Smoked Meat Sandwiches at Schwartz's Montreal

‘Oh it’s just like Paris’, everyone said, when I told people I was going to Montreal.  Curiously instead of bistros and brasseries, they implored me to try Schwartz’s, a Jewish smoked meat deli, more akin to New York I thought, than Paris.  So after a morning scaling the Parc du Mont Royal, our appetites slowly building as the gradient increased, Jerry and I lined up with other Schwartz devotees, sunglasses on, noses upwards, breathing in the beefy air with mouth-watering anticipation.   

After a swift thirty minutes of feet shuffling, spent mainly eavesdropping on the excitable bachelor party ahead of us, we were ushered in.  There’s no doubting this place is a Montreal institution, and in case you weren’t aware, there are reminders all about you.  Walls are papered with articles all agreed in their devotion to this 80 year old institution. Someone was so moved by the meat, they wrote a musical about it.  A place with such longevity doesn’t need 21^st century décor.  It’s elbows close dining at shared tables or a high stool at the counter.  Pop comes in cans and place mats double as menus.  Napkins are pulled from spring loaded dispensers and ketchup is squirted from a squeezy bottle. 

The food comes out in a teasing trickle, first pickles, with a crisp crunch and vinegar hit, then homemade frites, fluffy and sweet insides with nut brown skins.  The kitchen door swings open and an imaginary fanfare goes off in my head heralding the arrival of the sandwiches.  Hand sliced, medium-thick, the meat is layered at least eight storeys high between warm rye bread that balances precariously.  Such a mound might normally dictate the use of cutlery, but hunger triumphs over etiquette and we delve in with our hands.  The meat is gently smoked, not overly salty and beautifully moist and tender.  A generous squirt of bright yellow mustard, alternating bites of pickle and pinchfuls of fries is all that is needed.

I know it’s a good meal, if apart from the odd appreciative grunt or ‘oooh that’s good’, neither of us can face making conversation, since doing so, would slow down the flow of food.  I love a thriving friends and family dinner, but sometimes when the food deserves my full attention, I need a companion who understands I don’t really want to talk, I just want to inhale.  Save for the giggly bachelors (I assume something really funny must have happened last night), most diners adopt a similar semi-mute state, using hand gestures and eye rolling where applicable.

The best part? We feasted for just over $10 each. There’s nothing more satisfying than having a great meal when I don’t dread the arrival of the bill.