In an era of prestige television dominated by dystopian dramas and billion-dollar fantasy epics, finding a comedy that feels both refreshingly original and deeply human can feel like stumbling into an oasis. Enter Deli Boys, Hulu’s under-the-radar series that has quietly become one of the most heartfelt, hilarious, and culturally resonant shows of the year. Blending razor-sharp wit with a tender exploration of family, identity, and the chaos of modern life, this eight-episode gem is a masterclass in balancing humor and heart—and proof that great storytelling doesn’t need a superhero budget to leave a lasting impact.
Created by sibling duo Amir and Layla Rahmani, Deli Boys follows the misadventures of the Hakimi brothers, Jamal (Amir himself) and Sami (Ramy Youssef), as they navigate the trials of inheriting their late father’s struggling Brooklyn deli while grappling with their own clashing ambitions. Jamal, a former finance bro turned reluctant entrepreneur, wants to modernize the shop with artisanal sandwiches and Instagrammable decor. Sami, a perpetually unemployed stoner with a heart of gold, just wants to keep serving the neighborhood’s classic bacon-egg-and-cheese crowd. Throw in their no-nonsense mother, Leila (Shohreh Aghdashloo), who’s secretly plotting to sell the deli to retire to Florida, and you have a recipe for chaos that’s equal parts The Bear and Everybody Loves Raymond—with a distinctly immigrant-family twist.
What sets Deli Boys apart isn’t just its laugh-out-loud humor or its endearing characters, though it has both in spades. It’s the show’s unflinching yet affectionate portrayal of the hyphenated American experience, where tradition collides with ambition, and where love often manifests as thinly veiled criticism over a plate of kuku sabzi. In a television landscape that often reduces cultural specificity to stereotypes or tokenism, Deli Boys revels in the messy, beautiful details of its Iranian-American protagonists’ lives—and in doing so, becomes universally relatable.
The Secret Sauce: Where Humor Meets Humanity
At its core, Deli Boys is a show about failure—or, more accurately, about the absurdity of trying not to fail. Jamal’s attempts to gentrify the deli backfire spectacularly (see: the “Za’atar Avocado Toast” that costs $14 and sells exactly once to a confused tourist). Sami accidentally becomes a TikTok sensation after a video of him ranting about “the sanctity of processed cheese” goes viral. Leila’s schemes to sabotage her sons’ efforts—including hiring a health inspector to shut them down—are both diabolical and weirdly endearing.
But beneath the slapstick and the snark lies a poignant exploration of grief. The brothers’ father, Ali, looms large in their lives despite never appearing onscreen. His absence is felt in the faded Polaroids taped to the deli’s fridge, in the handwritten recipes Jamal refuses to update, and in Sami’s quiet guilt over never measuring up to his dad’s expectations. “The deli isn’t just a business—it’s a shrine,” Amir Rahmani explained in a recent interview. “For Jamal and Sami, saving it means proving they’re worthy of their father’s legacy. But they’re too busy fighting each other to realize they’re fighting for the same thing.”
This emotional undercurrent elevates the comedy from merely funny to profoundly resonant. A scene where the brothers argue over whether to replace their dad’s ancient meat slicer cuts to a flashback of Ali teaching a young Jamal how to layer pastrami, his hands steady and sure. The moment isn’t played for tears; instead, it’s followed by Sami accidentally launching a pickle jar through the shop window. Yet the weight of what’s unspoken lingers, a testament to the show’s deft tonal balance.
A Love Letter to Immigrant Families (and New York City)
Like Fresh Off the Boat and Master of None before it, Deli Boys finds humor in the generational and cultural gaps that define immigrant households. Leila, a first-generation Iranian immigrant, views her sons’ Americanized quirks with a mix of pride and bewilderment. (“You charge $5 for iced coffee? In Tehran, we paid customers to take our leftovers!”) Her relentless pragmatism clashes with Sami’s laid-back idealism and Jamal’s corporate jargon, but their arguments are always rooted in love—or at least in a shared fear of losing the deli’s soul.
