Unearth The Voyage
Florida isn’t exactly known for deli culture. Sunshine, yes. Citrus groves, sure. But pastrami that could make a grizzled New Yorker stop mid-rant and just… nod? That’s rarer than snow in Miami. And yet, tucked into strip malls, side streets, and converted gas stations are hole-in-the-wall delis where the bread is fresh, the mustard has bite, and the meat is stacked unapologetically high. These places don’t care about Instagrammable plating. They care about the sandwich. Here are Florida’s tiniest delis where unforgettable pastrami waits for anyone who knows to look.
1. Roasters ’N Toasters – Miami
Miami has a love affair with Cuban sandwiches, but Roasters ’N Toasters proves there’s room for East Coast deli tradition too. The place is small, packed, and unapologetically loud – just the way a deli should be. They’ve been slicing pastrami since the early ’80s, and it shows.
The meat is peppery, smoky, and impossibly tender, layered between rye that holds its ground without overwhelming. Order it with a side of their matzo ball soup and you’ll understand why this deli is still a local institution.
It’s the kind of place where you overhear conversations in three languages, where you come for pastrami but leave with stories. Miami might move fast, but Roasters is a steady heartbeat of tradition.
2. TooJay’s Deli – Palm Beach
Tucked in the heart of Palm Beach, TooJay’s is a Florida deli with unapologetic New York roots. The space isn’t sprawling—half the time you’re shoulder-to-shoulder with retirees, lawyers on lunch break, and families who know to order extra pickles.
Their pastrami sandwich is built like a skyscraper, towering layers of smoky meat balanced by tangy mustard and a crunch of slaw if you ask for it “New Yorker style.”
This isn’t fine dining. It’s a deli counter experience that tastes like memory – of train rides into Manhattan, of hurried lunches before the next shift, of food that comforts because it doesn’t try to impress. At TooJay’s, the pastrami doesn’t whisper. It shouts, and you’ll be grateful it does.
3. Larry’s Giant Subs – Jacksonville
Jacksonville might not scream “deli capital,” but Larry’s Giant Subs has been quietly feeding locals and skeptics alike since 1982. It’s the kind of modest strip-mall spot you might miss if you weren’t paying attention, but inside, the smell of smoked meats will pull you in like gravity.
Their pastrami sandwich is unapologetically overstuffed, layered high on crusty bread, and dripping with flavor that’s equal parts brine and smoke.
You’ll find cops grabbing lunch here, construction workers refueling, and old-timers who claim Larry’s saved them from moving back north. It’s not glamorous, but it’s real – Florida pastrami at its most honest, best eaten with both hands, elbows on the table, and maybe a cold beer to wash it down.
4. Lenny’s – Clearwater
Lenny’s doesn’t just serve pastrami. It serves a crash course in deli culture, transplanted from the Northeast to the Gulf Coast. The dining room is tight, the counters are bustling, and the pastrami is so good it makes you question Florida’s culinary stereotypes.
They steam it just right – juicy, aromatic, with enough fat to melt into the rye but not so much it weighs down the bite.
Lenny’s is the kind of place where you go in hungry and leave full of both food and conversation. Regulars trade stories with the staff, tourists look wide-eyed at the portion sizes, and everyone agrees on one thing: this pastrami could hold its own against the best of New York.
5. Wolfie’s Rascal House (Legacy Lives On) – North Miami Beach
Wolfie’s Rascal House may have closed its doors in 2008, but in Florida deli lore, it’s immortal. Generations of Miamians grew up on Wolfie’s pastrami sandwiches – monuments of meat and mustard piled high, served in a diner-like space that always felt a little chaotic, a little perfect.
Though the physical deli is gone, the recipes and traditions live on in Miami’s Jewish delis, many run by alumni who cut their teeth at Wolfie’s.
Ask around, and locals will tell you Wolfie’s wasn’t just a restaurant – it was a rite of passage. Eating their pastrami was less about hunger and more about identity, a reminder that great deli culture could thrive under Florida’s sun just as much as New York’s snow.
