by David Sax
Schwartz’s legendary smoked meat is now under the stewardship of Frank Silva, the delicatessen’s affable manager, who has worked at Schwartz’s most of his life, like his father did. Calm, casual, and always sporting a toothy grin from behind a goatee, Silva explained the smoked meat process. Raw briskets from Alberta are rubbed with a mixture of coarse salt, cracked peppercorns, and Schwartz’s secret spice mix, which involves much less sugar than a New York–style pastrami, with more pepper and fewer aromatic spices. Briskets are then cured in plastic barrels for a period of a week.
Once the briskets are suitably pickled, they are ready to enter the smokehouse, a small brick room perhaps four feet wide by six feet deep and nine feet high, like a tiny back alley stained with burnt fat and old spices. Silva claimed this caked-on residue was part of the Schwartz’s secret, as if the oven itself were pickled. The smokehouse was jammed with dozens of partially smoked briskets lazily dripping their fat onto low blue flames. The briskets smoke from five to seven hours, without wood. It didn’t look like it, but Silva said the smokehouse could accommodate up to 160 briskets at a time, with an average of two loads smoking during a typical day, three during summer, and four around Christmas, when Schwartz’s also smokes turkeys, ducks, and geese around the clock.
Cooked smoked meat is hauled through the deli by a busboy, who squeezes past a charcoal broiler spitting orange embers, wedges himself into the minuscule space where the counter begins, and deposits a few of the briskets into the small steam box. The rest are piled high in the deli’s refrigerated front window—a grease-stained sidewalk display case tempting passersby. The smoked meat will then steam for up to three hours, until cutter Joao “Johnny” Goncalves hauls out a brisket.
Johnny is Schwartz’s top cutter, a role that demands tremendous physical and mental stamina. A Portuguese immigrant to Montreal who still speaks English and French with an Iberian bounce, he has twelve years’ experience as a cutter, plus an additional twenty-four working in the deli. He is a stoutly built man with ruddy cheeks and a cheerful pudge, who squints when he smiles. With the knife in his thick right hand he can dispatch slices off a smoked meat in a flash, piling them with some of the spicy scraps onto small disks of rye, which a second counterman to his right will finish off by placing a mustard-slathered piece on top at a perpendicular angle (a Montreal trademark).
An elastic brace around Johnny’s elbow attests to the strain that years of hand-cutting have taken on his body. He has acquired a condition similar to tennis elbow. The pain is numbing and intense, something that Silva shares as well, as do many cutters in Montreal . . . a slow-motion battle wound earned on the wooden duckboards of the smoked meat trenches. However, the presence of hand-cutting at almost every deli in Montreal is one of the key reasons behind the city’s deli greatness. A dry cured smoked meat retains little moisture except for the fat. Schwartz’s steams the hell out of its smoked meat, resulting in buttery sandwiches that you could chew with your gums. By the time the knife hits the meat, it’s ready to disintegrate. Cutting a Schwartz’s smoked meat on a machine would be a disaster. You’d basically get a mess of shavings.
While the circular blade of a machine offers uniformity and convenience through measurements, gears, and electricity, hand-cutting is an intimate art, dictated by a man’s intimate experience handling the flesh of another animal. It is imperfect, results in more waste, costs more, and takes a physical toll, but hand-cut sandwiches taste better. The two best pastrami sandwiches in America are at Langer’s and Katz’s for a reason.
“These guys are artists,” Silva said, his hand resting on Johnny’s back as he cut. “No matter how hard or how soft, they can cut it.” Most of the time Johnny is the only cutter working the tiny counter. Silva claimed that Johnny could make a sandwich in five seconds. With fifteen sandwiches in an average brisket, that translates into one brisket every minute and fifteen seconds. During lunch one day, I closed my eyes and listened to the ding “Medium!” ding ding “Lean et Medium,” as Johnny shouted orders and slapped his little bell on the counter. Montrealers can custom-order their sandwiches cut according to levels of fat. “Lean” slices have a thin layer of fat along the top, but are so dry they require tsunamis of mustard. “Lean” is for prude Torontonians. The vast majority of Montreal’s deli customers order “Medium.” “Medium” looks very similar to “Lean,” but a closer look reveals that each grain of brisket fiber is held together by strands of glistening translucent fat, retaining the unique texture that blends dry and wet. The ultimate decadence, reserved for a hearty few, are the “Medium/Fat” slices and finally the “Fat,” which is a spice-adorned sandwich of hot white lard. “Fat” is almost as insane as “Lean”—an indulgence that flirts with the devil himself. This is where the speck that killed “Poppa” Sam Sax came from—the brisket’s deckle, dusted in paprika and cayenne, re-smoked and sliced cold. Sadly, speck is no longer available at Schwartz’s.
