The jumbo Reuben at Tommy Pastrami represents everything glorious and terrifying about America. This is a mighty tower of flesh: fold upon fold of soft, lightly crisped pastrami or corned beef held together by an industrial-strength toothpick, squeezed between slices of rye bread baked that morning, topped with a light white cheese on a foundation of sauerkraut. A glistening dill pickle is on the side, along with the requisite thimble of deli mustard. The bounty of pastrami, wrinkled and vibrantly pink, is vaguely vaginal in appearance—thanks, Judy Chicago!—and alluring.
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