The best pastrami dip sandwich in the city may be at this Westlake deli

Los Angeles Times

12-05-2025

Langer's Delicatessen may be the most consistent restaurant in Los Angeles.
It's so consistent that my order hasn't deviated in 35 years. The No. 1 with an extra side of Russian dressing for dipping.
'You used to suck on the pickles before your teeth came in,' says my father during a recent lunch. The tufted brown leather squeaks as we both shift in our seats. He's been coming to the deli since before I was born. He's there once a week, sometimes more. He often tells himself that this week, he will order the chef's salad.
'But then I smell the pastrami, and, well,' he says with a shrug of his shoulders.
The most popular Langer's sandwich is the No. 19, a tower of pastrami, Swiss cheese, coleslaw and Russian dressing served on double-baked rye bread. It was created by the late Al Langer, who opened the deli in 1947.
The No. 1, also my dad's favorite, is almost identical, minus the Swiss cheese. It is the only time I will not invite cheese to a party. The Russian dressing, a thick, chunky Thousand Island, is rich enough.
It took a recent visit with a friend from Kentucky for me to stray from my usual order. Before our lunch, I told her that Langer's was home to the best pastrami sandwich in the universe. But I never specified which of the dozen ways to order pastrami on bread at the restaurant. When it came time to order, she chose the pastrami French dip ($26).
The sandwich is served on a golden French roll made by Fred's Bakery and Deli, the same Beverlywood bakery that has been making the restaurant's rye bread for more than 45 years. It's undressed, soft and airy with crust that's crisp but yields on contact.
The mountain of pastrami in the middle is seven-slices high. It's arranged in such a way that the meat covers every inch of bread, then just barely hangs over the edge in enticing fragments you can pluck out whenever the fancy strikes.
The pastrami is the same on all of the Langer's sandwiches, made by RC Provisions in Burbank for more than 45 years. It's a recipe from Al, whose son Norm Langer owns and runs the deli. The meat is brined, rubbed in a spice blend then smoked. It's steamed at the restaurant for anywhere from 2½ to 5 hours, losing about 35% of its mass in the process. When it emerges from the steamer, quivering and glistening, it is so delicate, it barely survives the blade of the knife, collapsing into a heap of fat and smoke on the cutting board.
Each slice is crowned with a layer of bark, jet black-edged and hot with pepper. There's a rim of fat (unless you order your pastrami lean) that melts into the reddish-pink beef beneath.
The cup of jus on the side is deep in color and flavor, salty but balanced enough to sip.
'This sandwich has been on the menu since before you were born,' Langer says. 'It used to be more popular years ago.'
It is not a sexy sandwich. There are no striations of condiments. Just pink on beige with more brown for dipping.
'The pastrami dip in my place is not the big deal,' Langer says. 'It's great. It's excellent, but people come to me [and] they want the No. 19. If you ask me how much do I sell in comparison to everything else, very little.'
But maybe it should be the big deal. Much in the same way that pastrami purists will order plain pastrami on rye, or even a pile of pastrami on a plate, I'd argue that the pastrami dip may be the purest sandwich of them all. Without the bite of rye seeds, the pastrami's smoke is bolder, its black pepper hotter on the tongue. The roll is more sponge than vessel, soaking up just enough au jus to moisten the sandwich without capitulating to the broth completely. A squirt of hot brown mustard every third bite helps penetrate the richness and heightens the spice.
Its a sandwich resplendent in its restraint, the three ingredients each allowed to enrapture your senses.
'People have Philippe's in mind when they hear French dip,' Langer says. 'Or they think of the Hat. They don't think Langer's.'
But do people think Los Angeles when they think of the pastrami dip? The late, great Jonathan Gold once called the sandwich a saving grace for the city's bad pastrami.
'Perhaps the ultimate Bad Pastrami experience in Los Angeles is the pastrami dip, which combines French dip form with Bad Pastrami function, pungent ethnic excess structured like a genteel downtown businessman's lunch,' he wrote.
The pastrami dip is a creation deeply ingrained in Los Angeles sandwich culture, with no shortage of restaurants advertising their world-famous sandwiches.
Two downtown Los Angeles restaurants, Philippe the Original and Cole's French Dip, claim to have created the French dip sandwich in the early 20th century. At Philippe the Original, the rolls are crusty and sturdy around a generous cluster of thinly sliced pastrami. On its own, the pastrami is tough and rubbery, with pockets of black pepper wherever there's a bite with bark. It's a sandwich ($15.50) that requires a double dip in the jus when ordering and an extra side of jus for dipping. The hot mustard helps. It will tingle your nostrils.
At Cole's, the French rolls are a deeper gold, toasted on the insides, more substantial and chewier. The pastrami is a thicker cut, gristly, all smoke with no pepper. It's less abundant in the sandwich, the architecture lacking with a few meatless corners. Like at Philippe's, the sandwich ($23) requires a few dips in the cup of jus to hide a multitude of shortcomings.
Sandwiches by Connal in Pasadena serves a pastrami dip sandwich ($13.99) with a dip so slight, the roll and meat are dry. The pastrami is sliced into rugged, uneven slabs that taste like smoked ham. With yellow mustard and pickles, it eats like the sort of sandwich you might make the morning after a holiday dinner.
The pastrami at the Hat locations around Los Angeles and Orange County fall into a different category, one that I associate with the pastrami you find at burger joints all over the city. It's shaved into unruly ribbons, and half the contents spill from the sandwich. The Hat's 'world-famous pastrami dip' ($12.60) is painted with yellow mustard and a smattering of pickles on the bottom half of the roll, while the top half is dipped into a vat of jus. The salt, fat and juice smother the pickles and mustard, snuffing out the vinegar and tang. A bombardment of pastrami on a roll.
The welcome theme of pastrami excess is echoed at Johnnie's Pastrami. Brothers Eddie and Eli Passy opened the restaurant on Sepulveda Boulevard in Culver City in 1952. When they took over the space, the signage for the property read 'Johnnies Pastrami.' It was too expensive to change, so despite there not being a Johnny involved in the operation, the name stuck. At the time, the pastrami dip sandwich was $0.70. Like the Hat, the Johnnie's Pastrami dip ($19.25) is crammed with shaved pastrami, only the meat is even thinner, more tender and with a heavier smack of smoke and maybe a little garlic. A single dip of the top bun into the drippings will suffice, but if you dine in, you can ask for an extra cup on the side.
Can any of these sandwiches compete with the pastrami dip at Langer's? It was never a fair fight. While you could happily eat a plate of Langer's pastrami bare, the same cannot be said for the others.
The pastrami dip sandwiches of Los Angeles are their own breed of sandwich, built upon the New York deli pastrami sandwiches that gradually made their way west in the 1930s and '40s. The dips are wet, messy behemoths of meat, juice and bread. Grittier and humbler than their East Coast predecessors.
There will always be bickering when it comes to pastrami. Which style is best. The correct condiments. To dip or not to dip. Who makes the best. This column will no doubt stoke the fires. Dress the sandwich up or down however you like. But if your goal is to eat the best pastrami, to appreciate the hours of smoke and steam, make sure it's from Langer's.