Inside an iconic old deli

Walking down Houston Street, it's hard to miss the big, lit-up sign above Katz's Delicatessen, one of New York's most historic delis. Katz's has been draping hot dogs in sauerkraut, loading steaming pastrami on rye, chopping mountains of potato salad, and cramming them into happy mouths for over 100 years.  

Step into the huge L-shaped salon along whose inner side runs a set of counters heaped with meats and an army-sized supply of sliced bread. The only way to see these counters is to stand behind the rows of backs waiting to be served and await your own turn to order a sandwich (don't try to edge your way in; this is a resolute crowd and not shy). 

Then take your sandwich to an empty seat at one of the long community tables. If you are chased from one of the tables by an elderly man in a whitish coat and a discouraged expression, don't be offended; he is a waiter and you've mistaken a service table for one of the free-for-alls meant for self-service customers. 

After engulfing a corned beef on club--several inches high and requiring a snake's hinged jaw--walk back to the take-out section. Its loaded counters, the large hanging scales, the many strings of salamis like a curtain of monster beads, the slices of meat for sampling flying across the counter, the eager noisy customers, the amiable countermen roaring bawdy gossip at each other as they weigh out bawdy-looking loops of "specials," the steamy, intimate air and speech--all fuse into a modern Breughel. 

*Drawing by Aram Klm