“The Table by the Window at Katz’s”
It was a cold Tuesday in January, the kind of day when the city feels more grey than grand. Mia had just missed her train, her phone was dying, and her gloves had vanished somewhere between Brooklyn and the Bowery. She ducked into Katz’s Delicatessen, hoping for shelter—and maybe something hot to chase the chill out of her bones.
She’d never been before, despite living in New York for five years. But today felt like the right kind of wrong to try something new.
Inside, the air was warmer, thicker. The scent of brisket, pastrami, and pickles wrapped around her like a wool blanket. The chatter of locals and tourists swirled together, punctuated by the clatter of trays and the quick rhythm of the carving knives.
She fumbled with her wallet at the counter, and that’s when he stepped up behind her.
“You’ve never been here before, have you?” the stranger asked, smiling. He wore a beanie, a long navy coat, and eyes that looked like they’d seen this scene a hundred times.
“Is it that obvious?”
“First-timers always freeze at the counter. Don’t worry—I’ve got a system.”
Before she could object, he ordered two pastrami sandwiches—one lean, one juicy—and led her to a small table by the window. She didn’t usually sit with strangers. But this was Katz’s. Somehow, the rules felt different here.
They talked about everything and nothing. About bagels and Broadway, about missed connections and the magic of a well-made sandwich. As the snow started to fall outside, she found herself laughing more than she had in weeks.
“I come here every January,” he said, folding his napkin slowly. “It’s the month my dad used to bring me. We’d always sit right here.”
Her smile softened.
“This table?” she asked.
“This one. Always.”
And somehow, it didn’t feel like a coincidence that she’d found it too.
As they parted ways, he handed her his number scribbled on the back of a Katz’s ticket stub.
“Next year,” he said, “same time, same table?”
She looked at the window fogged with warmth, the crowd still buzzing, and the memory already forming.
“Deal,” she whispered.