Eating at Schwartz’s is intense. Once customers pass the bottleneck at the door, an odor assaults them like tear gas. They squeeze into chairs that seem tailored for runway models, crammed next to complete strangers with whom they then share a meal. In a space already filled with salt, pepper, mustard, ketchup, and steak sauces, descends a stick of karnatzel, a bowl of sweet vinegar coleslaw, a crisp whole sour pickle, a Cott’s black cherry soda, and a bowl of freshly cut french fries.
Finally the waiter deposits the pièce de resistance, a smoked meat sandwich barely holding itself together, the fat strips of steaming meat hanging over the edge of the bread that defies the urge to collapse against all of Newton’s laws. The meat is a wild mess of carnivorous beauty: at parts black and sticky, at points a light rose, mostly a meaty maroon. Weighing in at roughly five ounces, it’s at the smaller end of the deli sandwich scale, though you’ll never leave Schwartz’s hungry. Half of the smoked meat sandwich is drawn to the mouth, where a bouquet of whole peppercorns and coriander seeds and faint hints of brown sugar rise up from the meat, through the nose, and into the brain. This is a taste of smoked meat in its purest, finest, and most famous form: a touch spicy, a bit salty, always fatty, and foremost tender. The sandwich disappears in eight bites, a glorious, debauched, greasy invocation of pure animal savagery. Heaven.
Astonishingly, this handheld banquet is ridiculously cheap. A smoked meat sandwich costs less than five dollars, fries less than two dollars. For the price of a sandwich alone at most New York delis, two can eat like kings at Schwartz’s. In a world where delicatessens are pricing themselves out of the market in order to survive, Schwartz’s is serving what could be the best deli sandwich anywhere, and still giving the customer value.
How the hell do they do it?
Schwartz’s current owner, Hy Diamond, implies that the deli’s success has come from resisting modernization. A Jewish Montrealer in his sixties who was previously the deli’s accountant, Diamond purchased Schwartz’s in 1996. “There’s only so much to do here,” Diamond told me. “If I can keep customer satisfaction level, I’ve done my job.” He prefers to call himself a curator rather than an owner, a title that underlines his commitment to preservation. Even so, Schwartz’s business has increased in the time Diamond has owned it. Though he receives nearly daily offers to franchise and sell Schwartz’s smoked meat across Canada, Diamond has refused them all.
“You can’t commercialize this operation. . . .” he said. “If I did, it would dilute it. If you have the opportunity to be the owner of something unique, what do you do? You’ll never get the same sandwich twice because it’s natural meat here. It’s the opposite of McDonald’s. Every brisket is different, so every time you eat a sandwich it’s different. And sometimes,” he said, with the pronounced excitement of a winemaker discussing his cellared vintage, “you’ll get one that just melts in your mouth.” In the fall of 2008, Diamond buckled slightly and converted the property next door to Schwartz’s as a takeout-only location. The original thankfully remains untouched.
There’s a st
ubborn adherence to the old ways in Montreal, and this, more than anything, is the secret to its great Jewish delis. The circumstances that created this environment are unique to Montreal’s delicatessens, and exist for three key reasons.
1. L’effet francophone: The east end of Montreal is predominantly French, while the west side is mostly English. The de-facto dividing line remains boulevard St. Laurent, previously known as Main Boulevard, home to Schwartz’s, the lesser known Main Deli, and Moishes Steak House. The Gallic passion for food is just as prevalent in French Montreal today as it is in Paris. While Anglo-Canadian cuisine reflects its bland British influence, Francophones are gaga over fat, salt, garlic, herbs, and strong flavor.
