Roxy’s is located a short distance north of downtown Seattle, across the Lake Washington ship canal, amid many cosmopolitan ethnic restaurants, microbreweries and bistros, in the left-leaning Fremont neighborhood. And so my wife and I made the 48-mile-each-way trek from our home in Gig Harbor to try it out.

The eclectic, artsy, funky urban village called Fremont is an icon of counterculture, complete with a seven-ton, sixteen-foot bronze statue of Lenin—the largest statue of Lenin in the United States.

Lurking under the Aurora Avenue bridge, an eighteen-foot-high concrete troll with a hubcap for an eye crushes a Volkswagen Beetle in its left hand.

   The sign at the drawbridge leading into
   town proclaims Fremont to be the “Center
   of The Universe” and urges visitors to
   “Throw your watch away!” The locals
   pretentiously proclaim the skyscrapers of
   nearby downtown Seattle to be their own
   personal suburb.

   Fremont’s well-known motto is “Deliberta
   Quirkas”—Free to be Peculiar. That might
   help account for the town’s annual solstice
   parade, which is known for its nude
   bicyclists.

   I was a little concerned because, according to the map, the deli was approximately equidistant from Seattle’s Gas Works Park and Shilshole Avenue. (In Hebrew, the word shilshole means diarrhea.)

Several large dogs were tied down in front of the restaurant. A street musician, accompanied by but not playing a wind instrument of some sort, was sitting outside on one of the benches intended for diners awaiting a table. Perhaps he was taking a break. The glass entry door had numerous cracks, but, miraculously, the sharp shards had not yet started falling out.

The sole encouraging sign was a completely full dining area—unlike Goldberg’s, the other Washington deli I’d visited, which was nearly empty when I was there. A busy restaurant usually portends a good meal. It was a warm, beautiful day and the fifteen-minute wait outside for a table inside went quickly.

Once we were seated, I immediately felt as if I’d been teleported back to the mid nineteen-sixties. A mural with stylized orange umbrellas and purple palm trees (I think that’s what they were supposed to be) filled one wall. It seemed more suited to a Parisian brothel than a Jewish deli. Of course, I’ve never been in a Parisian brothel so I really don’t know what one looked like. I was just making a supposition.

A cowboy painting, complete with cattle, dominated another wall. Obviously, Roxy’s decorations were remains left behind by one or more former tenants.

   The well-worn tables had heavy
   black cast-iron bases and Formica
   tops in assorted bright colors.
   There was limited counter seating.

   Everything oozed the feeling of old,
   clutter, and, with the possible
   exception of the tableware, not very    clean.

   As one restaurant reviewer had
   described the place, “a spectacular
   collision of typical New York diner and    hippie Fremont weirdness.” So much
   for ambience.

The noise level was deafening, all from conversations, none from Muzak. There was nary a deli aroma. The food preparation area was out of sight—which, in this instance, may have been fortunate.

No children were in the restaurant, which we thought strange for an early Sunday afternoon. Most all of the diners appeared to be twenty- or thirty-something, and were clothed and coifed as if they were reincarnates from San Francisco’s 1965 Haight-Ashbury district. The waitresses—some with prominent tattoos—were young and attractive, but much too thin to entitle them to a job at Hooters.

There was a tiny bar inside the deli, in a location where one would normally expect to see a deli case filled with meats, fishes, and cheeses. On top of one corner of the counter sat a framed photograph of a man who resembled the cartoon character depicted on the deli’s menu.

“Is that a photo of the owner?” I queried our waitress.

“No, it’s just a picture we found in a thrift shop,” was her glib answer. Obviously, she’d been asked the same question before. Somehow I didn't believe her.

   I noted that the menu had smoked
   whitefish listed. But, no chubs.

  “Do you have any chubs?” I asked. “My
   wife loves chubs.”

  “I don’t know what they are,” she
   admitted, matter-of-factly. So much for
   that.

   The menu had a full array of all the
   expected deli sandwiches, sides, soups, and entrees. Plus more. A whole lot more. A Reuben wrap—described as pastrami, sauerkraut, and Swiss cheese, rolled inside a spring roll wrapper, fried crispy, and served with Russian dressing. Muffuletta sandwiches. Fried pierogies. Calamari. Huevos rancheros. And, a number of other foods that definitely did not belong in a traditional Jewish deli.

Instead of Splenda in the familiar yellow packets, the waitress brought a chrome-topped glass sugar dispenser, filled with a bulk version of the artificial sweetener. At least, that’s what the jar was labeled. I had my doubts.

I settled on the smoked whitefish, which was offered either as a plate or a sandwich. I asked for the plate, but was brought the sandwich: A toasted bagel, with a modest amount of cream cheese, tomato slices, a large pile of thinly-sliced onions that appeared to have been sitting in water to keep them from drying out, and an extremely generous helping of capers.

Oh, yes. There was some whitefish. It was mostly hidden by the capers. At least, I think it was whitefish. From the texture and taste, it might have been Chicken-of-the-Sea albacore, straight from the can. But it was fish, and it was white.

Would I eat at Roxy’s again? Perhaps, if I were already in the neighborhood. All in all, it was kind of a fun place. On second thought, no. I would not eat there again.

Was Roxy's a real deli? Again, no. Despite a menu filled with a plethora of delicatessen foods, a deli it was not.