Every few Sundays throughout the 1980’s my family would make the long drive to Sunny Isles to visit The Rascal House. This delicatessen off Collins Avenue was massive. There were two gigantic dining rooms that seemed the size of an aisleless supermarket. But no matter how many seats they had, there was still a long line to get a table. Sometimes we waited 45 minutes which seemed like an eternity to a kid in an age before portable screens. I’d often soothe my impatience by telling myself this was like The Magic Kingdom only for elderly Jews.
Just like Disney World had Mickey Mouse, The Rascal House had their own cartoon logo, a little rascal whose face greeted you on their massive roadside sign. Also on the sign were various puns and one-liners you might find on a fortune cookie. Some examples I found online included “While we stop to think we often miss our opportunity” and “the smell of pickles/ brewed in brine/ and cabbage soup/ that tastes like wine”. Inside were also a few life size sculptures of the cartoon rascal frying an egg.
But the main attraction was the food. Even before you ordered anything, they fed you well. Metal bowls of pickles, cole slaw and various other pickled entities were left for you. Then came the basket of rolls and butter.
The menu was as massive as the dining space. It went on forever. I’ve been vegan for so long it’s hard to recall how I salivated for the beef stew filed with large chunks of cow and smaller portions of potatoes, carrots, and peas. And then there was the large bowl of matzah ball soup where our whole table had a laugh when a waitress took away Grandpa’s bowl as he was in midbite.
The desserts were the restaurant’s pride and joy. They had them on display to tempt you. Huge pies the size of a car tire filled with apples, cherries, or blueberries. Strawberry shortcakes and lemon meringue, coffee cakes and crescent rugalachs.
I’d often eat so much I had to lie down on the cushioned booth as the adults kept eating or waited for the check. The sound of all the conversation and the forks clanging into the plate and the glasses of water banging on to the tables was almost as loud and constant as that of the waves slamming into the shore at the beach.
The waitresses wouldn’t take your money. You had to go up to the cashier by the exit to pay. Sometimes I’d get impatient with the whole Rascal House ritual and I’d wait by the cashier for us to go home. I still have a vivid memory of seeing some old guy settling up. He coughed up a big piece of phlegm, only to spit it unapologetically on the diner floor. To a ten year old that was the height of comedy.
As the decades passed, we’d still occasionally make the pilgrimage to the Rascal House. Some time in the 90’s they added television screens which was always showing sports highlights.
Time marched on and each visit the dining rooms were a little less crowded. Their loyal customers passed away and in March 2008, they served their last corned beef after 54 years in business. For a while it was a gourmet market called Epicure, taking advantage of its supermarket size. Epicure closed down in 2017 and ever since then the building at 17190 Collins Avenue has stood vacant, haunted by the ghosts of pastramis past.
