When I was a first-year in university (or a freshman in college, for those who went to American school), I had a friend whose family was from Montreal. As a New Yorker, I felt it was my duty to get into regular arguments with him about which city had better Jewish cuisine.
He claimed the bagels from Montreal were unparalleled; I lived right next to H&H and swore by the (now defunct) New York classic. I was a stalwart fan of Katz’s, but he told me I hadn’t lived until I’d tried Montreal smoked meat. In fact, when we went on a ski trip to Quebec City during our spring break, and we had to switch trains in Montreal, he tried to convince me to run into the city and pick up some of this viande fumée. I was tired (read: quite hungover), and refused.
I should have listened to him.
Schwartz’s is a legend in Montreal, and while there are tons of blogs and guides to the city extolling the virtues of other delis, I felt that I owed it to myself (and to my French in-laws) to visit the most famous of all.
The line, as you might expect, is enormous, especially in the middle of the day. I think we waited about 40 minutes to get in, and I doubt I’m setting any records. But I promise, it was worth it.
The restaurant itself is super basic (and cash only, by the way – something I should have thought of before I went through the process of having my American card declined at no fewer than three ATMS. Luckily, they also accept US dollars.) But the simplicity of the “dining room,” if you can call it that, is really part of the charm here.
When our waiter appeared and demanded to know what we wanted, and my father-in-law (who I had not yet had time to brief) ordered roast chicken, the waiter shook his head and informed us that we wanted either the smoked meat sandwich or platter.
Of course, he was right.
Three of us opted for the sandwich: smoked meat so tender you barely have to chew, piled on simple, hearty bread, slathered with good ol’ yellow mustard. (My French father-in-law, who swears by Dijon, proved to be less than a fan of the not-so-aptly named French’s.)
My husband, meanwhile, went for the large smoked meat platter, which came with a literal stack of the same bread and, according to the waiter, two-and-a-half sandwiches worth of meat. He also ordered fries. (He’s also 145 pounds soaking wet. *Shakes fist at sky.*)
Oh, and I got a pickle.
The meat here is fantastic. It’s just smoky enough and coated with a layer of cracked pepper that just makes me gleeful, and, as I mentioned, it literally falls apart in your mouth. I’d take this over pastrami any day of the week.
In short, if you’re visiting Montreal, do not skip Schwartz’s. (Oh, and if the line is what’s making you nervous, they also have a to-go store just to the left of the main entrance. Fears assuaged.)
Chez Schwartz’s -Â 3895 St Laurent Blvd, Montreal