With the exception of a few delis in predominantly Jewish neighborhoods, every deli owner I spoke with confirmed that the majority of their clients were French Canadian. Frank Silva estimated that 80 per cent of Schwartz’s clients were French. “Without their business,” he said, “we wouldn’t exist.” Robert Beauchemin, a food critic for the French-language newspaper La Presse, identifies with smoked meat as much as, or more than, a Jewish Montrealer. In his opinion, there’s a historic synergy in Montreal between French Canadians and Jews. “When delis [were] first opened at the start of the century by poor Jews, it was affordable food that served the people who worked in those neighborhoods and in the garment trade, namely French Canadians and Jews.” Like Jews, French Canadians are family-oriented and religious, celebrate around food, and are prone to outward expressions of emotion. “Anglos,” Beauchemin says, “have a plug in their ass.”
In French neighborhoods of Montreal, you’ll find places like Le Roi du Smoked Meat serving smoked meat sandwiches along with smoked meat pizza and smoked meat spaghetti. The largest smoked meat operation in Quebec is Nickels, a chain of retro diners founded by Quebecois musical diva Celine Dion. Yes, her. The very same waif who belted from the deck of the Titanic started a chain of smoked meat restaurants in 1990. Smoked meat can be found anywhere in Quebec. Even in remote rural towns where Jews are a rare and mistrusted presence, you can still get a decent smoked meat sandwich.
“It is not clear whether Francophones register that deli is something Jewish,” said Morton Weinfeld, a professor of sociology at Montreal’s McGill University, whose class inspired this book. “It’s an adopted cultural item. They can be eating smoked meat and completely disassociate it with Jews. Jews are the crazy ones in black hats, les maudits juifs, and they’ll say it while eating a smoked meat sandwich.”
Removed largely from Jewish influence, smoked meat and deli food thrive in far corners of Montreal. One of these is an unlikely spot called Smoked Meat Pete, a combo deli, BBQ spot, and blues bar in the distant suburb of Île-Perrot. Its owner, Peter Varvaro Jr., grew up in the deli business, the son of Peter Varvaro Sr., who owns the famous Main Deli. When he opened Smoked Meat Pete in 1996, dozens of miles from any Jewish neighborhood, people thought he was destined for failure. Instead, he packs them in.
Smoked Meat Pete is a short, energetic guy, whose mischievous grin conveys his twisted sense of humor. This man coined the slogan “You Can’t Beat Pete’s Meat.” Seriously. He jokes about the few Jewish clients he gets, but he sells more chopped liver than most Montreal delicatessens—a dark beefy scoop of sweet purée mixed with chunks of rich egg and smothered in crisp fried onions. For a second-generation Italian owner of a Jewish deli, his smoked meat is superb. Dry cured for ten days, and hardwood-smoked for eight hours, it has a dark red crust that can only be described as devilish and tastes both sweeter and spicier than its counterparts in the rest of the city. I had it in a whopping sandwich larger than most in Montreal, and on top of a plate of smoked meat poutine, a sinful Quebec dish of french fries covered in cheese curds and gravy.
2. The Schmatte Business: Instrumental to the birth of delicatessen cultures in both New York and Montreal was the presence of the schmatte (garment) industry. But while entertainment, finance, and real estate quickly took over in New York, Montreal’s schmatte trade remained the economic engine of the community. The city’s garment trade was North America’s second largest, and Jews were at the helm of almost every major clothing company. It was the schmatte business that defined the character of the Montreal Jew. Like my grandfather “Poppa” Sam Sax, the garment dealer (garmento) remains a larger-than-life character. He peppers conversations with a slew of Yiddish insults like putz, prick, and shmuck. The garmento deals strictly in cash, and never, ever, pays retail. Though he may be the second- or third-generation Montrealer, he keeps at least a few toes planted in the soil of the shtetl. It’s all about Chutzpah with a capital C.
Even though the garment industry had declined, Montreal’s delis remain tied to this culture. Delis were, and remain, the communal watering holes for garmentos. Nowhere can you see this more clearly than at Lester’s Deli, in the Outremont neighborhood. Lester’s has been around since 1951, though the Berenholc family has owned it since Eddie Berenholc, a cutter at Schwartz’s, bought it in 1956. Eddie’s son Billy Berenholc is the definition of a Montreal Jew. Tall, tan, and a good decade older than he looks, Billy talks with that classic Montreal Jewish inflection, drawing out his A’s (maaan), addressing everyone by their last name, and abbreviating phrases, so that a “smoked meat sandwich with fries” becomes “a smoked meat and fry.” As we sat outside the shvitz at the Jewish community center, Billy told me how he keeps Lester’s going.
