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Two winters ago, I was on a ski trip with my best friend. He’d recently graduated law school, hated his job, and was consumed by a fear that he’d failed in life and that it was too late to start over, even though we were both 28. All weekend long, he dwelled on his depression, bringing it up on the chairlift, at dinner, in the sauna. He talked about his medications, his therapist and the fear that he’d never be happy.

I wanted to help. So I gave him my recently finished copy of Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.

Gilbert, a successful writer, drags herself out of the depths of depression following a bitter divorce. She finds bliss in Italy, India and Indonesia by surrendering to food, God and romance. It’s a quick read, filled with self-deprecating humor and a colorful cast of characters. I sure felt uplifted after reading it. Maybe my friend would, too. Uh-unh.

Instead, he threw the book at me after reading a dozen pages. “This is the stupidest book I’ve ever read! What part of this chick-lit crap did you think I’d like?”

It’s not easy to be a fan of Eat, Pray, Love if you’re a man. It is a scented candle of new age wisdom. Eat, Pray, Love wasn’t simply an Oprah book pick; it was the focus of two entire episodes of her show. They might as well have printed the thing in pink ink. It’s pure literary estrogen.

The book’s haters are many. Gilbert’s memoir is often dismissed as a beach read for unhappy housewives: a shallow tome that says all of life’s problems can be fixed with Neapolitan pizza, a yoga retreat, and a good shtupp with a wealthy foreigner. They’re missing the point.

Most transformative memoirs involve a protagonist overcoming unimaginable adversity: the poor kid who pulls himself out of the ghetto to attend the Ivy League; the war refugee who survives against terrible odds; the junkie returned from the depths of heroin’s grasp. Inspiring, yes, but hardly relatable.

Gilbert is suffering from shattered confidence. Who hasn’t been there? Who hasn’t cried on a bathroom floor, sure that our life is over at 32? Gilbert’s beauty is that she isn’t exceptional; she’s just an ordinary gal with a broken heart and gift for writing.

I passed Eat, Pray, Love along to my friend that weekend, because it was the most believable comeback story I’d ever read. A few months later, he was on the mend. He got a better job, began a new romance, and found inner peace after a solo surf trip to Costa Rica. I didn’t tell him, but it was a page right out of the Eat, Pray, Love playbook. You go, boy!

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A tiny meat counter in Boerum Hill introduces deliphiles to pastrami’s Canadian cousin.

(photo: Hannah Whitaker/nymag.com)

Montreal’s smattering of Jewish delicatessens—anchored by the legendary house of smoked meat, Schwartz’s—are astoundingly old-school in their approach to Yiddish food. Meats are cured in-house and sliced by hand; wall-mounted menus list only a few key sandwiches, steaks, and sides; and there’s nary a salad or unpickled vegetable in sight. At the heart of the tradition is Montreal-style smoked meat, a cured brisket that’s fattier than corned beef and moister than pastrami. The sandwich arrives Stateside in a few weeks, when Noah Bernamoff, a 27-year-old part-time Brooklyn Law School student and native Montrealer, expects to open Mile End (97A Hoyt St., nr. Atlantic Ave.; no phone yet), a nineteen-seat mini-delicatessen in Boerum Hill. Bernamoff, a self-taught cook with zero deli or restaurant experience, began experimenting with smoked meat in his Park Slope apartment earlier this year, curing it in his fridge then smoking it atop his roof in a barbecue. His friends loved the sandwiches so much that Bernamoff decided to take a hiatus from law school and open a restaurant. He uses prime-Angus-certified briskets from LaFrieda and Meat Innovations, which he cures for nine days in a dry rub of coarse salt, black pepper, tons of fresh garlic, and about a dozen different spices. He then smokes the brisket over oak in an electric smoker for eight to ten hours and steams it for four more, and slices and layers it atop Orwasher’s Jewish rye bread. The taste: more aggressively peppery than pastrami, and a little hotter thanks to the paprika in the dry rub. The sandwiches are significantly smaller than most of the meat towers found in New York delis, but they’re priced to match: between $7 and $8.

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With September here and class back in session, The Afterword asked several Canadian authors to answer this question: If you could add one book to the high school curriculum – a book which students couldn’t graduate with until it was read – what would it be, and why? голова болит секс

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Oh God.

You’re a tough one to bring into the classroom. Just the idea of mentioning your name in front of students unleashes legions of Bible thumpers, angry parents (who either love you or despise you), bureaucrats, politicians, and reporters. You’re one hot potato, God, and while hot potatoes were once a staple of our educational diet, you’ve gone the way of foie gras: rich and dense, but way too controversial for kids to even touch.

