The Simple Pleasure of Dropping $50 at Zingerman’s

Ann Arbor — Zingerman’s Delicatessen is a genuine Ann Arbor landmark, lauded far more than most other Jewish delis, apart from maybe Katz’s in New York City. It’s so revered that you’d think the history goes back to the founding of U-M itself. There’s something more here than just good sandwiches, almost a mythos that draws people in.

Let’s face it: Zingerman’s hype exceeds its grasp. Overpriced and overrated, the brand name has taken on a life of its own. Despite all that, I’ll be the first to admit—it really is the best deli in Ann Arbor, perhaps even the whole state. The sandwiches are stellar, so long as you don’t look at the bill.

Zingerman’s is actually a fairly recent invention, as far as historic delis go. Founded in 1982 as just a delicatessen, it’s since expanded into a bakehouse, creamery, coffee shop, restaurant, catering service, and gourmet grocer.

Walking into the deli complex on Detroit Street, the first thing you see is the fresh baked bread piling the shelves on the right. Usually, the counter is staffed by one of the bakers, telling customers all about the wide variety of breads on display.

It’s not your typical American grocery store bread. This is the real stuff. Farmhouse white, sourdough, multi-grain, rustic semolina round loaves, baguettes. Sliced, or unsliced, depending on your preference.

Filling out the rest of the main space is a refrigerated display case and gourmet meat and cheese counter. There are the standard cheeses, of course, provolone, cheddar and Swiss and the like. But also a variety of gourmet cheeses, too many to name, from the stinkiest bleus to feta straight from Greece.

Big jars of olives too, Castelvetranos, kalamatas and Spanish olive mixes. Pickles, from cornichons to sweets. Dried sausages, from chorizo to Austrian Landjaeger.

Legs of Spanish Jamón Ibérico de Bellota, arguably the finest ham in the world, sit atop the counter. Dried and cured from pigs fed only with acorns, it’s sliced razor thin and commands a hefty price per pound.

Artisanal slabs of bacon fill out the rest of the counter, from American varieties, like broadbent bacon, to other international varieties of fatty pork, like guanciale (pig’s cheek) and pancetta.

This is just the first room. Around the corner are more artisanal grocery items, olive oils, vinegars, spices and various salts. A Zingerman’s employee implored me to test out a new spice blend, cracking it into my hand and asking me to smell it. He was impressed when I recognized the Szechuan peppercorn, a unique pepper from the orient with a sweet scent and numbing effect.

Up toward the back you’ll find the actual sandwich shop, usually with a decent line to wait in. Most of the ordering is done on big stand-up terminals these days, tablets with photos where you can explore the full menu.

Reubens are the classic, of course, but there’s always a rotating special or two. I went for Zingerman’s version of a croque monsieur, a French sandwich of ham, cheese and bechamel. I’ve had their pastrami offerings many times, but was curious to see their take on French-bistro cuisine.

The kitchen bustles constantly in the back, with orders coming and going, sandwiches being assembled, pickles constantly drawn out of giant vats. The wait can be long, sometimes over 30 minutes, before you even get your sandwich.

The indoor seating is fine, long tables on the second floor flanked by smaller, four-person tables. Most people were in groups, the tables were full, with so many people that parties after me stood waiting for empty chairs.

Of course, outdoor seating is always preferable, even on a cool spring day. There’s a big tent for that purpose on the patio outdoors, which undoubtedly is an even nicer place to enjoy your luxurious sandwich on a nice Michigan summer day.

The croque monsieur was interesting, and honestly delightful. Most French bistros serve it a bit thinner, with just a bit of cheese baked on top, almost more like a grilled ham and cheese. Zingerman’s, in characteristic fashion, loaded theirs to the brim, with thick ham and gruyere piled high on top of the sandwich. Paired with thicker country bread, it demanded a fork and knife to eat it.

I won’t disclose the price, maybe it’s giving away my age that anything over $20 for a sandwich seems preposterous to me. You can thank those years of Covid and Bidenflation for that. Best to just swipe the card and forget about it, and steel yourself for inevitably paying $50 for a simple sandwich sometime this century.

Let’s face it, Zingerman’s is a luxury brand, a place for luxury goods and similarly luxurious sandwiches. It’s not Jimmy John’s, or god forbid, Subway. You won’t find anything cheap there, and you’ll ask yourself if the price is really worth it.

It’s like anything else in the end, though. You pay for quality, perhaps even overpaying because that feels like an indulgence in and of itself. The humble Jewish delis of America may have started out as simple lunch counters, places you could have lunch at every day, but Zingerman’s has since become something bigger than that.

You’re paying for the brand name, because you know their pastrami is simply the best you’ll find around. Specialty groceries, fancy imported meats and cheeses, all speak towards an uncompromising culinary sensibility. It’s an aesthetic experience, as much as gastronomic.

Critics will say that regular Ann Arborites don’t go there as much anymore, that it’s mainly for tourists, or students when their parents come to town. That Zingerman's is, in the end, a rather elitist, expensive sandwich shop.

That may be true, but what does that tell you? A truly aristocratic sandwich must be worth a pretty penny. Forget the trappings of Ann Arbor’s socialist pretenses for a moment. Some things are worth indulging in, and fancy sandwiches are one of them.