Reasonable citizens can disagree about which pastrami is the best in New York, and therefore the universe. Some praise the prototype at the ever-flashy Carnegie Deli. Others stake their money on the thick, hand-cut version at Katz’s. (While we appreciate the fervent West Coast partisanship of Langer’s fans in L.A. ... c'mon.)What’s beyond dispute is that pastrami on rye is the Platonic ideal of deli food: two simple slices of good caraway-laced bread, an inconceivably high pile of warm sliced beef, perhaps a modest smear of mustard.
Pastrami is the very triumph of man over meat. It begins with a simple slab of brisket (or plate) — a cut that, unlike the simple grill-and-serve of more obvious hunks of cow, begs for transformation.
Then a dry cure: salt, undoubtedly a good portion of cracked black pepper, maybe some sugar and spice — which sits on the meat as it is smoked with eternal patience. New York meat expert Mr. Cutlets notes the Carnegie cures their pastrami for two weeks. When finally ready, whole pastramis are steamed for several hours before serving.
It’s an Old World cooking schedule, with a name derived from a Yiddish take on Romanian pastrama, and even older possible roots in Turkey. But it was New York’s Jewish immigrants who claimed pastrami as their own in the early 20th century, and made it a staple of culinary life in this greatest of food cities.