Because outwardly studying organized religion is essentially verboten in Canada’s classrooms, the subject is approached in other ways: by talking about ethics or studying books where some central character is a loosely veiled stand-in for divinity. “Oh, I get it, the lion is supposed to be Jesus.” Cue the protests!

“The Year of Living Biblically” is the perfect book to broach the subject of God without breaking out the pitchforks. In it, Esquire journalist AJ Jacobs spends a year following the rules of the Bible as literally as possible. He grows a long beard, he only wears robes of linen, he throws pebbles at sinners, all in the name of a grand experiment that ultimately questions the value of religion.

This is a funny, laugh out loud book, something that is lacking from our school reading, but it is backed up with solid research and a journalist’s perspective. Jacobs starts out as a skeptic, raised in a Jewish home with very little religion, living in the modern world without much contact with God. By the end of his year, with a beard to rival Moses’, and a regiment of insane rituals that pushes the patience of his extremely tolerant wife, he finds a happy balance of spirituality in his life.

Jacobs’ respectful tone and honest curiosity make it one of the few refreshing takes on God in an era when people feel the need to pick sides on the battlefield of the soul. He meets everyone from evangelical preachers to atheists, and never judges the choices of individuals or gives sermons on how people ought to approach God. That open-mindedness is the book’s greatest strength, and it delivers a far more valuable lesson about respecting the diversity of spiritual viewpoints than most of the “everyone is different and that’s OK” dribble force fed to students in our schools.

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Three skiers fixated on fluff find that their idea of alpine heaven is only a snowcat ride away.

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My family is obsessed with skiing. In a lifetime of vacations, we’ve only gone to the beach half a dozen times, but each time we complained that we weren’t in the mountains. We’ve skied on every continent, plunging down groomed Colorado mountains, Austrian glaciers and steep couloirs in Argentina. Skiing is our universal truth, and among the men in the family it represents the competitive glue that holds us together and acts as the foil for our personalities. My father skis powerfully but carefully, my younger brother, Daniel, descends wild and fast, while I aim for fluidity and precision.

For obsessed powder hounds like us (my mother prefers the groomers), the promise of an exclusive expanse of alpine heaven, with not a lift line or crowd in sight, is the frozen equivalent of Shangri-La. So when my dad turned 60, he decided to celebrate by booking the three of us in at Powder Cowboy Catskiing, outside Cranbrook, B.C., where we’d be delivered by snowcat (a vehicle equipped with caterpillar tracks for travelling on snow) to fluff-blanketed slopes.

Located on a dude ranch, Powder Cowboy offers eight guest log cabins equipped with wood-burning stoves and in-floor heating in the bathrooms, and two larger lodges. The main lodge, housing the dining room and bar, is decorated in true backcountry fashion, with stuffed moose, elk and other game. Power Cowboy is a no-bull operation where a man’s desire for basic comforts is fulfilled: bacon-powder-beer-hot tub-dinner-sleep-repeat. There are no kitschy shops or resort villages to distract you. Instead, 6,000 acres of snow-dusted terrain await exploration. For skiing purists, it’s sheer magic.

After a sunrise breakfast of bacon and pancakes on our first day, we were shuttled to the waiting cats. All winter long, the Rockies had been pounded with snow, and the Powder Cowboy website showed skiers floating in tableaus of blinding white, the snow coming up to their knees, their chests, their faces. Powder skiing can be difficult, and dangers do lurk. But the growing popularity of cat-skiing, which was invented in the Canadian Rockies in 1975, has made it safer. It’s more accessible to skiers of different skill levels, especially with the advent of extra-wide “fat skis” that make it easier to plough through deep powder. Still, Dad had been nervous, his fears undoubtedly heightened by the senior’s discount he now received at movie theatres. But the storms subsided days before our arrival, and for the first time all winter, the range was bathed in brilliant sunshine.

Once we’d cleared a quick avalanche safety course, we ascended, cresting the first ridge that overlooked Powder Cowboy’s exclusive territory. There wasn’t a single power line, logging cut or road to blight the spectacular view – just 24 skiers and two snowcats. You could ski for two weeks here and never once cross another track. There were tight, steep chutes, swaths of fir forests and sun-drenched bowls dropping 600 metres into river basins. The sun’s warmth had drawn the moisture out of the snow, and the entire landscape was covered in potato-chip-size frost crystals, tinkling across the surface as we kicked off with our first smooth turns through the widely spaced pine trees. I followed in Daniel’s tracks, matching his arcs as we raced down to the cat. I felt like Michael Phillips, the 19th-century adventurer and fur trader who’d climbed this region’s savage peaks, although I had two guides and a cat at the bottom, loaded with snacks and sandwiches, ready to take us up again.

