a color story: Kat'z deli

Pastrami sandwich. Oh, dear pastrami sandwich. My original Canadian Pastrami experience was rooted in Montreal’s Schultz. Until I had this sandwich, I never considered Mustard an authentic condiment- I treated the yellow spice as a sidekick to ketchup, not a standalone thing. But how else could one cut through the spices and fats involved with the juicy pastrami meats? Mustard was the only way to go. Interesting fact, it probably helped out on the calorie count as it served none — not that consumers would consider such a number before pastrami consumption.

Regardless of the simple combination of the meat and non-ketchup condiment, my last history interacting with the sandwich resulted in a car window jacking during the daylight in Montreal’s Little Italy. Mirror shattered. Missing laptop, phone, and wallet. The Montreal trip ended abruptly, driving 12 collective hours in a single day. This unfortunate event also signaled a long dry vacation spell for five years

Also, I haven’t had a pastrami sandwich ever since.

But, now, five years have gone by. I was in front of an institution. Katz Deli. Highly publicized via tv shows, youtube videos, what have you. It would be an insult not to make the visit. A New York visit without a $25 Kats Deli sandwich? Say no more. I was a tourist. So, let me play tourist.

Along Houston Road, the wide single-floor building stood with a long line of customers. Oh jeez. Even at this time of day — I assumed 3 pm which was supposed to be an off-hour in most food businesses — they served, served, and served. Oh my. A line. Let’s build the anticipation. Let’s build up that hunger. If the sandwich disappointed at least we were part of the cultural phenomenon. Waiting in line for a pastrami sandwich.

Of course, there was a neon light at the side. And there was security at the front like a nightclub, big, tall but gentle-voiced. If it wasn’t for his physical demeanor, one assumed that the gentleman acted as a host. The thought of a petite short girl controlling the flow of highly anticipated tourists or aggressive New Yorkers belittled the idea of “hosting”. He asked if I was a party of one. I nodded. Then, I looked around my surroundings. To see where the question was rooted from. Bing. Bing. Bing. He cut off the line after me. The wait ended outside.

Now, there was a chaotic funnel to the meat counters. The space was big — not even just for New York standards. Lots of tables, lots of staff, and most importantly, a crowd. People munched on their pastrami, pickles, large fries, and the rest. I saw an Asian “brother” with a subtle face gesture when he returned the trays after finishing up his meal. It wasn’t a look of dissatisfaction nor amazement. I think he looked disgusted at how much money he spent at the institution. I laughed internally- he must be new to the tourist lifestyle.

Oh no. A new pool of people swarmed in from the corner door. The line waiting game changed. There was a new breed of tourists or just locals? It had to be locals. They were making aggressive cuts, obnoxiously excusing themselves. I observed with awe. One could save time if they just went to the unpopular line all the way back. Then, I made my adjustments and moved further deeper into the shop. I settled down and now I was in the belly.

Everybody moved in anticipation, inching forward. Chit chat. Chat chit. No pastrami talk, no Katz talk. Just day-to-day things. How’s school? Movies. Weather and such. I couldn’t stop looking at the menus. Looking back at this event, I couldn’t believe my traumatic car experience in front of Schwartz didn’t kick in at this point. It could be the buzz that Katz fostered. It could be a different scent or aroma that didn’t trigger the connection. Or maybe five years was enough time to get over the incident. This was a different sandwich shop, after all.

Two groups ahead of me, an Asian tourist took a video of the butcher cutting away at the pastrami. Jeez. Making us all look bad huh. I wondered if the butcher appreciated it or not. But, I bet he got used to it. One group ahead of me. I don’t know whether the pieces at the beginning were complimentary, or part of the history of serving. But, I was all for it. Freshly cut Pastrami pieces right before serving? Costco please take notes. Don’t do it for your margins, do it for the culture.

“Now, if I may, could I grab a Pastrami Sandwich, please.”

On a side plate, the butcher served four thick cuts of the pastrami. Ooo, I felt extra lucky. This big boy indulged in every piece — not out of manners, not out of Katz customs, and not out of my habit of finishing the plate.

Munch. Munch. Munch. Mmm.

Okay. I understood the hype. I understood the double lineups. I understood the locals who visited. I understood the price point. And now, I understood the Asian brother earlier — I read him wrong. He finished his Katz experience and now he had to go back to whatever occurred before it. This melting meat wasn’t a fascination nor a simple cash grab — it was an escape.