Let’s have a "sandwich" for lunch

(wink wink)

Welcome to Sub Stack, a member of the Debt Heads cinematic universe. It’s a podcast and newsletter about sandwiches and life. 

The Sub Stack #2:  Summer, 2024

Sandwich: Smoked Meat Sandwich

Sandwich Eater(s): Jamie, Rachel, Moss, River, Hero

Location: Montreal

Country: Canada

When you go Miami, you get a Cuban. When you go to Chicago, you get a hotdog. When you go to LA, you get a… $40 sprouted tofu wrap. 

And when you go to New York, you can get all of the above. But if you care about local cuisine (and sandwiches) you’re more likely to try a Pastrami sandwich over any of the the above specialties.

After all, a classic Pastrami on rye bread from a Jewish deli is quintessential New York.

So why were we, New Yorkers, queuing up in Montreal this week just to get a Smoked Meat Sandwich? Aren’t we supposed to be fiending for poutine, a thing that’s decidedly less popular in NYC?  

No, and here's why - because Smoked Meat in Quebec is different from Pastrami in New York. Even as When Harry Met Sally fans, we’d venture to say that it’s better. And we want to eat it all day. 

Before we explain the differences in delicatessen, we should probably explain that “Smoked Meat” is not mystery meat. It’s beef. 

When Jewish Romanians (like Jamie’s nana) immigrated to North America, some of them, (unlike Jamie’s nana) became butchers, and discovered the land of beef! They quickly began applying their curing expertise to this bountiful (and kosher!) meat. 

Jamie’s nana, who is not a butcher.

So what’s the difference between the smoked beef we lovingly refer to as Pastrami in NYC and the smoked beef called “Smoked Meat” in Montreal? 

These are the questions we pondered during our hours-long hike up Mont Royal, working up an appetite that could only be satiated by some form of … smoked beef. 

After some cursory research, we discovered that the difference between what you get in NYC and what you get in Montreal comes down to the cut of the meat and style of butchering. 

Here in Montreal, they use brisket cut in the British butchering style. In New York, most pastrami sandwiches are made using the fattier navel cut. As a result, the leaner brisket cut found in Canada, requires more steps to make it tender and flavorful. After the curing and smoking, Smoked Meat goes through a steaming process. It breaks down the lean tough meat into something as delectable as the fat-marbled version you find in NYC, minus some of the fat.

Viande Fumée Chaud from Schwartz’s which is capped, not marbled with fat.

Finally, in Quebec, a Smoked Meat sandwich is served by a Francophone who doesn’t give a rat’s derrière if us Anglophones are happy with how they do things, and that experience is actually glorious. 

We were in Montreal for no more than 30 minutes before we had our sights and stomachs set on procuring smoked meat. We were mere blocks from Schwartz’s, the most famous smoked meat maison in the city. But, always seeking an adventure, we opted instead to take a 30-minute walk into the heart of the city’s historically Jewish neighborhood, Mile End, to get our fix at another institution: Lester’s.  

This 73-year-old establishment seemed to be serving mostly older folk from the neighborhood. Spotting a silver-haired solo diner living his best life over a sampling of delicacies, we thought we’d hit the smoked meat jackpot, and sat ourselves beside him to follow his lead. 

The first meal you have in any foreign city is always fraught with financial concerns. You don’t want to burn through your limited food budget but you’re also so excited to experience this new cuisine and don’t want to play the ignorant tourist … especially the ignorant tourist who can’t speak the language. 

Try as we did, night after night, to improve our French language skills on Duolingo, our elation to eat smoked meats was quickly deflated by the realization that if we expected to eat dinner, we would actually have to attempt to place an order in French which we could not do. 

Poring over the highlighter-yellow, bi-lingual menu, we settled on what appeared to be a deluxe platter, complete with fries, cole slaw, pickles and bread. We figured if we added some orders of poutine, that would surely be enough Smoked Meat to feed our group of five big eaters. And wasn’t it a steal at $30 CAD? 

After whetting our appetites even further with three cold beers in Lester’s signature icy mugs, our stomachs were more than ready for the smorgasbord we had coming. We were 30 minutes into ogling our handsome, jovial neighbor who delicately noshed his meal when finally the moment we’d been waiting for arrived …

Our server approached — not with a wide tray overflowing with plates, not even with a dinner plate overflowing with meat — he approached with a single, solidarity dessert plate, holding a single, solitary sandwich. Surely that couldn’t be for our table.

Reader, it was for our table. 

Five people, mouths watering, stared at the one sandwich and realized with sadness and remorse what idiots we’d been. We had ordered one sandwich … for five people. 

It was a single sandwich, some “deluxe” sides, plus a small (yet revelatory) bowl of coleslaw, and two orders of poutine.

OK. No big deal, we thought, licking our wounds and splitting the two small slices of bread into cracker shapes piled with meat that amounted to one delectable bite each. We’ll just order more. 

Except, there was no ordering more. There was one frazzled waitress serving two large dining areas. We may have never seen her again if we had not, after about an hour, gone inside to ask for the check.

We were defeated. And hungry. For more smoked meat. How could we have messed this up so badly? 

The very next day we ended up at a diner that was conveniently located right next to Schwartz’s. We had no choice but to pop in and try to redeem ourselves. 

Luckily, Schwartz’s has a decidedly less intimidating to-go section where you can buy the meat, the bread, and all the fixings to build the smoked meat sandwich of your dreams.

We had every intention of doing just that. Except that as soon as we got home, we proceeded to construct the same little piles of meat on small morsels of bread, just the way we’d done the night before at Lester’s (although, this time, with the correct amount of meat).

Over the course of the day we revisited the container of meat, slathering on some mustard or taking a bite with a crisp, acidic cornichon, and more of that divine cole slaw. 

After a few hours of doing this, we had a realization:

The Smoked Meat Sandwich is not a sandwich at all. It’s a euphemism. For eating a pile of meat. 

If you ask us, breaking it down into its component parts and eating it like a smorgasbord fit for an 18th century king suffering from gout is really how it should be done. As sandwich enthusiasts, this non-sandwich gets our seal of approval. 

Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have some more meat to eat.

Smoke ya later,

J, R, M, H & R