“We’ve boutiquized ourselves,” Billy said. “When you sell a smoked meat sandwich, fries, coleslaw, and a drink, you’re a boutique.” Berenholc realized that his customers, many of whom were old-school garmentos, came to him for a specialty item. Lester’s is too far from downtown to be a tourist destination like Schwartz’s. Billy’s business is local, but with the decline in the schmatte economy, he has been forced to find customers elsewhere, so he’s concentrated on the thing he does best. Billy has targeted the large community of Montrealers living in other cities, who simply have a craving for Lester’s, but he’s kept the taste traditional, because that’s what they demand. Lester’s is now shipping meat around the country. “My goal is to become the biggest Internet delicatessen in North America,” Billy told me, “because if I wasn’t doing my wholesale business, the store wouldn’t be enough.”
3. The Great Exodus: The departure of thirty thousand Jews from Montreal in the past three and a half decades (a departure that continues today) hollowed out the community to a shell of its former self. What was once a bustling population of 115,000, now hovers just over 80,000, half that of Toronto (a complete reversal). Like my own family, those who left were the young, successful, and mobile, while those who remained were mostly the elderly. It was only the adoption of smoked meat by French Canadians, largely in the late 1960s and 1970s, that saved Montreal’s delis from total decline. For the entirety of the 1980s and much of the 1990s, Montreal endured a bitter recession. Two referenda on Quebec’s separation, in 1980 and 1995, failed by the slimmest of margins, perpetuating economic instability and low property values. While economic conditions have recently improved, the hardship managed to kill Ben’s, Montreal’s biggest and oldest delicatessen.
Ben Kravitz, the man who certainly made smoked meat famous, worked tirelessly to build his deli business into an institution that rivaled the best in New York. Occupying a prime corner of downtown real estate, the ornately trimmed art deco cafeteria held hundreds of tables, filled around the clock. At its peak in the 1960s, Ben’s served up to eight thousand customers a day and employed a hundred staff, churning out smoked meat sandwiches and other Jewish specialties. To many in Montreal it was an office, a temple, and a second home, and was fittingly where my parents’ first date took place.
When Ben Kravitz died in 1956, the deli was taken over by his three sons, Irving, Al, and Sollie. They expanded the menu further and established a wholesale business, resisting the offers to franchise. But come the 1980s, the business began feeling the effects of the city’s economic downturn. Most of the nati
onal banks and corporations had moved their headquarters to Toronto, sucking away a large part of the downtown lunch crowd. In 1992, Irving Kravitz died. Ownership shifted to his wife, Jean Kravitz, and her son Dr. Elliot Kravitz. According to former employees, including Brian Kravitz and Murray Kravitz (both nephews of Jean Kravitz), Mrs. Kravitz and her son (who lived in Toronto) let the deli fall into disrepair while raising prices. “They were only interested in squeezing blood from a stone,” Brian Kravitz told me, resentment filling his voice.
Little by little, the grand deli was cannibalized. Fresh ingredients were switched for cheap substitutes. The paint began peeling. Bathrooms were filthy. There was no soap in the dishwasher. “Every time you wanted to cut a tomato you had to ask Jean Kravitz’s permission,” said Brian Kravitz. Toasters were broken. Replacing toilet paper in the bathroom required a written request. By the time I was living in Montreal in 1998, Ben’s was an atrocity. The cavernous room was empty. The few waiters would grudgingly amble over, responding to requests with “We’re out of that.” The food was always a disappointment. Portion sizes shrank. The Kravitz family had even refused to fix the heaters and air conditioning, so Ben’s was either hot as hell or freezing cold.
To counter this, Ben’s employees did what so many in socialist Quebec do . . . they joined a union and in July 2006 went on strike. Their demands included an average raise of forty cents an hour, severance pay, and an improvement in working conditions. The strike went on into December, when Elliot Kravitz finally announced that Ben’s would close for good. Obituaries and articles filled Canada’s news media about the death of the country’s oldest deli, just shy of its century anniversary.
I last saw Ben’s in June 2007, just over a year before the structure was demolished and reportedly replaced with a hotel. Chairs and tables were pushed to the back wall. Looking in, I realized this was the first deli I had seen in the purgatory phase between death and destruction. It was sad, but in a perverse way somewhat beautiful. This was the raw death of a deli, and it filled me with a renewed sense of purpose.