You don’t want to interact with me before my first shot of espresso. Ever. (FYI, I don’t want to interact with you either.)
This was the only title deemed appropriate considering the beastiality of the consumption.
Think about the amount of f*cks given, multiplied by a rainy Saturday, and add in deli mustard. Now, throw in a warm, hefty helping of salty, melt-in-your-mouth pastrami, and shove it in rye bread. According to my nonexistent math skills, the answer comes out to: Katz Deli.