| rev:text
| - 'Scuse me while I whip this out. A five-star review, that is.
Slyman's. Dear, Slyman's. How the hell do you do it? You've managed to take a simple piece of meat, all but devoid of character, lackluster in its common nature, and you've transformed it into a work of art. If Michelangelo had chosen brisket instead of marble, this would have been David. If Shakespeare had found inspiration in ethnic deli foods, this his Romeo and Juliet.
What magic, what mystical activities must have occurred to allow such a transmogrification of animal flesh? I simply cannot believe that it came from this world. It's not possible. I won't allow it to be so. Something so wondrous, so divine could not have been fashioned by mere mortals. The Gods surely played a part.
Within your hallowed hall, your walls adorned with celebrities from near and far, a half-century's worth of corned beef essence lingers. How many loaves of rye bread gave their lives for this greater purpose? How many cucumbers walked willingly toward their briny doom, knowing full well that they were meant to lie next to a pile of cured, smoked meat? I dare not calculate such large numbers lest I approach the insanity known only by true geniuses.
Each bite is a spiritual journey. An Indian dream guide dressed in thin, stacked meat. Unctuous, tender, juicy, salty, smoky, brilliance embraced by slices of rye bread whose spice and seed can't help but spill in its honor. And the crinkle fries and creamy slaw, how they genuflect without countenance. How can such a creation be anything but food for the soul, manna rained down upon countless souls yearning for grease-covered lips? To the naysayers, to the cardiologically protective, I say I will not acquiesce.
The crowds push the small, unassuming building to its limits. Tables packed with elbow-to-elbow pastrami fanatics, a daily occurrence to which I'm sure you've grown accustomed, yet still flitting servers and busboys manage to make each feel at home. Water glasses miraculously filled, napkins ever-present, and the line, my god the line, it never stops. The front door cant contain the faithful. They keep coming. Mouths agape, stomach's aching to be filled.
Slyman's, you are more than a restaurant. You are more than a palace of sliced meat. Slyman's, you are a piece of Cleveland. You are a cog in the Northeast Ohio machine without which the hum and whir of its progress would cease. You are embedded deeply within the city's DNA, the adenine to its thymine, the guanine to its cytosine. Fifty years and counting. Carry on, my carnivorous brethren, for your path is beset by the hungry, paved by crushed appetites, and your mission right. Carry on, fulfill your destiny. Because of you, Oh Slyman's, Cleveland's corned beef legacy is made immortal.
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