By: Russ Spencer

By all measures, Saul Zabar was not merely a grocer — he was a cultural institution. A fixture of the Upper West Side whose very name became shorthand for excellence in smoked fish, sharp cheddar, and the unspoken art of New York conviviality, Zabar died Tuesday at the age of 97, as first reported by The New York Times and later confirmed by The New York Post.

Zabar had been hospitalized with a brain bleed at the time of his passing, The New York Post report confirmed. His death marks the end of an era in which one man’s commitment to quality, consistency, and neighborhood spirit transformed a single smoked-fish counter into a defining landmark of Manhattan life.

“A true New York legend. He gave the city lox, love, and a place to argue over babka,” Mayor Eric Adams wrote on X, paying tribute to the man whose name still looms in bright orange letters over Broadway. “Zabar’s isn’t just a store, it’s a slice of NYC soul. May his memory be a blessing.”

Saul Zabar’s ascent to culinary immortality began not with ambition, but with obligation. As The New York Post report recounted, he had been studying medicine at the University of Kansas when tragedy struck — his father, Louis Zabar, died suddenly in 1950 at just 49 years old. The young student returned home to help his mother, Lillian, manage the family’s modest smoked-fish department inside a Daitch supermarket on Broadway.

He never went back.

What was then a small counter selling pickled herring and whitefish under fluorescent lights would, over the next seven decades, become the epicenter of New York gourmand culture. Under Saul’s leadership, Zabar’s expanded to occupy nearly an entire block between West 80th and 81st Streets, morphing into a sensory wonderland of imported cheeses, artisanal bread, coffee, cookware, and, of course, the city’s most celebrated smoked salmon.

“Back in the 1960s, we introduced New York to Brie,” the Zabar’s website proudly proclaims. “In the ’70s we brought them sun-dried tomatoes and gnocchi. In the ’80s, we got so excited about caviar… that our prices set off a so-called ‘Caviar War’.”

That “war,” as The New York Post report chronicled, began in 1983 when Zabar’s and Macy’s went head-to-head over holiday beluga caviar pricing, each lowering costs until the delicacy briefly became attainable to middle-class New Yorkers. “Incidentally, we won,” the store’s history boasts — a line that perfectly captures Saul Zabar’s mix of pride and dry humor.

Zabar’s genius lay not only in innovation but in discipline. He was, by all accounts, a perfectionist — a trait that earned him both admiration and fear from his staff.

The New York Post and The New York Times have both recounted a now-famous moment that encapsulated his philosophy: after tasting an unsatisfactory whitefish, Zabar reportedly hurled it to the floor and stomped on it in disgust. The message was unmistakable — mediocrity would not be tolerated under his watch.

That relentless standard was the engine of Zabar’s success. Over the years, he introduced generations of New Yorkers to flavors they didn’t know they needed. His store was not simply a place to buy food; it was a cultural touchstone, a gathering place for intellectuals, comedians, and cab drivers alike, all bound by the shared pursuit of a perfect bagel.

“Saul’s pursuit of excellence defined not only his work but his entire life,” said Scott Goldshine, Zabar’s longtime general manager, in a statement obtained by The New York Post. “We will all miss his company and presence profoundly, and his spirit will forever remain at the heart of Zabar’s.”

Saul’s life was deeply intertwined with his family, both in business and in spirit. After taking over from his mother, he worked closely with Murray Klein, a marketing savant who helped transform the store’s identity in the postwar era. When Klein retired in 1993, Saul’s brother Stanley Zabar stepped in as vice president and chief financial officer, cementing the enterprise as a family dynasty that has outlasted nearly every other independent grocer in the city.

A third brother, Eli Zabar, went on to open his own upscale markets on the Upper East Side, while the next generation continued the tradition in creative ways. Saul’s nephew Sasha Zabar, whose ice cream parlor next door to the family store became a viral sensation for its decadent $10 hot chocolate, recently opened a candy shop — a modern echo of the family’s sweet legacy.

“Saul was hands-on, with a heart for service and a commitment to the workers, customers, and neighbors that entered his realm,” said City Councilmember Shaun Abreu, whose own family includes longtime Zabar’s employees.

Even in recent years, Saul was a regular presence in the store, often spotted in the aisles chatting with loyal customers or sampling smoked sable to ensure it met his standards. “He was here every morning, sometimes before we opened,” one employee told The New York Post. “He cared about every detail — from how the coffee was brewed to how the rugelach was arranged.”

Zabar’s was always more than just a grocery store. It was, as The New York Post report said, “a “temple of taste”, where the aroma of freshly ground coffee mingled with the salt of brine barrels and the chatter of regulars debating the day’s headlines.

“Every inch of Zabar’s is a conversation,” one Post columnist once mused, “about where to find the best bagel, whether sable is superior to lox, and whether the babka should be chocolate or cinnamon.”

That vitality made the store a magnet for both tourists and locals, a place where movie stars stood shoulder to shoulder with retirees debating whose turn it was to grab the number ticket at the smoked-fish counter. In an era when big-box stores and delivery apps have gutted neighborhood shopping, Zabar’s has remained fiercely personal — and proudly old-fashioned.

Under Saul’s leadership, Zabar’s even expanded its reach beyond Manhattan. In recent years, the brand has partnered with Coach, the luxury fashion label, and even with the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA) for limited-edition collaborations — a testament to how deeply embedded the Zabar’s name had become in the cultural fabric of New York.

Saul Zabar is survived by his wife, Carole Ann Zabar, their three children — Annie, Aaron, and Rachel Zabar — and four grandchildren, as well as his brothers Stanley and Eli. Aaron serves as senior manager of Zabar’s, while Annie works as assistant vice president, ensuring that the business remains a true family operation.

“My father’s legacy lives on in every bagel, every slice of smoked fish, every cup of coffee, and in the countless conversations that fill our store each day,” said Annie Zabar, in a statement shared with The New York Post. “He poured his heart into this place—just as he did into every pot of coffee he brewed—and his influence will always guide us.”

In many ways, Saul Zabar’s story mirrors that of New York itself — resilient, uncompromising, and endlessly evolving. Through wars, blackouts, economic downturns, and pandemics, Zabar’s remained a constant: a beacon of warmth and familiarity in a city that often moves too fast to savor its own traditions.

When news of his death broke Tuesday afternoon, an impromptu memorial took shape outside the store’s iconic orange awning. Customers left flowers, handwritten notes, and paper bags scrawled with messages like “Thank you for every Sunday morning” and “You made New York delicious.”

Inside, employees moved quietly between counters, many in tears. “It feels like we lost the mayor of the Upper West Side,” one cashier told The New York Post.

That sentiment — echoed by thousands who have passed through Zabar’s doors — captures the essence of Saul Zabar’s legacy. His store was not just a purveyor of food but a curator of belonging, an institution where even a stranger could feel at home with a bagel and a smile.

In a city that defines itself by change, Saul Zabar’s constancy was revolutionary. His passing closes a chapter in New York history, but his presence — like the aroma of smoked salmon and fresh coffee drifting down Broadway — will never fade.

As The New York Post so aptly put it, “He didn’t just sell food. He sold New York itself — by the pound.”