How A 64-Year-Old Deli Keeps Its Line Out the Door

Good morning. It’s Steve Goldberg, owner and second-generation operator of the venerable Stage Deli.

Today, we launch a brand new newsletter. 

Why start a newsletter now? If you’re reading this, you probably already know your way around our dining room or deli counter. You know the West Side Story. But that’s not the only story we’ve been building for the last seven decades…

And it’s not easy to find the real deal when you’re dining out these days. It’s hard to please the whole family. Being in the business of hospitality is not for the faint of heart, and I give credit to all of the delis, past and present, that have made their mark in our community.

Over the years, we haven't lost our chutzpah or our dedication to the craft. I know I own the joint, but I think that the Stage — as it approaches 65 years in business — is actually operating better than ever. 

Fact is, my father set an incredible foundation for us that we continue to honor and build on. We are still doing things the right way, no cutting corners, using family recipes passed down for generations (even as we’ve tweaked the menu over the years to make sure we meet the needs of everyone).

From our history with Broadway, to turning the classic deli into a proper sit-down restaurant, to my father’s game-changing invention of double-baked rye, the Stage has quietly influenced food culture across the country. You and I both know that a proper Jewish deli that’s stood the test of time is worth celebrating. So, every month, this newsletter will tell stories from one of America’s true culinary institutions.

Now sit down, eat your pickle, and let me tell you a few.

Today, I want to start at the beginning (of our story, not of life as we know it). My parents, Jack and Harriet, opened Stage Deli in Oak Park when I was seven. My dad invested his life savings in the business, putting everything on the line. As you can imagine, my parents spent a few hours inside the restaurant. If I wanted to see them, I had to go there and work on the weekends.

I started off washing dishes, standing on a wooden soda crate so I could reach the sink. It was a thrilling experience to punch in on the time clock. I’d get my 50 cents an hour, and it was exciting for me. I was a kid earning a paycheck. I felt like one of the adults, only much shorter.

More than specific experiences, I remember the feelings of being a kid here — the excitement and bustling energy of the dining room, the thrumming of a three-piece jazz band we had on the weekends, and the intoxicating smells of the fragrant corned beef and pickles. All of those memories, those feelings, are pressed and folded into who I am. It’s a part of me. I like to say that I’ve got deli in my DNA. Pastrami on the brain; Russian dressing in my veins.

My dad was a pioneer. His concept in opening was to take the deli from a diner and cafe to a hip, happening restaurant. Something cool and elegant. A cut above the rest. He achieved that, and people followed. He had close connections to the theater community through my gregarious and always well-dressed mother. My parents knew theater legend Joey Nederlander, whose family owned the Fisher Theater in downtown Detroit. You have to remember that at that time Broadway was all the rage. It was the thing to do. Back then, there was a theater in Oak Park called the Northland Playhouse. And after productions, all the stars would come to the deli. The actors would have such energy and adrenaline from being on stage. They were all hungry and talkative, just incredibly interesting people. Like Hemingway described Paris, Stage became a moveable feast — an enriching place for creatives to converse, to kvetch, and to argue over pastrami.

But, in the 1970s, the old Oak Park neighborhood was changing, and it was Stage’s job to change with it. That’s something you’ll hear me say often: it is the deli’s nature to adapt to the evolving needs of the community. Our clientele was moving northwest — the constant march of the Jewish population from downtown to where we are now in Bloomfield. We realized we needed to follow our customers, and we had an opportunity. The gentleman who owned the building in Oak Park was developing a new building in West Bloomfield, which is where I’m writing this newsletter today. It was a bit of a scary move: 45 years ago, West Bloomfield was not what it is today. We opened our doors with no fanfare, but within 10 minutes, the line to get in stretched down the block. Friends, that line has never gone away, and I thank you so much for that.

Throughout the ‘80s, I was in Los Angeles, where I was lawyer-ing. Then, in the early ‘90s, my father became very ill. I decided to return to Michigan, and he passed away about six months later. A decision had to be made: either sell the Stage or take it over. That’s when I realized that this deli is a part of me. An appendage. To lose it would be like cutting off my left arm. And even though I’m right-handed, I couldn’t stomach the idea. It was a no-brainer: I would take over Stage Deli for my late father.

Next year marks 65 years of Stage. The city has changed. The world has changed. Broadway has transformed. But the deli remains. Passed from my parents, to me, and now to the third generation — my daughter, Jolie, who has the same deli DNA in every cell in her body. She’s got that same sharp eye and passion. She’s an excellent conductor of the orchestra. Three generations, and with my grandkids, hopefully a fourth will be involved. Sometimes I think Stage Deli is going to live forever.

Through it all, the deli is always here. We are always here. We still make stuffed cabbage the same way we did over 60 years ago. We serve kreplach and matzo ball soup the way my dad and I learned to make it from my grandmother. We make our signature double-baked rye the same way my dad did when he invented the technique. We have an amazing fresh fish program, and we still get our smoked salmon and sable from the same purveyor who supplies the premier appetizing shops in New York City. There’s so much to be proud of here, so many stories to tell, and I’m delighted to tell them in this monthly dispatch.

I’ve got to go, because now my boss (my wife) is calling. And — you guessed it — somebody has to get back to slicing the pastrami. But I want to say that while this is our home, it’s yours, too. So thank you for supporting us all these years, and thank you for keeping that deli line long.

With Love (& Pickles),

Steve Goldberg