Too Many Words™ - A Tale of Two Sandwiches

To walk from Katz's deli in New York City to Schwartz's in Montreal would involve trekking for 599 kilometres along US Highway Nine. And it just might be worth it.

In fact, someone may be able to walk the full distance while you are reading this diatribe on the subject, as I will go on a bit in this next piece in my "Too Many Words About…" series. 

Comparing the two is a smoked-meat tale of epic drama. The best of lunches, the worst of lunches.  A saga which left me shocked and amazed. And it all happened just a few days ago.  (Cue the back-in-time montage music, and blurry vision…)

In New York City for the weekend, we, with a couple of decades of exposure to Montreal's smoked meat royalty,  vowed we would finally make our way over to Katz's Deli.

Seems like the perfect time to explore how many words can I can possibly write about a smoked meat sandwich.

Living in Ottawa, we find ourselves in Montreal on a regular basis.  There, Schwartz's deli is a bit of
Schwartz's Montreal - via Google StreetView
a temple of smoked meat. Figuratively of course. If it were literally a temple of smoked meat it would be kind of floppy, and too humid inside.

Around since 1928 on St. Laurent Blvd (AKA 'The Main') it has served up smoked meat to regulars, lunch-counter style, and built up a close following of devotees world-wide, one sandwich at a time.

Yes, I'll be first to admit that it has evolved into a bit of a tourist trap. Invariably there is a long lineup to get in, and these things tend to feed off themselves.  The line-up experience spreads the tale of the line-ups, like rivers worthy of fording for the treasures on the other side, and the legend draws more visitors.

Some locals will look with disdain and claim that it used to be something more.  But once you are crammed around a table with a group of strangers (every seat counts here) and get your $6 sandwich, you are happy that you waited a bit on the cold winter avenue, or under the sweltering August sun to get your sandwich and a Cott's 'black cherry' cola - the drink of choice.

There's a definite culture about the place.  You get a sense of it from all the tweets, newscasts, YouTube videos and short-film productions that rant about the place.  But with a few visits you get to feel it for yourself.  A camaraderie with other patrons both regulars and first timers.

It's when you're sitting there, with people of diverse origins that you occasionally strike up a conversation and hear the stories of first visits, or witness someone experiencing it then and there. Invariably it's a bit understated. It comes after the first bite. Someone chewing, nodding. "It's good." is typically the first indication.  A few minutes later: "This is good."  The rest of the mystique builds days later, back home when you start to think of your next visit.

People are respectful of one another, I've found over the years.  I haven't had anyone become an over-bearing instant pal because you're sharing a table.   Sometimes there's no more than a smile as you share the mustard.  Other times you have a bit of a conversation. Usually it's after the expectations have been met, and the chewing is loosening tongues.

Sometimes your tablemates aren't the couple from Calgary who described the flooding last year, nor the large family from Nunavut that ate a years-worth of smoked meat in one sitting, nor the couple from Ottawa, or the local guy beside me when I went solo on a business trip to get a quick-access stool at the bar.  He had a steak(!)   Sometimes it's someone from the States who raves about the experience and adds "I guess this is kind of like Katz's deli in New York."

I always wondered about that.  Well, now I can say, "No, not really."

Because of those conversations, Katz's had been on our agenda for a while.  Last weekend, we were in the Big Apple, looking for the big sandwich.

We had started the afternoon with a walk along the East River, and a quick duck under the Brooklyn Bridge.  You don't really have to duck, it's quite high, but there were some waterfowl there too.

We then decided to catch a subway over to the High Line, NYC's spectacular park on stilts.  It was a bit of a chore, because some subway security incident had disrupted the service, rendering a couple of lines closed, and diverting huge throngs of people onto the other lines.

We had a bit of an elevated walk in the sunny spring weather with crowds much bigger than we'd hoped. We had a seat on a stylish sculpted bench, and feeling peckish, we remembered our vow to locate and conquer Katz's for a late lunch, and thus achieve what we had not managed to do on previoius trips to NYC.

We found out quickly that we had been very near to Katz's that morning, and heading back would put us deep into the suspended-subway mess again.  I reluctantly proposed that we again skip it for the current trip.

K had the right attitude, though, and suggested moments later that no, we should make it happen this time and stop putting it off.  Thus we walked a few blocks to a south-bound thoroughfare, and hailed a cab, which barreled headlong through the streets, horn honking, to bring us along the SoHo/NoHo boundary and our destination.
Katz's New York - via Google StreetView

Here, like Schwartz's, there are line-ups at 3pm of smoked-meat seekers. As veterans of the
cured-meat queue, we were unfazed and took our place, and a few selfies with the signage. Since 1898, no 1888, proclaims the hand-altered sign.  Clearly, during the 30 years between their emergence and the rise of the Montreal deli experience, significant advances were made.