The show also serves as a love letter to New York City’s vanishing mom-and-pop shops. The Hakimi deli, with its sticky linoleum floors and “NO SUBSTITUTIONS” sign handwritten in Sharpie, is a character in its own right. Regulars like Mrs. Kowalski (a scene-stealing Annie Potts), who’s been ordering the same egg salad sandwich since 1997, and Diego (Juan Castano), the bike messenger who uses the shop as his unofficial therapy office, create a tapestry of community that feels authentically lived-in.
“We wanted the deli to feel like a place where everyone knows your name, even if they’ve never asked for it,” said Layla Rahmani, the show’s co-creator and head writer. “In a city that’s constantly changing, these spaces are anchors. They’re where you go when you’re homesick, or heartbroken, or just really need a decent cup of coffee.”
The Cast: Chemistry You Can’t Fake
A great comedy lives or dies by its cast, and Deli Boys boasts ensemble chemistry so natural, you’d swear the Hakimis were a real family. Amir Rahmani’s Jamal is a masterpiece of comedic tension, his Type-A neuroses simmering beneath a veneer of LinkedIn-ready optimism. Ramy Youssef, best known for his Emmy-winning series Ramy, delivers a career-best performance as Sami, infusing the character with a lovable slacker charm that masks his deeper insecurities.
But it’s Shohreh Aghdashloo who steals every scene she’s in. As Leila, she’s a force of nature—equal parts schemer and protector, delivering zingers like “If God wanted avocado in a sandwich, he wouldn’t have invented mayonnaise” with the gravitas of a Shakespearean soliloquy. Her dynamic with the boys oscillates between exasperation and devotion, culminating in a standout episode where she teaches them to make her late husband’s secret falafel recipe—while passive-aggressively comparing them to her friend’s “successful dentist son.”
Why It Works: The Magic of Low Stakes and High Stakes
In a TV climate dominated by apocalyptic stakes and antiheroes, Deli Boys thrives on the intimate. The central conflict—will the deli survive?—is small in scale but enormous in emotional consequence. Each episode revolves around a relatable crisis: a Yelp review war, a failed catering gig for a gender-reveal party, a misguided foray into DoorDash. Yet within these everyday battles, the show explores universal themes: sibling rivalry, the fear of irrelevance, and the struggle to honor tradition while embracing change.
The writing’s specificity is its superpower. A subplot about Jamal’s obsession with replacing the deli’s “outdated” neon sign becomes a metaphor for his own identity crisis. Sami’s viral fame forces him to confront his own ambition (or lack thereof). Even the side characters get moments of unexpected depth, like when Mrs. Kowalski reveals she’s been saving her egg salad sandwich wrappers since her husband died.
A Blueprint for Modern Comedy
Deli Boys arrives at a time when many sitcoms feel either overly sanitized or cynically edgy. It rejects both extremes, opting instead for humor that’s warm but never saccharine, biting but never mean. Its diverse cast and crew (over 70% of the writers are first- or second-generation immigrants) ensure that cultural jokes land with authenticity, not appropriation. A running gag about Jamal’s inability to pronounce “ghormeh sabzi” correctly isn’t just funny—it’s a subtle nod to the linguistic tightrope walked by many children of immigrants.
Visually, the show embraces its scrappy charm. The deli’s cramped quarters are shot with a documentary-like intimacy, while dream sequences—like Sami imagining himself as a TikTok-famous “Sandwich Shaman”—burst with surreal, meme-inspired flair.
The Verdict: Stream It Now
In a crowded streaming landscape, Deli Boys is the rare show that feels both comfortingly familiar and thrillingly new. It’s a comedy about family, identity, and the struggle to keep afloat in a world that’s always changing—themes that resonate far beyond the walls of a Brooklyn deli. With its whip-smart writing, flawless cast, and big, beating heart, it’s the kind of show that doesn’t just make you laugh; it makes you feel seen.
Or, as Sami would say while handing you a too-greasy breakfast sandwich: “Don’t overthink it, man. Just enjoy the ride.”