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The story is a witty, culinary-centered vignette that dramatizes the convergence of three iconic North American deli traditions: Los Angeles’ Langer’s, Montreal’s Schwartz’s, and New York’s Katz’s. Told through a first-person, observational lens, the narrative captures the cultural and gastronomic significance of pastrami while situating it within the intimate social setting of a New Year’s gathering. Beyond a simple recounting of flavors, the story uses the arrival of each deli plate as a device to explore themes of rivalry, cultural pride, and shared human experience.

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A Three-City Ceasefire, Served on Rye

By Harry Arabian

By the time I pulled up to the house, the New Year had already begun announcing itself—laughter spilling out the front door, the muffled clink of ice in glasses, and someone inside arguing cheerfully about music that they absolutely would not change. I balanced my contribution carefully: a pastrami plate from Langer’s Delicatessen, arranged as though presentation were essential—which, in this case, it was. Thick, warm slices were fanned neatly, rye bread was stacked with care, and mustard sat in a small dish like punctuation, possibly resembling an exclamation point.

Inside, the host took one look and smiled.

“You clearly understood what was expected,” she said, clearing space on the table with the deliberation of a museum curator making room for a significant artifact.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rang again. Andy stood there, visibly travel-worn but triumphant, holding a soft-sided cooler as though it contained medical supplies, contraband, or an organ that needed to remain cold.

“Montreal,” he said simply, setting it down and unzipping it with ceremony.

From the cooler emerged smoked meat from Schwartz’s Delicatessen, wrapped in brown paper that had already absorbed the evidence of its contents. The room leaned in. The aroma conveyed most of what needed to be said—smoke, coriander, and something ancient and assured, as though it carried strong opinions about one’s life choices.

Before anyone could fully respond, the doorbell rang again.

Tom arrived without pausing to unbutton his coat or exchange greetings. He walked directly to the table and placed a familiar white box down with a definitive thud.

“Katz’s,” he said. “Hand-cut.”

At that moment, New York made its presence known, uninvited and entirely confident.

For a brief interval, no one moved. Three cities, three traditions, and three assertive piles of meat shared a single table like uneasy diplomats compelled into a group photograph. One person reached for a phone. Another remarked that rules were necessary, a suggestion that was promptly disregarded. Blind tasting was proposed. That idea was also ignored when someone simply reached out and took a slice.

The host then raised her glass.

“Before a dispute begins in my living room,” she said, “I should mention that I have prepared excellent drinks.”

She poured a dry Riesling, pale gold and sufficiently chilled to fog the glass. She distributed the glasses with clear confidence, which proved to be well founded.

The first tasting occurred quietly. Langer’s was silky and composed, maintaining its structure as though it had been carefully rehearsed. Schwartz’s followed—smokier, firmer, and deeply aromatic, encouraging a slower, more reflective pace. Katz’s came last: unapologetically rich, peppery, and almost theatrical, collapsing onto the rye bread as though it had already prevailed in similar contests elsewhere.

The Riesling cut through the fat, spice, and regional loyalties. Conversation softened. Heads nodded. Laughter surfaced. Someone returned for a second slice of the option they had previously dismissed and then avoided drawing attention to the fact.

Midnight passed without notice. There was no countdown and no shouting, only the continued act of eating.

By the time the plates were nearly empty and the bottles depleted, no verdict had been reached. None was necessary. The table bore the traces of a successful and unregretted decision: crumbs, mustard smears, and empty boxes from three cities that had briefly agreed to coexist.

The New Year thus began in the most appropriate manner—not with a countdown, but with a shared table, carefully chosen drinks, and the absence of a declared winner.