At the newly opened AJ’s Deli inside Mount Vernon Marketplace, purists will recognize the classic fried bologna hot dogs and pastrami sandwiches. But the modern-industrial looking stall, which highlights eight bar seats equipped with charging stations for phones and laptops, also offers beer and wine, a potato-latke eggs benedict, and sandwiches filled with “tuna-cado” salad—a healthier version of traditional tuna mixed with avocado as a binding substitute.

“Mayonnaise-heavy deli sandwiches are of a bygone era,” says AJ’s owner Alan Morstein, whose concept mirrors a deli he formerly operated in Ocean City more than 35 years ago, but with an updated twist. “It’s all part of this new wave of delis.”

The vibe at AJ’s is indicative of a larger trend across the country. As old-school Jewish delis continue to shutter their doors, new ones are modernizing their menus in order to change with the times. At the weeks-old Call Your Mother Deli in Washington, D.C., an Instagrammable wall mural greets diners looking to sample dishes like whitefish croquettes and a bagel schmeared with candied salmon cream cheese, crispy shallots, and micro radishes.

“There’s a whole different style now,” Morstein says. “It’s not like what my parents used to take me to, and it’s not like what I used to take my kids to. It’s where my kids are taking me now.”

Diners across the country began to take a hard look at what the future held for old-school sandwich shops two years ago, after the iconic Carnegie Deli in New York City sliced its final corned beef-on-rye. Since then, owners have repeatedly cited retirement and the rising costs of quality meats and ingredients as part of the reason for the dwindling number of delis.

“I don’t think we’re going to see any more real, full-service delis open very often, if ever again,” says Alan Smith, owner of Lenny’s Delicatessen in Owings Mills, which also has a spinoff inside Horseshoe Casino. “It costs a lot of money to do it, and you need a lot of help.”

Baltimoreans started to feel the void in the spring of 2017, when Lenny’s closed its 26-year-old Lombard Street location on Baltimore’s famed “Corned Beef Row”—a once-bustling food district that now houses its last remaining delis, Attman’s and Weiss.

When Smith was approached by the nearby Helping Up Mission about taking over the space last year, he decided that it was the right time to close the Lombard Street staple and focus his energy on his other two locations. Soon after, Suburban House shuttered in Pikesville, and, just last month, Mueller’s Deli closed in Northeast Baltimore.

“I don’t think delis are closing down because of lack of business, I think it’s because people don’t want to get into the business anymore,” says Neil Parish, who opened The Essen Room in Pikesville last fall. “Back in the olden days, it was much easier to get product and to get help to make the product. Finding help is next to impossible now. People are using pre-cut nova because they can’t find anyone to slice it.”

In a time when many new deli owners are updating their dishes, Parish decided to go back to basics with a menu highlighting old-world items like kugel, knishes, and kreplach. Though he says he is constantly given feedback about his prices, he sticks to the philosophy that quality “always wins out.”

In fact, many of the remaining family-owned eateries are committed to upholding the time-honored traditions established by delis of yesteryear. Smith, for example, says that the menu in Owings Mills hasn’t changed since Lenny’s first opened its doors in 1985, and he doesn’t plan to modernize anything any time soon.

“It’s hard work, but I’m not tired of doing it,” Smith says. “We have no plans to go anywhere. It’s all I’ve ever done—I don’t know how to do anything else.”

And while the city may never return to the heyday of traditional delis operating around every corner, with a few standbys still going strong, a classic corned beef sandwich won’t ever be hard to come by.

“I don’t believe that the concept of a Jewish deli is dying,” Parish says. “Where other guys are going out, there are still some of us left who really want to spread the message.”

While I can’t say for certain, I’m fairly sure that the idea of food guilt was first born at a Jewish deli—a place with matzo balls as big as billiard balls, inch-thick hot dogs, and sky-high sandwiches crowded with Brobdingnagian portions of pastrami, chopped liver, and Russian dressing.

