The Karich Pastrama (כריך פסטרמה), the pastrami sandwich, is cured, spiced, smoked beef built into bread, the Romanian-Jewish deli idea as it reads on an Israeli counter. The angle is the meat carrying the entire sandwich: pastrami is brined, rubbed heavily with pepper and coriander, smoked, then steamed soft, so by the time it reaches the bread it is already the loudest thing in the room. The build works as a frame for it, not a competition. Done well it is a deep, peppery, faintly smoky sandwich with tender meat and a sharp counterweight; done badly it is dry, salty slabs in tough bread, or so buried in sauce and trimmings that the smoke disappears.
The build runs from the bread out, but the beef sets the terms. The bread is whatever the kitchen runs, often a light roll or a soft white loaf, sometimes dark rye when the place leans toward the older deli register, split and frequently warmed so it firms enough to hold the filling. A base layer goes down to season and to seal the crumb against juice: mustard most often, its sharpness cutting the rich beef, sometimes mayonnaise or a soft cheese. The pastrami is the center, sliced thin and laid in loose folds rather than stacked in thick wedges, so the spice carries through every bite and the meat stays soft to chew. The supporting cast does quiet, sour work: pickles, sliced raw or pickled onion, sometimes tomato, kept restrained so the meat stays the headline and the bread still closes. Good execution shows in thin, generous, warm slices with enough mustard or pickle bite to keep each mouthful from going heavy. Sloppy versions show up fast: thick chunks that chew as one dense mass, dry meat from sitting out, or a sauce load that smothers the smoke.
It shifts mostly by how the meat is treated and what sharpens it. Served cold it reads as a clean deli sandwich. Griddled or pressed so the edges crisp and any cheese melts, it becomes a hotter, richer thing closer to a toasted sandwich. The sour element can lean toward mustard and pickle or toward raw onion and a tart dressing, each pushing the balance differently against the fat. The same beef on a baguette, on dark rye, or in a hot open-faced plate are each distinct preparations that earn their own articles rather than being crowded in here. On its own terms the pastrami sandwich lives or dies on the cure and the slice: get the meat tender and the acid right, and the bread is just there to carry it.