brent’s

“Hungry People Eat at Brent’s,” the sign that greets us proclaims, and we are among the hungry when we arrive. Outside, it is damply gray and occasionally rainy, and the deli’s bustling interior seems all the cozier for it. Just inside, would-be patrons stand in quiet groups, mostly families, mostly with very young children. More than one set of sons sport matching sweaters; their parents are outfitted in sweats and running shoes, a mild concession to the impropriety of actually wearing your PJs in public. We wait for 10, maybe 12 minutes before being whisked off to a midroom booth; our orders are taken quickly and dispatched with efficiency. Sunday brunch at Brent’s is one-half family affair and one-half well-oiled machine, an experience that is brisk without ever seeming brusque. Owner Ron Peskin prowls the room in a bright yellow short-sleeve button-down shirt, seating customers and chatting with regulars. His name, along with those of his wife and children, are printed at the bottom of each receipt, thanking you for your business.\n