For the next three days, our guides took us around every ridge and peak of Powder Cowboy’s territory. We skied wide-open meadows bathed in sun and tight chutes that funnelled into forests. Toward the end of our last day, we stared down Big Cruiser, a large cathedral bowl that had been tempting us since our arrival. Dad went first, skiing short turns right down the middle, each fluid movement so effortless in the soft snow that he looked 20 years younger. Daniel dropped in after him, careening through the scattered trees. As the older brother, I’d always prided myself on being a better skier than Dan, but he’d been living in Calgary all winter, and it showed: He attacked the hill with ferocity. As I carved five massive turns down the steepest, most beautiful pitch I’d ever skied, I silently conceded defeat.

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What do people underestimate the importance of during an interview? And what do they overestimate? does plavix contain vitamin d-3 The Hoax They underestimate culture fit. Most people don’t succeed or fail based on an abundance or a lack of technical skills. They overestimate the importance of their educational accomplishments.

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Excuse me? Pardon me?

I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt your text messaging, which is probably what brought that look of scorn to your face, but I was wondering if you could help me.

That’s funny. Maybe I’m imagining this, but each time I open my mouth to ask a question about the clothes you’re selling, your nose scrunches, your eyes roll, and your head darts down to where the register is. I can’t imagine what’s so pressing.

I’m the only customer in here. Is there an urgent cash crisis? A dangerous cashmere spill?

Oh, of course! It’s me, isn’t it? I’m not exactly amusing you with these little queries of mine. My bad. I know my Gap jeans and old sweater are hardly from the mind of Karl Lagerfeld, but that’s why I came in here today. To trade money for goods and services. The way it works is: I ask questions about various products — in this case, the clothes beautifully displayed around us — and you, in your role as service person, answer them, perhaps even leaving your spot behind the desk to physically touch the clothes and aid in my investigation and ultimate purchase of them.

We can even have fun doing it. You can talk to me, ask me questions, too, even joke casually about things we might have in common (I totally agree about Lady Gaga!). You can use those powers of human interaction to assist me in a purchase, maybe even one that’s larger than I had originally intended.

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Perhaps a friendship will blossom out of it. O.K., friendship is a leap. A camaraderie? Can camaraderie blossom? Like the type that allows me to say, “Thanks so much for your help, man,” or even address you by your first name. That’d be nice. Wouldn’t it be nice, Mark?

I can see this isn’t really your thing. You’ve told me to “feel free to look around.” Maybe you were just trying to put me at ease — a little “my store is your store” attitude. And I understand. A lot of people don’t want your help. They want to browse at their discretion, unencumbered by salespeople.

I am not one of them. I need guidance. Think of me as soft clay, ready to be molded in your image. What do you think, Mark, brown belt or black?

Oh dear. There are those eyes again, barrel-rolling in their sockets like a pair of F-16s at an air show.

But you’re coming out from behind your perch? How exciting! Wow, those are some serious tattoos.

And what boots — I can’t believe you tuck your jeans right into them! I totally underestimated your coolness, Mark. Do you have this jacket in a medium?

Oh, you’re going outside for a cigarette. My God, I didn’t even realize I was interrupting your private time. I’ll just slink out of here quietly. So sorry to have troubled you.

David Sax, a freelance journalist who lives in Brooklyn, will soon be shopping for an outfit to wear when he tours with his book, “Save the Deli: In Search of Perfect Pastrami, Crusty Rye and the Heart of the Jewish Delicatessen” (Oct. 19, Houghton Mifflin).

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This is why I hate dance music,” Morgan Geist groans in the backseat of a Town Car hurtling along Queens Boulevard, a mind-numbing chorus of “Yeah, yeah! Baby, baby!” pumping through the speakers. “There’s no contrast at all. The entire track is crammed with noise. Dance music like this claims to be futuristic, but it’s as conventional as rock.”

