It was in an area smack between Montreal’s English-speaking population to the west, the French-speaking to the east, and the immigrant, ethnic mix that populated the strip in between. While that area transformed over time from an ethnic ghetto into the hip, artsy heart of the city, Schwartz’s remained essentially unchanged and became famous for its “smoked meat,” a fatter, spicier, Canadian version of pastrami. There was always a line out the door for a seat at one of Schwartz’s communal tables because only sixty customers at a time could fit inside. Even so, Huck Moseby had a table completely to himself to enjoy his “extra fat” smoked meat sandwich, French fries, and Cott Black Cherry soda. It wasn’t because he was wealthy, powerful, or someone so outwardly repulsive or frightening that others steered clear of him. Huck was an average-looking forty-four-year-old man, slightly pudgy and perhaps a little too pale, wearing a ragged Musée de Florentiny T-shirt with a faded picture of Rembrandt’s Old Man Eating Bread by Candlelight on the back.
