The evidence of my sins was everywhere.

My right pant leg bore a large splotch of mustard, and grease soiled my left shirtsleeve.

Pickle juice dribbled tellingly from my chin.

As pilgrimages go, an afternoon lunch at Schwartz’s legendary Hebrew delicatessen in downtown Montreal had more to do with celebrating gluttony than atoning for it.

Schwartz’s is the holy shrine of the smoked meat sandwich, drawing ravenous foodies from around the globe to this many-steepled city on the St. Lawrence River.

I cannot say for sure how many dozens of historic cathedrals my wife and I passed on the way to the restaurant because I was too busy baby-stepping my way up a hill slick with ice, which, according to locals had formed on the sidewalk prior to Confederation.

(It is apparently illegal to salt or clear an icy sidewalk in Montreal.)

My wife, who, as I have mentioned previously, is a good sport when it comes to satisfying my unnatural interest in food, never once complained when I suggested we spend the March Break in a city colder than ours when her colleagues were jetting off to the sunny south.

The important point here is that Schwartz’s was everything I’d dreamed it would be.

(Insert obligatory restaurant-critic description of meal here because you may be able to claim this column as a business expense at tax time. Check this with accountant.)

“The air around us held the aroma of smoked brisket, its crusty exterior blackened with spices, the glistening meat sliced thinly and piled high on rye bread that barely contained a mound of pinkish beef the size of a softball.”

Exiting the restaurant after our brisk but heavenly lunch, I vowed never to shower again.

“I want to smell like this for the rest of my life,” I told my wife while sniffing at a still fresh grease stain that I was confident would be the envy of friends and family.

“Isn’t that...?” they’d ask, pointing at the stain, their eyes wide as saucers and mouths agape.

“A stain left by a Schwartz’s famous smoked brisket sandwich?” I’d offer helpfully, anticipating where this conversation was going.

Their heads would nod vigorously.

“It absolutely is,” I’d reply proudly.

“We’d always heard about Schwartz’s, but to see the evidence up close is something else. I’m almost embarrassed to ask, but may I?”

“You want to sniff my sleeve, don’t you,” I’d reply with a knowing smile.

According to a paper placemat which will be framed and displayed prominently in my home office, Schwartz’s opened in 1930, though a sign posted near its front door claims the restaurant began welcoming customers in 1928, a two-year discrepancy deserving of serious academic study for which I am proposing to my editor a paid leave of absence.

“I want to get to the meat of the story, boss,” I’ll tell him just as soon as I finish this next mouthful of delicious sandwich and possibly another full-sour pickle. “I’m thinking a multi-part investigative series focusing on the food habits of urban dwellers.

Potential story ideas include “Mustard: grainy versus smooth,” and “Are hot peppers tax deductible?”