By Marco Shalma

Let’s talk about the pastrami. The influencers will swear it’s “life changing,” which is wild because the only life it’s changing is your bank account after you drop twenty-eight bucks for a sandwich built mostly for social media. You stand in that line like you’re auditioning for a survival show, take the same photo everyone takes, and walk away believing you had the full Katz’s experience. You didn’t. You followed the hype like a freshman visiting Times Square and thinking they discovered New York.

If you’re basic, fine, go get the pastrami. But if you want the move, the thing the cutters eat on their break, the thing the regulars whisper about, here it is.

Brisket. Hand-cut. Extra juicy. On club bread.

The brisket at Katz’s isn’t the understudy. It’s the star they keep backstage so the tourists don’t break the system. When you ask for it hand-cut, the cutter leans in and slices those thick, uneven slabs that hold more fat than a finance bro’s expense account. The juices drip down your fingers before you even pick it up. Club bread is key. Rye’s great for the photo, but club bread is a sponge built for this job. It soaks the fat, holds its shape, and gives you this pillowy, obscene, buttery bite that makes you forget why anyone pays double for the other thing.

Then comes the real flex. Look the cutter in the eye and ask them to hit the sandwich on the grill for ten seconds. That’s it. The whole thing wakes up. The fat loosens. The edges crisp lightly. You go from customer to someone-who-was-taught.

If you want the deep cut, order tongue and have them slice it thin. It’s cheaper than pastrami and somehow tastes like beef that went to finishing school. Old Katz’s regulars crush this and don’t explain it to anyone.