Upon gaining entry, you realize that there are both similarities and differences.  Schwartz's and Katz's both preserve some history in their decor.  A nice patina of age and kitsch.  But rather than the friendly arbiters of seating in Montreal,  here there are barking NTSA-like bouncer-types handing out cryptographic blue tickets and directing you towards a shoulder-to-chin crowd, wedged up against counters where workers slog away serving up sandwiches.  Their repeated orders barked out constantly. "Do NOT lose your ticket" they say, and the signs too threaten.  There are hints of grave financial penalties for anyone who tries to leave the building without a ticket. Is there really a smoked-meat force that imprisons ticketless dissidents?  Keep your ticket, you need it to get out, even if unused.  What is it used for, one wonders.  What nefarious scheme could I perpetrate were I ticketless and managed to run the border?  I never did find out.

"How does this work" we ask a young lady at a podium amidst the throng.  We are told you can order and acquire your food in one of the lines at the counter, and take a seat at any of the specially designated tables.  "Do NOT use the tables along the edge, they are for table service," she warned.
"What if we want table service?"
"Stand over there and we'll call you."
And so we did.

We waited again, but were still hopeful.  Finally we and another local-ish couple were given seats at a table for six with (gasp!) a space between us.

We had barely picked up the menu, trying to find the options.  Ah, cherry coke here too - a consistent drink pairing logic then.  A good omen, but where is the sandwich?   Wait a minute.  Is this $18 item the sandwich?  Really?  We this asked of a waiter, who popped by before we had barely sat down.  "Is that really for just a sandwich?"

"Yup."

We looked at each other.  Do we really want to do this? We weren't sure.  We felt a little abused, like we had just been plucked from a sinking ship, and barely out of the water, we needed to hand over our wallets and wrist watches for the lift in to shore.

The waiter was quickly gone to let us read the menu, and we debated staying.  I think I would have left at that point, though  K pointed out that the investment was already substantial in terms of time, cab-trajectory-life-risk,  cab fare, line-up time and corral time.  In for a penny, in for a pound. So we decided to plunge ahead.

Then we waited. And waited. And waited.

FINALLY after probably twenty minutes, a waiter returned to take orders from both couples.  The other dating duo kept their spirits up.  We were a bit more impatient to get our insanely-priced hostage meal, but the customer abuse continues.

It's one thing to demand extortionate prices for a sandwich - I can almost understand that. As long as people line up, you may as well keep charging more to maximize your revenue, I suppose. If that's all that's important to you.  But the ridiculously slow service and empty table space seemed to contradict that. Really, wouldn't you rather maybe charge a bit less and pump the patrons through the place with speedy service, and quality food, raking in the profits?  Schwartz's could show them a thing or two both in the kitchen and in the manager's office. 

Probably twenty minutes later the waiter was back, and we put in our order.  Cherry coke, corned beef (they have both corned beef and pastrami).  Can we get a half-sour pickle?  Oh yeah, we give you a whole plate of pickles anyway.  Well, there is that, anyway.

Guess what? Then we waited, and waited again.  I looked at the time to see it was an hour after our arrival before we saw the food.  The copious staff seemed to be active, but not busy.  There was much standing around behind the counters.  Our piled high smoked meat arrived though, and the proof, as they say, was thus about to present itself via the pudding.

I'll jump to the chase then.  The Katz's product, after all of that, was substantially inferior.  The meat isn't seasoned as well. Moreover,  the cut is very coarse and chunky and drier than the Schwartz's.  There's no flexible choice of lean, regular or fatty, though K noted there was an option for lean if you PAID MORE.

How better to illustrate the experience than with tweets - the ultimate source of documentary evidence of real life.  I quickly found tweetable illustrations from @foodpornx and @snagfilms - both of whom took excellent pics of the respective products.  So I offer Twitter evidence to let you compare:
And here is the Schwartz's result, illustrating a finer cut, and the bread...
The bread on the Katz's sandwich was insubstantial white/pseudo-rye, whereas the Schwartz's was more dense, tasty rye that meets your rye expectations.  Even the cherry cola was a disappointment.  Cott's black cherry had set my expectations. The Katz's option tasted watery, and unflavourful.

Well, let's not draw it out.  We sacrificed just under $50, but at least we can share the experience with you.  The local-ish couple wrapped up as we did and the young man said to his date, "those sandwiches are $18."  "What? $18 each? Holy cow!" she exclaimed.

Maybe one of two outcomes will result from this, my manuscript to future lunchers.  Maybe Katz's will dispatch an emissary to Montreal to see how it's done properly, and then lose the authoritarian ticketing and self-serve hell they've created, and work to improve the product.  Or maybe you, dear reader, will choose not to spend your hard earned dollars in visiting them.   Or, maybe if nothing else, you will decide to give it a spin anyway, and at least know what to expect.

But, hey - it turns out I can write a LOT of words about a couple of smoked meat sandwiches.

Ultimately, other than for blog-fodder, I wish I had known a bit more before venturing through those doors.  I may well have turned left towards US Highway Nine, and started the walk towards that other city, where 'tis a far, far better smoked-meat sandwich I have eaten, than I ever ate before.
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