A deli's demise: Q&A with Rye Deli owner David Weinstein

RICK NELSON | Updated 4/17/2014

When he opened Rye Deli in the fall of 2011, first-time restaurateur David Weinstein promised a different kind of deli. It was fun while it lasted.

A customer ordered lunch at the front counter at Rye, the former deli in the Lowry Hill neighborhood.
Bre McGee

When he opened Rye Deli in the fall of 2011, first-time restaurateur David Weinstein promised a different kind of deli. It was fun while it lasted — for this critic, anyway — until the restaurant closed on March 30. A few days later, amid the packing boxes in the dining room of his shuttered Lowry Hill restaurant, Weinstein offered a post-mortem.


A: It was a few factors. We didn’t have a consistent volume of business to justify our overhead. Our business was increasing continuously from the time we opened, but the gap was not bridgeable. And some of the goalposts kept moving. The price of beef kept going up, and we have a beef-heavy menu. Steakhouses can charge $50, but when you call yourself a deli, you can’t increase prices to keep up with increased costs. We have a 6-ounce brisket sandwich for $11, and we couldn’t keep raising the price to keep up with the price of beef.


Q: That always felt like a fair value to me. But not to others?

A: Our customers are price-conscious. Our check average is $15, and that kind of volume is hard to do. That led to our conclusion that we couldn’t get where we needed to be, and we decided not to prolong it.


Q: From the get-go, you seemed to have difficulties convincing people that Rye was a different kind of deli. Do I have that correct?

A: Many people had a very particular set of expectations. And it wasn’t an issue of quality; it was about different expectations. People would say they wanted a “deli-deli,” or a “real deli,” and they had an obvious image in their head.

No one goes to La Belle Vie and says, “Well, it’s OK, but it’s not the French Laundry,” because it’s not trying to be the French Laundry. But with a deli, there’s always a reference point. When it comes to most restaurants, many people are looking for something new. But when it comes to delis, people crave familiarity; they always want certain things available. They’re looking for nostalgia. Everyone has a different deli memory, and all those memories are competing with one another. We often met those expectations, but there were times when we didn’t, from the moment they walked in the door.


Q: So the moral of the story is that no one likes change?

A: People would say, “How can you call yourself a deli when you don’t have … ” and then fill in blank: a tuna melt, tongue, whatever. On the first day, a little old lady came up and told me that the borscht was wrong, that you don’t put carrots in borscht. She didn’t say it was bad; she said it was wrong. [Laughs.]


Q: How did you deal, on a personal level, with that kind of reaction?

A: I usually held my tongue, but sometimes it was tempting [laughs]. It was about seeing food from the past vs. tasting something new. I was satisfied with what we created. It met our expectations. We never tried to be a carbon copy of other restaurants, although we drew from examples from other cities. We just wanted to be a good Jewish deli in Minneapolis that did scratch cooking, to fill that need. We also wanted to have a bar that filled a neighborhood need as a gathering place.