Geist—36, slender, Kojak-bald—is dance music’s least likely D.J. A nondrinking vegetarian who avoids clubs (he dislikes crowds) and rarely listens to dance music, he spends most nights lying awake, worrying over his health, his label’s survival (he founded Environ Records in 1995, while at Oberlin College), and the futility of selling albums in an iPod era. An outsider in the world he’s chosen, he’s also aggressively anti-Establishment in an already anti-Establishment profession, right down to his moniker: D.J. Morgan Geist. (“Why take on a stupid pseudonym?”) Woody Allen, were he 30 years younger, could have a field day with this self-conscious neurotic.

A child of suburban New Jersey Jews (naturally), Geist grew up listening to his older brother’s Pink Floyd and Devo records. Dance music was for losers—or so he thought until he was introduced to Detroit’s techno scene in college (he’d travel the two hours from Oberlin each weekend). Marrying hard funk beats with European electronica, techno’s early pioneers forged futuristic worlds of musical escapism. “Techno is a bad word now,” says Geist, who attended parties in abandoned car factories in some of Detroit’s bleakest neighborhoods. “Techno is black music. It’s as black as jazz.”

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Geist approached Metro Area’s modicum of fame in typically Debbie Downer fashion. In the midst of a massive 2002 Paris show, he leaned over to his partner and said, “The people who are yelling loudest will hate us in six months.” Says Jesrani, the upbeat Ernie to Geist’s Bert, “You listen to his opinions on things, and it sounds very dour. But his music has this life and vivaciousness.”

It’s an approach Geist compares to old-school Motown; while the sound was upbeat, the lyrics often dealt with infidelity, negligent fathers, even abuse. His second solo album, Double Night Time—a record layered with dream vocals and warm, Nintendo-infused pop sounds—is equal parts melancholy and joy. Sitting in his Woodhaven recording studio, he plays “The Shore,” a song about his 7-year-old stepsister’s death in a car accident, set to a bouncy groove with a Rick James backbeat. “If [life] does exist after death,” he pauses to wonder nervously, “would she be upset that I invoked her name when I was scared?” Another song, “Ruthless City,” chronicles his conflicted relationship with New York, a place that can equally charm and leave you “bleeding on the sidewalk.” In “Detroit,” he confronts his chronic panic that he’ll never get excited about anything again.

Geist, who has a show with Jesrani at (Le) Poisson Rouge on Thursday night, may have found the perfect moment for his curious blend of pleasure and pain. Rather than offer an escape from the darkness of crisis and uncertainty, he embraces it, coaxing us onto the floor, urging us to dance with it.

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Zane Caplansky’s plan was modest: to set up shop in a tiny kitchen at the back of a dive bar (the rent was dirt cheap) and serve hand-carved smoked meat sandwiches with homemade whole-grain mustard. So, a year and a half ago, the Toronto caterer and lifelong Jewish deli lover began dry-curing raw briskets with pickling salt and a dozen heady spices (including mustard seeds, fennel seeds, and Kashmiri chile powder) for two weeks, then smoking them over hickory.

I tasted Caplansky’s efforts as soon as he opened for business. Nicely salted, tenderized with ribbons of melted fat, and properly cut by hand into thick slabs so that the juices stayed in the meat (dry-cured meat should never be sliced by machine), it had a complex flavor that made me rethink the very concept of Jewish deli. Ten minutes into lunch on his second day and completely sold out, Caplansky was forced to make a decision: He could either order some pre-pickled pastrami from a purveyor or close down the sandwich operation, get back to curing, and try again two weeks later.

That Caplansky took the latter route is more than just an indication of his overnight success. He is one of a new breed of deli men who look to the farmers market, as well as to Katz’s Crush movie

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The Jewish delicatessen has been vanishing for much of the past 50 years. In New York City alone, where this vigorous symbol of Ashkenazic cooking once flourished among immigrants, thousands have been reduced to a scattered few dozen. Cultural assimilation, dietary trends, and economics are largely to blame, but there’s also a culinary factor at work.

The Eastern European Jews who arrived on these shores from the 1880s onward initially made their offerings from scratch. But as the delicatessen business grew—fueled, in large part, by the new American obsession with the sandwich—more and more products came from outside. By the 1950s, deli owners could save money by replacing their homemade corned beef and pickles with substitutes made by companies like Hebrew National, Manischewitz, and Isaac Gellis. Liquid smoke replaced woodsmoke, injection-curing replaced dry-curing, and uniformity came to dominate the taste of Jewish deli food. It made sense, but there’s a reason old folks kvetch that deli just doesn’t taste the way it used to.

