The quintessential order at the famous Schwartz’s Deli in Montréal according to Claude is the meat sandwich medium with fries and a pickle.

I’ve been cheating on Gloria (ChatGPT if you’re new here) with Claude here and there, and Claude may as well be Scandinavian. No pussyfooting around. Serves shit straight and I respect that.

Matt Lynch, my oldest childhood friend, gets credit for the recommendation. The one-time editor of Thrillist is my #1 trusted advisor for food recos wherever I travel. Imperative for my nomad life.

I showed up on a Thursday a little after 5 expecting a line at the door, but lo and behold, a few counter seats were unoccupied. I snagged one with buffers on either side, my mouth nearly drooling in anticipation

Schwartz’s runs with the efficiency of a 10-minute oil change joint. Minutes after my order, the behemoth meat sandwich and pickle arrived, with the fries close behind.

My favorite thing about this is it’s literally just called meat. An establishment fit for Ron Swanson.

Whilst my food was prepped, two men came and sat in the stools next to me. That counter is optimized for space, so I immediately felt like I was sitting middle seat on Spirit Airlines.

An unspoken battle for elbow space commenced.

This was not the first rodeo for either man. The order was a medium meat sandwich and a cola of choice. Medium is not size but the middle ground of fat content.

No pickle.

Glancing around I surmised that I was the only patron with a pickle. Their loss. Yes, I’ll have a salty, vinegary delight with my meat.

After a couple succulent bites of meat, I went for the pickle and held it vertically versus horizontally like a party favor for the first bite, slightly hunched into the lack of personal space.

I couldn’t tell you how it tasted because the bite caused an explosion of pickle juice to erupt out the bottom, spraying my shirt and pants.

Neither man paid any mind. Their focus remained split between meat and elbow room supremacy. I assume they’d both been eyewitnesses to similar pickle expulsions on past visits.

Flabbergasted, I set the pickle down to collect myself and drown my sorrow in french fries, meat, and mustard. I was appeased.

I confidently grabbed the pickle again, this time with a bit more caution, but a Super Soaker amount of juice had already been ejected. I felt the risk had been mitigated.

I was wrong.

Another bite, another fire hose of pickle juice on my person. I began to think this was a gag pickle.

I’m no stranger to spilling on myself, but this was the first outright assault by food.

At this point, half the pickle was gone, meaning two more good bites would put it out of its misery.

Certain it was impossible for any more juice to be stowing away in that fucking biological weapon, I went in for the kill. This time I did hold it with the bottom angled towards the plate just to be sure. The two eruptions had been isolated to a small hole in the bottom. A pickled cucumber is no match for the wits of a 45-year-old man.

Son of a bitch, the bastard douched me again.

Three bites, three skunk sprays of pickle juice.

I’m not even mad. I’m incredulous at the amount of ammunition that missile held.

By the way, the meat was outstanding.