You wouldn't expect a sandwich counter in Forest Hills to smell like rosin and sunscreen, but come late August, the place carries a faint athletic musk mixed with grilled onions and toasting rye. The US Open qualifying rounds pull players from everywhere—Bucharest, Buenos Aires, Brisbane—and this narrow lunch spot three blocks from the USTA grounds becomes their unintentional clubhouse. You sit elbow-to-elbow with someone who just lost in straight sets and someone else prepping for an evening match, both ordering the same pastrami on rye.
The Counter Runs on Muscle Memory, Not Menus
The menu board hasn't changed in years, handwritten in marker on white laminate, but nobody really reads it anyway. Regulars call out orders before the door closes behind them. During qualifying week, you hear the same thing: players pointing at the grill, miming sandwich assembly in fractured English, nodding when the counterman suggests adding coleslaw. The rhythm here is pure diner ballet—plates sliding, pickles clanging into metal cups, the hiss of the flattop every ninety seconds. You learn to read the room by sound. When the sizzle stops, someone's about to walk out with a brown paper bag, headed back to the courts. The fluorescent lights buzz at a frequency that somehow makes the whole operation feel faster than it is.
Egg Creams Become the Universal Language
You overhear orders in Portuguese, French, Croatian, and something that might be Mandarin, but everyone manages to land on "egg cream" without translation. The counterman doesn't ask which flavor—he already knows it's chocolate unless you stop him. The drink comes in a tall glass with a foam cap that collapses as you watch, the kind of thing that tastes better when you're overheated and slightly disoriented. Players drink them standing up, one hand still gripping a racket bag. The whole transaction takes maybe four minutes. What's strange is how this hyperlocal New York thing—a seltzer-milk-syrup hybrid that doesn't exist anywhere else—becomes the default refreshment for athletes from countries that have never heard of it. By midweek, you see people ordering two at a time, one for now and one for later.
The Afternoon Lull Belongs to Coaches and Sparring Partners
Right around two-thirty, the crowd shifts. The players who've already finished their matches clear out, and in come the coaches, the hitting partners, the people whose names you'll never know but whose faces show up courtside in background shots. They take the two booths in back, spreading out notebooks and phones, talking strategy in low voices. The vibe gets quieter, more calculating. You can tell who just won and who just lost by how they hold their shoulders. One guy orders a turkey club, pulls it apart, eats only the turkey and tomato, leaves the bread. Another sits with black coffee and a notebook, diagramming something that looks like football plays but is probably serve patterns. The light coming through the front window turns golden and dusty, catching the steam rising from the grill.
Locals Know to Avoid Lunch Rush, Circle Back at Four
If you live in Forest Hills year-round, you've learned not to walk in between noon and one-thirty during qualifying week. The line snakes out the door, and the counterman stops making eye contact because he's moving too fast to process faces. But if you show up around four, after the second wave clears and before the dinner prep starts, you get the place almost to yourself. That's when the older regulars reappear—the ones who've been coming here since before the tennis center expanded, back when this was just a neighborhood shop that happened to be near some courts. They sit at the counter, read the Post, eat soup. The contrast is sharp: an hour ago this place felt like an international transit hub, and now it's back to being a corner spot where someone asks about your grandkids.
The Specials Board Reflects No Tournament Whatsoever
What's funny is how little the shop acknowledges the invasion. No tennis posters, no signed rackets on the wall, no "Welcome Players" chalk art. The specials board lists matzo ball soup and a roast beef situation, same as it does in February. The only concession to the crowds is an extra box of napkins on the counter and maybe a second person working the register during peak hours. It's not performative humility—it's just a family-run operation that doesn't see the point in changing its identity for two weeks a year. The players seem to appreciate it. You get the sense they're tired of being recognized, tired of the tournament bubble, and this place lets them be anonymous people eating sandwiches. Nobody asks for autographs. Nobody takes photos. It's an unspoken truce.
The Walk Back to the Courts Feels Like a Procession
When you leave, you're almost always walking the same direction as everyone else—toward the low hum of the stadium, the distant pop of serves, the amplified voice announcing a score change. The streets fill with people carrying takeout bags, all moving in a slow current. You see someone balancing an iced coffee and a phone, rewatching match footage as they walk. Someone else is on a call in Spanish, laughing about a missed volley. The neighborhood absorbs it all without flinching. By mid-September, the players will be gone, the lunch counter will return to its regular hum, and the only evidence of this annual convergence will be a slight uptick in egg cream sales that nobody bothers to explain.
Practical Notes
The shop sits a short walk from the Forest Hills–71st Avenue subway station on the E, F, M, and R lines. During qualifying week in late August, expect crowds from late morning through early afternoon. No reservations, no table service—just counter ordering and a handful of seats. Cash is easiest, though cards work. The egg creams run a few bucks, sandwiches are low-key cheap for what you get. If you're coming specifically for the tennis-adjacent atmosphere, aim for the weekday lunch window when players are rotating between morning and afternoon matches. The shop keeps typical deli hours, closed one day a week. Don't expect tournament schedules posted—you're on your own for that.
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Sources consulted: eater.com · timeout.com · infatuation.com
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