It Don't Get No Betta'n'dis.

So, like he told you last week, Plotnik reunited with his distant cousin Josh at Josh's wildly popular Eisenberg's Sandwich Shop on Sixth Avenue at 22nd Street in Manhattan, across the street from Madison Square Park and the Flatiron Building. At that time, Josh served Plotnik a deliciously disconcerting pastrami sandwich.

See, for Plotnik, Katz's Deli has always been the Pinnacle of Pastrami. But a few days before going into Eisenberg's, PD and Ducknik had gone into Katz's and had a disappointing, dried-out half-hearted pastrami sandwich -- and at $15.95 that's a lot of disappointment.

That overpriced and underwhelming sandwich may have been on Plotnik's mind when Cousin Josh lay two Eisenberg's pastramis down on the counter in front of PD and Plottie.

They were SOOO good! Plot thought he must be dreaming, because the sandwich was only $9 bucks. So he promised Josh he'd come back for further research after the bike trip.

"You can meet Robin then," Josh said. "The love of my life."

Sure enough. On Monday, all packed up and a train and a plane to catch, Plotnik hugged Isabella good-bye at her school and promised he'd see her next month in Seattle. Then, with The Great PD helping Plotnik trudge his suitcase and computer and carry-on up and down the subway stairs, the two veteranos of the Allegheny Bike Trail hopped on the R Train and went back uptown to Eisenberg's.

The Place was absolutely packed with a raucous lunchtime crowd, jammed as only a skinny New York deli can be, with people who couldn't get seats at the lunch counter shouting out their orders like at the NY Stock Exchange, accompanied by frenzied arm wavings and beseechings in many fractured languages.

Josh stood behind the cash register, wearing a blue shirt open at the neck. Josh is one of these big guys who look really good in open shirts. (Somewhere in the past, some very large Viking vacationing in Poland must have done some time with a female Plotnikkie antecedent, because Josh is at least six foot six. His brother is six-four. BOTH their parents added together are shorter than either of their kids. )

Josh can stare out over the masses of squabbling Plotnikkies crowding in front of him. The second Plot and PD jammed their way inside the door Josh shouted: "Daniel! Doug!"

(Plotnik does not know why Josh called The Great Plotnik and The Great PunkyDunky "Daniel" and "Doug" but they knew he was referring to them.)

"C'mere!" he shouted. "Meet Robin, the love of my life."

Standing next to him was a normal sized very pretty woman, in a checked blouse, obviously Josh's girl friend, who was calmly handling all the take-outs and phone-ins and cash transactions and translations, swinging her arms and holding take out food in paper bags over her head, all as easily as if she were home putting on a cup of tea.

"These are my cousins," Josh shouted to her.

"WHO'S GOT GRILLED CHEESE EXTRA ONIONS, CHOCOLATE EGG CREAM?" Robin shouted, holding a bag up in the air that Josh then grabbed to hold up very high, with one hand, while he wrote orders and punched keys with his other. "What's their last name?" Robin said.

"Plotnik!" Josh said.

"Plotnik!" Robin said. "Just like you!"

Josh beamed. He is such a nice guy.

"Josh, give us three pastrami-ryes to go," said Plotnik.

"Mustard?" Josh asked.

"Mustard," Plotnik answered. "And an iced tea."

"Lemon, no sugar, right?"

"How did you know that?"

Josh just laughed. "Look at you," he said. Josh weighs at least 300 pounds. Plotnik took it as a compliment, though he's not really sure.

OK. Plotnik hugged his boy good-bye, thanked him for such a great trip, then took two of the three sandwiches and the iced tea across the street to sit on a bench in Madison Square Park and eat his lunch, while staring up at the glorious Manhattan afternoon. The bench was crowded, and Plotnik also had his suitcase, carry-on and computer bag. He had an hour before he'd have to get back on the subway for JFK.

He found a seat. It wasn't easy but, surrounded by people staring at him, he unwrapped that sandwich.

Plotnik is here to tell you, fellow Plotnikkies, that the Hot Pastrami on Rye with Mustard from Eisenberg's Deli served from Plotnik to Plotnik on Monday, October 17, 2011, was the finest sandwich Plotnik has EVER eaten. Fat, juicy, greasy, perfect.

The sandwich was so good Plotnik would take one bite, then put the sandwich down, say "Ohh! Ahh!" while swiveling around to catch people's eyes, and then he'd pick it up and the whole thing would start over. It was orgasmic, but better because of all the grease.

There was a guy sitting next to him spooning a small container of Dannon yogurt. After awhile he stopped spooning his yogurt and just stared at Plotnik.

"That sounds like a really good sandwich," he said.

"It's the best of the best," Plotnik said, wiping his face with his napkin. "Ohh! Ohh!"

"Makes my yogurt look really stupid," the guy said.

"Mmmm, Oh God, smack," said Plotnik, still smacking his lips.

The guy stopped staring into his yogurt container. He was now staring directly at Plotnik.

"Really stupid," he said.

"Well, I know where you can get one of these," Plotnik said. "Right across the street, over at Eisenberg's. He's my cousin."

"Eisenberg's your cousin?"

"Nahh, not Eisenberg. My cousin Josh bought it from old man Eisenberg around six years ago."

"Must be really good, huh?" The guy kept staring at the other half of Plotnik's sandwich, and he probably sensed, through some pastramic telepathy that Plottie had yet another one in the paper bag, and that although he planned to take it home to Ducknik, it was still hot and equally delicious and possibly available.

"Only $9 bucks," Plotnik said.

"I mean," he said, "this yogurt was $4..." He let his plastic spoon fall into the container.

"Uh, huh," Plotnik said. "Well, you know where to go."

The guy kept staring.

Look, Plotnik has never claimed to be a saint. His own mother could have scammed a bite of that sandwich, and maybe Isabella, but only them and only a bite. Feeling no shame, Plotnik finished the entire sandwich, with Mr. Yogurt staring at him, Plottie moaning in the ecstasy you only get in New York, on a park bench, on a gorgeous day with the sun splashing off rooftops and fire escapes, buses beeping and taxis creeping, his legs folded and locked over his suitcases against some random thief, his lap covered with greasy plastic wrap, multiple napkins yellow with mustard and brown with meat grease, the greatest and most delicious sandwich in mankind's long history still alive in his hands, still hot, still steamy, coriander from the meat and caraway from the bread and diesel from the cabs and buses, and all the people moving up and around and with all the craziness of this city it all comes down to this very moment, and you can go from hell to Staten Island and back and it won't get, it can't get, it'll never get no betta'n'dis.