“The business has been stuck in a late-twentieth-century model,” explains Nick Zukin, co-owner of Kenny & Zuke’s Delicatessen, in Portland, Oregon. “Everything after the Second World War was about efficiency. But a hundred years ago, there had to be more variety.”

In 2006, Zukin, a food blogger with a baby face and a solid frame, had contacted Ken Gordon, a brash local restaurateur, originally from Queens, New York, with a proposal. There was no good pastrami in Portland. Would Gordon help him make some?

The duo set to work curing briskets in salt, sugar, and spices, then smoking them for eight hours over oak. They rented a booth one Sunday at a neighborhood farmers market, slapping their first steaming pastrami on the cutting board at 10 A.M. Before they knew it, all their briskets were gone. A week later, they doubled their output. That disappeared, too. People were literally trying to buy half-eaten sandwiches out of other customers’ hands.

Gordon and Zukin began featuring a delicatessen brunch at Gordon’s restaurant, Ken’s Place, on Saturdays. They made corned beef and tongue, pickles, knishes, bagels, rye bread, and rugelach, all in-house. It was so successful that by late 2007, they had shut Ken’s Place and opened Kenny & Zuke’s.

The people who work there are young, idealistic, and enthusiastic. Each morning, a trio of hippies roll tomorrow’s bagels by hand (the dough rests overnight), then dip the previous batch in malted water and bake them for breakfast. At night, Mathew Scaletta, a shaggy-haired 24-year-old who grew up canning fish in Alaska, preps and smokes the pastrami until it is dark red, with an intense, brackish tang and hints of peppery spice that meld perfectly with the rich marbling. The meat is steamed for close to three hours before being hand-cut to order and placed on Gordon and Zukin’s rye bread. Studded with kimmel (caraway) seeds and baked to a malty brown, the sourdough is dense and fragrant—a far cry from the homogenized loaves that most delicatessens pass off as rye. “I can buy other rye cheaper,” says Gordon. “But, damn, it’s good! Are we going to put our pastrami on a lesser rye? I don’t think so.”

Behind the new deli men’s refusal to compromise is a fiercely independent streak. Ignoring accepted wisdom, they have, most importantly, freed themselves from the New York mind-set that has resulted in delis everywhere being decorated like Times Square souvenir shops. The canned shtick and schmaltzy nostalgia—as well as the food—inevitably disappoint those searching for a replica of the idealized past they either experienced firsthand or through a grandparent’s recollections, or even picked up from Woody Allen’s films.

Despite Gordon’s New York provenance, you won’t find a single reference to the city on the menu or the walls at Kenny & Zuke’s. “We have never billed the place as a New York deli,” he says emphatically. “Never, ever. And we never will.” Although the food’s bedrock is the Lower East Side at the turn of the 20th century, the egg cream sodas are made not with U-bet chocolate syrup but with Dagoba organic chocolate, which tastes deeper and richer. A recipe from a Winnipeg blogger yields knishes filled with creamy mashed potatoes and crowned with glistening caramelized onions. The house-cured gravlaks, puffy latkes with a fresh ginger applesauce, sashimi-soft pickled tongue, and a noodle kugel that tastes like a creamy cinnamon bun: This is food at the top of the deli game.

The artisanal philosophy is slowly spreading to delis across America, including Saul’s, in Berkeley (co-owned by a Chez Panisse alum); Weiss Bakery and Delicatessen, outside Las Vegas (a mom-and-pop operation); and Jimmy & Drew’s 28th Street Delicatessen, in Boulder (where they smoke their own salmon and render their own schmaltz). All have a certain ethnic pride, outwardly referring to themselves as Jewish delicatessens, something many delis have been reluctant to do, fearing they’ll alienate Gentile customers. They also exhibit a strong sense of community. Days before opening last year, Zane Caplansky, who was born Zane Caplan, legally reverted to his great-grandfather’s surname as a way of reaffirming his own identity.

“I’m proud of being a Jew and of cooking Jewish food,” he says. He recently moved his operation out of the bar, opening a bright new delicatessen in Kensington Market, the historic birthplace of Toronto’s Jewish community. Caplansky swells with pride at being the culinary leader of a downtown Jewish cultural revival. He has reached out to local synagogues to host events and has expanded the menu to include kishke, corned beef, and other classics, all made from scratch.

“Part of that pride is capturing the authentic flavors of this food, and you can only do that if it’s handmade,” Caplansky tells me. “Bringing it back to the way it was once done, well, that’s the highest achievement you can expect in this business.”

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