We battled Los Angeles traffic like warriors of hunger, navigating our Tesla chariot straight to that sacred intersection of 7th and Alvarado for lunch at Langer’s — a deli that’s been curing souls since 1947. For nearly eight decades, they’ve been slinging pastrami so divine it should come with a choir of tubas and a prescription plan.

Let’s talk No. 19. Hand-shaved, peppered, smoked, brined, and steamed pastrami — piled tall enough to have its own microclimate — served on double-baked rye that crunches like it has opinions. Toss in coleslaw, Swiss cheese, and Russian dressing and you have what I hereby declare the King of Los Angeles Sandwiches. Sorry democracy, this is a monarchy now. Long live the King!

Seated in a brown tufted booth that has witnessed generations of very content eaters, we proceeded to order like we were catering for a small army. Chicken Noodle Soup: brothy, noodly, and so comforting it should be allowed to vote. Then the No. 10 — essentially the No. 19 without the coleslaw for those who prefer less vegetable interruption — plus the Hot Corned Beef Sandwich for good measure.

And because restraint is for amateurs, the crispy crinkle fries arrived, salty and glorious, like tiny golden W’s of joy. I devoured them with the passion of a person who has never once been betrayed by a potato.

To wash it all down, I indulged in a chocolate malt so good it probably has a fan club, while J and P, the New Yorkers at the table, ordered Egg Creams (as is legally required by their state). Everything: yum, yum, and more yum.

Service? A delight. Thank you, Kevin, for shepherding us through our deli destiny. Ambience? Langer’s is still very much 1947 in all the right ways — the real, nostalgic, pastrami-perfumed McCoy.