Moe Pancer's Deli

 

Eating at Pancer’s is kind of like Billy Crystal hosting the Oscars: it’s loud, it’s dated, and gentiles don’t get it. The maroon and yellow walls still display old newspaper articles and photos of B-list celebrity patrons like Geddy Lee and Harvey Atkin, and the gruff waitresses have been there forever. Their service tics are as lovable as they are disconcerting: cans of Cott’s Black Cherry and Verners come tucked under sweaty armpits, diners are expected to know what they want almost before they sit down, and no one should get in the way of a steaming bowl of matzoh ball soup. Which, by the way, is excellent—it’s full of carrots and stray chunks of chicken (Bubbie might suggest a better strainer), and the matzoh ball is just fluffy enough. But the real reason to come to Pancer’s is the pastrami. It’s spicy and salty and comes heaped between two pieces of Silverstein’s rye with a dill pickle on the side. Hand slicing is an extra dollar—it’s not worth it. Unlicensed.