Katz's Delicatessen

Katz's Delicatessen has been feeding New York City since 1888 and there is no sandwich on earth with more earned swagger than its pastrami on rye. The meat is cured for days, smoked, then steamed to order — it arrives trembling with fat, a shade of deep crimson that looks almost lacquered. The rye is fresh and dense, the mustard is hot and applied by the counterman with a confidence that borders on ceremony.

The ordering process is half the experience. You get a ticket at the door. You queue. The counterman slices a piece and hands it to you across the counter before you've even paid — a preview, a dare. If you hesitate, you've already lost. You say yes, they pile it high, and you find a table in a room full of people who understand what they have.

Yes, the prices have climbed. Yes, there's always a tourist at the next table taking seventeen photos before eating. But the sandwich remains what it has always been: a benchmark. Everything else you eat for the rest of your life, you will judge against this.