon.
A man behind the counter eyed him up and down.
“You want pastrami or corned beef, my friend?”
Yakov, still adjusting to this new world, placed a firm hand on the counter.
“I want the best.”
The counterman grinned. “You came to the right place.”
Moments later, a sandwich the size of a small child landed before him. Thick-cut pastrami, piled so high it looked unstable, mustard dripping down the sides, rye bread lightly toasted. He took one bite and nearly collapsed.
“This… this is the taste of home,” he whispered.
A man at the next table chuckled. “Been coming here since I was a kid. Some things never change.”
Yakov, still reeling from the flavor, nodded. “Not everything should.”
The Black & White Cookie Dilemma
Satisfied but determined, he moved on. The black and white cookie was next.
He wandered through the city, stopping a young woman with pink hair and a nose ring.
“Excuse me, where is the best black and white cookie in all of New York?”
She sized him up, noting his old-fashioned clothes, furrowed brow, and thick Eastern European accent. “You a time-traveler or something?”
“…Maybe.”
She smirked. “Try Zabar’s.”
Yakov set off, arriving at a bright, modern grocery filled with cheeses, smoked fish, and bagels so plump they looked like pillows. He found the cookies—half vanilla, half chocolate, their glaze smooth and inviting.
The first bite sent a shiver down his spine. Soft, cakey, with just the right hint of lemon.
He closed his eyes, letting the flavors wash over him. This was the dream.
A century and a half, countless changes, a city unrecognizable from the one he had first stepped into… and yet, here he was, eating the same black and white cookie, tasting the same past.
For a moment, time didn’t matter.
