Recently we learned that if you eat too much red or processed meat you can slice up to 20% off your life expectancy. Presumably, then, eating processed or cured red meat is the gastronomic equivalent of a cocaine and heroin speedball. Given my love for salt beef and pastrami, I find this completely thrilling. As I slip into a saggy, grey-bearded middle age the nearest I come to doing anything dangerous is carrying two cups of coffee upstairs while stepping over bits of Lego with my bare feet. That's a life lived on the freakin' edge. Now it turns out my eating habits put me in a risk category alongside Pete Doherty and Jenson Button. Oh yeah, suckers: live well, eat pastrami and leave a beautiful varicose corpse. That's my motto.
The thing is, if I'm going to commit slow suicide, I only want to do it with the good stuff. There's no point wasting precious years on the grim drek the supermarkets trade in. The arrival in London last year of Mishkin's, a fond homage to the New York Jewish deli, is very pleasing, and some of the things they do are pretty good. But there's always room for more.
Recently I tried the pastrami made by Mark Ogus, the man behind the street-food operation Monty's Deli (full disclosure: Ogus is the partner of an Observer colleague; find out where he's trading in London on twitter @montysdeli). His pastrami is pretty damn good, the brisket properly smoked and spiced and served in good thick slices for his deep-filled Reuben sandwich. He also directed me to the West One Deli, which opened in November off Baker Street, selling itself as a real kosher New York Jewish experience.
I'm not sure if it's especially New York; it's rather more Hendon. But for those wishing to join me in a suicide pact, it is worth a visit. It's very small, with a takeaway counter at the front and barely enough seating for the hordes of kippah-wearing observant Jewish chaps who want to eat there. Quiet and relaxing it ain't. But then this is food as fuel – something big and solid to be eaten eagerly as if it were your last meal, because the Cossacks are probably coming. Just as soon as they've finished a little light shopping at the Marble Arch branch of M&S.
The key items, all prepared in-house, are very good. The matzo ball in their chicken soup is more akin to the boulder Indiana Jones had to dodge in the credits to the Temple of Doom, but no worse for that, and it's a good broth without the hit of telma seasoning powder you too often find elsewhere. The salt beef, though a little lean, is served in chunky, soft slices. The pastrami is about as good as you'll find in this country, with a proper hit of smoke and spice and a good ribbon of fat at its back. In a punch-up over the chopped liver, Mishkin's would win on account of softness, but at Deli West One they'll also serve it with matzo, which means it would come out on top. We also liked the crisp new green pickles. The only downer was the latke, which was flat and oily.
Our service was a little embarrassing. They insisted upon serving us ahead of the people on the next table who had ordered before us, our dishes piling up as their table stayed empty. It got to the point where I was begging the waiters to get them served as soon as possible. And yes, of course, this probably happens all the time when I'm eating out, but usually it's done with a bit more grace and subtlety.
Then again grace and subtlety is not what Deli West One is about. Pricing is competitive – £8.50 may sound a lot for a sandwich, but not for one the size of your head. The place is licensed, but I wouldn't recommend it. Going to a Jewish deli for a drink is like going to a nunnery to pick up some dirty jokes. Go for the meats. What have you got to lose? Other than about 10 years.