Such is the case at The Essen Room, a new Jewish deli in Pikesville, whose slogan is: “Where size does matter!” and where there’s a place on the Wall of Shame (and a free meal) for anyone who can single-handedly consume in one sitting the G.B.M.F.—that’s great big mother f—er—a platter of corned beef, brisket, turkey, roast beef, and pastrami (usually something meant for three to four people). Then again, with food this good, guilt has no place at the table. Years back, owner Neil Parish moved to Cherry Hill, NJ, where he owns a sister spot, The Kibitz Room.

Luckily for us, he wanted to spread his New York-style deli love—and his “secret” house-made brown mustard—all the way back to the Baltimore area, where he was raised and still has family. Visit The Essen Room, on the site of a former Original Brooklyn Water Bagel Co., anytime during business hours, and prepare for a bit of organized chaos—clearly, Pikesville-ians have been starving for this for a long time.

With its white subway tile and row of salamis strung from the ceiling, this place will feel instantly familiar. For me, several pilgrimages to Essen were particularly personal. Dining at Essen, which means “eat” in Yiddish (and German), feels like a return to home, a safe, familiar harbor in uncertain times. At a time when the world feels upside-down, I can count on the fact that corned beef on rye with mustard is still the same staple I ate as a kid.

My biography, in fact, is written in the deli display cases. There’s the noodle kugel, with its fine egg noodles mixed with cottage cheese, sour cream, and sugar like my mom, Millie, made for every Jewish holiday. There’s the cow’s tongue that, much to my dismay, my Russian immigrant grandmother, Beila Salkoff, thought of as a delicacy, and the kippered salmon that reminds me of every bris, Kiddush, and shiva I ever attended.

Even if Eastern-European cuisine is not part of your heritage, there are so many things to love, from the giant menu with clever combinations, such as one creation with turkey, corned beef, and tongue with coleslaw and Russian dressing; and another of fries with brisket, fried onions, barbecue sauce, and cheddar cheese. To add to the authenticity, you’ll also find cans of classic Dr. Brown’s soda in the cold case and an all-you-can-eat pickle bar, including half-sours, sour tomatoes, and hot and spicy peppers.

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Onion Rings

Order these spectacularly crispy, deep-fried marvels and we guarantee you’ll soon be shedding tears of joy. Eat them on their own or consider them as a crunchy companion to whatever else you order.

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Someone should write a love song about the pastrami reuben, with its thin, buttery ruby-red fatty folds of smoked meat served on lightly seeded rye bread and adorned with several slices of Swiss, a drizzle of Russian dressing, some spicy brown mustard, and a soupçon of sauerkraut. The whitefish salad sandwich also deserves high praise. Unlike many salads of its kind, which tend to be overly puréed with too much mayo, this version features fat chunks of flavorful fish and only a tad of mayo. The matzo ball soup, aka Jewish penicillin, more than lives up to its nickname, with house-made chicken stock, wide egg noodles, pieces of chicken, and feather-light matzo balls.

Then there’s the potato knish, a doughy snack stuffed with puréed potato, onion, and spices. Typically, knishes are little starch bombs fried in chicken fat. At Essen, which features eight different types of knishes, including one stuffed with hot dogs, the dough is like fine pastry and the filling is light instead of leaden. Knish pros will know to dip theirs in Neill’s house-made mustard to moisten them.

Cross the finish line of your meal properly and choose from among many promising desserts, including seven-inch-high carrot cakes, house-made cheese Danishes, and jelly-filled hamantaschen, traditionally eaten during the holiday of Purim, but available here year-round. I settled for a slice—make that a brick-sized slab—of babka, a type of Jewish coffee cake, swirling with chocolate and studded with nuts and raisins.

While the eminently friendly staff can feel harried at times, that only adds to Essen’s appeal. Order at the counter, and the food arrives at your table in a New York minute—which is a good thing, because you’ll need extra time to tackle whatever is on your plate. And there’s no shame in that.