It’s my fault, but pastrami makes me emotional and let me explain why.
My father would take me to Katz’s on Saturdays (not every Saturday, but often enough). We would get the ticket that they always used from the machine. We would go up to the counter (we never sat in the waiters section). My father would order two pastramis on club. Before the meat cutter even began cutting our pastrami, my father would snarl at the cutter “don’t give me the crappy meat you guys always give me!”. Of course he would never tip the cutters. This would usually result in a loud angry shouting match between my father and the cutter. On more then one occasion, the police were called. On one occasion, we were thrown out of Katz’s and told to never come back.
I had to wait many, many years, long after my father passed. I was now a grown man, and I was sure that no one in Katz would remember me. I took my ticker, went to the counter and politely ordered my pastrami on club and a Budweiser (no Dr. Brown black cherry for me).
The pastrami was good, but some how the emotional scars remain to this day.