The Smoked Meat Tour

Stan is apparently trying to eat every single kind of smoked meat available in the city. We've already been to Dunn's, which is the smoked-meat deli for tourists. Yesterday, we hit the Great Original, which is the 80-year-old Schwartz's Montréal Hebrew Deli. "Lots of room, lots of room," cried the man behind the counter, waving a dripping chunk of beef towards the crowd hunched along the counter and over the aluminum tables. The smoked meat really was spectacular, served more like a Sunday brisket than like cold cuts, in hot, meaty hunks. Les frites were the highlight for me; the only fries that even come close to the gloriously greasy Schwartz's patates are those once made by an ex-RAF-airman at a little dive called Gibson's, in Saskatoon. Worth every oleaginous, heart-killing calorie.

Today, on the other hand, we went upscale to Reuben's, which caters to the wealthy Baby Boom with spicier meat, a tonier atmosphere, and portions so gigantic it takes a Y chromosome just to look at them steadily. After sharing his huge platter of beef with me, Stan treated himself to a 9-inch-square slab of carrot layer cake, slathered in caramel and creme anglaise. "I," he said, shortly after the last forkful, "am a Great Big Man."

We also finished registering for Congress, and picked up the obligatory conference cloth bag by which all delegates identify each other. It beats sniffing butts, I guess. I plan to get up early for Dr. K's paper for the Renaissance Society this Sunday morning. But before then, I suspect Stan's going to need to follow up on a tip from a local: Lester's Deli, Rue Bernard, for yet another meal of smoked meat.