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A towering stack of peppery, garlicky pastrami on honest seeded rye, slathered with spicy brown mustard and served with a crisp dill pickle. This is the sandwich that built empires on the Lower East Side.
The pastrami sandwich arrived in New York with Romanian Jewish immigrants in the late nineteenth century. They brought the technique of brining and smoking beef, adapted from the Turkish pastırma, and transformed it into something entirely American. By the 1930s, delis like Katz's on Houston Street had perfected the art, hand-slicing pastrami to order and piling it obscenely high between slices of seeded rye.
This sandwich requires no culinary wizardry. It demands only respect for quality ingredients and proper technique. Your pastrami must be warm, almost steaming from the slicer or your stovetop steamer. Cold pastrami is a sin against the delicatessen tradition. The fat needs heat to soften, the spices need warmth to bloom, and your first bite should release that peppery, garlicky perfume that makes strangers lean in and ask what you're eating.
The bread matters more than you think. Seeded rye provides the slight sourness and sturdy crumb that stands up to a half-pound of meat without dissolving into mush. Corn rye works in a pinch. Wonder Bread does not. And the mustard is spicy brown, period. Yellow mustard belongs on ballpark frankfurters, not in a proper deli.
Quantity
1 pound
sliced thin
Quantity
4 slices
Quantity
3 tablespoons
Quantity
2
for serving
Quantity
to taste
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| quality pastramisliced thin | 1 pound |
| seeded rye bread | 4 slices |
| spicy brown mustard | 3 tablespoons |
| large dill picklesfor serving | 2 |
| coleslaw or sauerkraut (optional) | to taste |
Fill a pot with two inches of water and bring to a simmer. Set a steamer basket or colander inside, making sure the water doesn't touch the bottom. This gentle steam will warm your pastrami without drying it out or washing away the precious spice crust. A microwave works in desperation, but steam is the proper method.
Arrange the pastrami slices loosely in the steamer, not packed tight. Cover and steam for six to eight minutes until the meat is heated through and the fat has turned translucent and soft. You'll smell the pepper and coriander when it's ready. The edges should glisten.
Lay out four slices of seeded rye bread. The bread should be fresh but not warm. Toasting is optional and contested in deli circles. I prefer it untoasted, letting the rye's natural density provide structure. Spread spicy brown mustard generously on the top slice only. The bottom stays bare to cradle the meat without slipping.
Pile half the warm pastrami onto each bottom slice, mounding it high in the center. Don't flatten or compress the meat. Those loose folds trap heat and create textural variety. A proper pastrami sandwich should be nearly impossible to eat gracefully. If you can fit it in your mouth without unhinging your jaw, you haven't used enough meat.
Press the mustard-slathered top slice gently onto the pastrami. Cut the sandwich in half diagonally. The cross-section should reveal layers of rosy meat edged with that characteristic black pepper crust. Serve immediately on a plate with a whole dill pickle alongside. No lettuce. No tomato. No mayonnaise. This sandwich needs nothing else.
1 serving (about 444g)
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