Bob Koch

Koch's deli

by Doron Taussig

Michael M. Koehler

With all due respect to living Philadelphians, my favorite Philadelphian is deceased. His name was Bob Koch, and he may have been the first thing I actually liked about this city. I came here fresh out of college, "to see about a girl," as they say. I didn't know heads or tails about Philadelphia, and, to be honest, my first impression wasn't particularly good. I went shopping at a West Philly grocery store, and everything I got had flies in it.

It was a friend from Penn who took me to Koch's, on 43rd and Locust. I was awed. The line in this tiny box of a Jewish deli wrapped around itself and out the door ... and yet everyone standing there seemed happy. This was largely due to the exploits of Bob.

A big, round, mustached man, he presided from behind the counter, cutting a few extra slices of meat or cheese every time he made a sandwich, and passing them down the line as "appetizers" (of course, if you stood there for an hour, as people often did, you wouldn't be hungry by the time you got your food). As he worked, he chatted everyone up, talking sports, telling occasionally dirty and always corny jokes (What do you get when you cross an elephant with a fish? Swimming trunks) and basically drenching everyone with his infectious optimism. I stood on line for probably 45 minutes, and had a good time. I think I got something called the Special K, a monstrosity of salted meats and Russian dressing.

Of course, I became a regular. Now, for ye Koch's faithful, I should admit that I won't be able to do justice to the place. There were people who were regulars there for decades (Bob was a second-generation owner); the walls are now plastered with communications from people who moved away 15 years ago and still write to say hello. But I will share the following two observations: One, Bob had a phenomenal memory, and he used it to make people feel appreciated. My wife once went into the deli with my mother, and every time we saw Bob after that, he would ask after my mom — always remembering that it was my mother he'd met, and not my wife's, though I hadn't been there. Two, Bob could, through sheer force of personality, make an asshole be polite. Every once in a while, someone would come in to Koch's in a foul mood, often because of the wait. But he was fed some meat and affectionately mocked, and before long, he was transformed into another friendly customer.

Bob died in 2005, at 58, of heart failure. I've always felt bad that I never wrote about him when he was alive (oh, the stories he must have had), and I stopped going to his deli after he passed. But I went back last week. I was startled to find the physical place much the same — all the wall paraphernalia is still in place, the same big menus hang behind the counter — and shortly after I came in, I was handed a slice of corned beef. It turns out that Bob's family had been really impressed with the job that Ezra Haim, owner of a deli on City Line Avenue, did catering Bob's funeral, and asked him to take over the place. For months, Haim studied at the foot of Bob's brother and former employees, to learn how to replicate his style, both culinary and social.

On this afternoon, the clientele includes a middle-aged woman who's been coming here for 30 years, the Rev. James Myles, who's been coming here for 20, and Tim Arnold, a Jersey resident who first came to the deli about 18 years ago, as a college freshman, and still drops in when he's passing through the city. Arnold has a friend who got engaged in Koch's — Bob slipped the ring under a piece of provolone and handed it to her. Personally, I can't imagine incorporating my deli owner into a marriage proposal, but if I were going to, Bob would have been the guy.