I drove past the Blue Ridge Deli & Cafe recently and wondered how I’d never seen it before, given that I’ve lived in Durham my whole life (with the exception of college) and the place looks well-worn: white paint cracked like dry skin, red patio umbrellas faded to the color of pencil erasers, a single decorative snowflake stuck to the window.
The deli sits on the corner of South Alston Avenue and East Cornwallis Road—a low-key oasis in the restaurant desert between North Carolina Central University and Research Triangle Park.
Inside, the decor consists of gentle imitations—brick-patterned wallpaper, fake flowers sprouting from wall-mounted baskets—that somehow make the place feel more welcoming, as if someone turned their dining room into a sandwich shop and didn’t want to change too much.
Like any good deli, the Blue Ridge has coolers overflowing with bottled drinks—Jarritos, Arizona teas, Celsius, and dozens of other juices, seltzers, and sodas—and shelves stocked with Miss Vickie’s and Lay’s.
I’m here for an early lunch at 10:30 a.m. Breakfast hour at the restaurant has just ended. The menu board behind the counter showcases classic sandwich options (roast and corned beef, meatball and Italian subs, tuna and chicken salad) alongside salads (Greek, Caesar), burgers, and hot dogs. Everything is under $11.
Tuna salad is what I make at home when I don’t want to think too hard about lunch, and in this homey atmosphere, it feels like the right choice. I order tuna salad on a hoagie roll with lettuce and tomato for $8.99.
When I ask to add fries ($2.79), the woman at the register tells me that the kitchen can’t make that addition since they’re still prepping lunch items. But then a window slides open behind her, revealing the kitchen, and a man leans through—the owner, I gather later, based on how regulars greet him.
“I’ll put ’em on,” he says of the fries, and the window slides shut. My total with tax, tip, and a surcharge is $15.50.
It’s the Monday after Thanksgiving, objectively a downer day, but the mood in the restaurant is light. A steady stream of customers filters through the space, each one cheerful even in the face of minor disappointments: A man who discovers breakfast ended ten minutes ago pivots to a burger without a hint of complaint. Another asks hopefully about tater tots, and when told they don’t have any, responds with “No worries, you guys are awesome.”
After a few minutes, the cashier brings my food out in a styrofoam box. The sandwich, wrapped in wax paper and foil, weighs more than I expected. The bread is fresh and spread thick with mayo. It cradles a tuna salad that sparkles with celery bits but avoids the compulsive additions—onions, olives, capers—that restaurants often throw in.
The fries are dusted with what looks like paprika and shaker parsley. They’re perfectly crisp, and I’m grateful the owner made the extra effort.
I finish my lunch and head out, passing that snowflake in the window again.
Later, while looking at photos that reviewers have posted online, I realize that the snowflake has been in the window, year-round, for at least six years straight. Some things are just waiting for you to notice them.
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