Category Archives: Sandwich Reviews

Introducing: Slummin’ It

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In my post earlier this week, I reiterated that I consider myself an enthusiast and not a critic. I go looking for good sandwiches; it’s very rare that I’ll sit down for a sandwich without some sense that it’s going to be good. But I’ve been thinking about that, and I think there’s room for growth.

In my review of the fried chicken sandwich from Flanagan’s Ale House in Kentucky I got into a discussion of how most people experience sandwiches. It is not, I feel safe in saying, very close to how I experience sandwiches. (I’m going to come off like a snob here, but the shoe fits so I’ll wear it.) The numbers, were we to look at them, present a distinctly American portrait that I’m sure you’re all capable of putting together. What I’m driving at is there’s a gap between the kind of sandwich looked for by someone like you or I and the kind of sandwich you average person on their lunch break settles for. They take their five dollars, wander in to their local franchised sandwich joint and walk out, convinced that the pile of iceberg lettuce and few scraps of lunchmeat they’ve been handed are a legitimate sandwich. Maybe all that salt goes to your brain after a while, I don’t know.

So there’s a gap there, between me and them, and I’ve been thinking about how I might cross it. What I’ve come up with is the newest semi-regular feature here at On Sandwiches: Slummin’ It. I’m going to go out and eat a sandwich that I wouldn’t ordinarily even stop to consider, and I’m going to share my thoughts about it with you. I hope I find something to enjoy in these sandwiches, and I hope you find something to enjoy in reading about them.

Slummin’ It: Jack in the Box Bourbon BBQ

Jack in the Box Bourbon BBQ Steak Grilled SandwichPhoto courtesy of flickr user theimpulsivebuy 

I start here because the grilling is a good sign. There are plenty of sandwiches out there that wouldn’t be successful but for the magic of a flat-top, and I suspected that if Jack in the Box understood that they might understand some of the larger, more important issues in sandwich making.

The grilling is the high point, unquestionably. I’m trying not to judge these sandwiches too harshly; while the buttery grilled bread contained neither the nuance nor depth of flavor that you might get in a competent diner, it was buttery and it was grilled. Call it the soft bigotry of low expectations, but I’ll give out points here for reasonable approximations. Beyond the bread, though, the sandwich comes up short, very short. I’m not sure what kind of steak went into this, but it’s tough and whatever flavor is there has disappeared. Where did it go? Well, it went the same place the namesake bourbon bbq sauce went: into the cheese. The downside of the grilling is that the cheese melts to a slimy ocean, and anything that might have been good about the sandwich is lost at sea.

I will say I’m disappointed that this project started with a bad sandwich, but I cannot claim to be surprised. But I intend to continue on, still an enthusiast, but an adventurous one. Here’s hoping I find some sandwiches worth the effort.

“The Big Nasty” — McAlister’s Deli, Cleveland International Airport, Cleveland, OH

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There are many cities in the United States that have a signature sandwich, or claim to. My goal is to one day try them all. For some reason, when I recently had a layover in Cleveland, I was convinced that Cleveland’s claim to sandwich fame was the “Hot Brown.” It wasn’t until I returned home and looked up the history of the Hot Brown for a refresher that I was reminded it is actually Kentucky’s signature sandwich, not Cleveland’s. Nevertheless, I was able to find a type of Hot Brown represented at Cleveland International, and adopted a “when in Rome” attitude toward the endeavor.

A bit of background info on the “Hot Brown”: traditionally, this is an open-faced sandwich with turkey and bacon, covered in a bechamel cheese sauce and broiled until the sauce is browned. Leaving aside the obvious fact that an open-faced sandwich is not a sandwich, the “Big Nasty” on offer at McAlister’s Deli is a Hot Brown in spirit only, similar to how a Twinkie could be viewed as a type of eclair.

“The Big Nasty” is roast beef and cheese piled atop a quartered foot-long baguette, and the diner is presented with a tub of gravy to pour on top, and a knife and fork with which to consume the beast. I could have attempted to assemble the bread quarters into a couple of makeshift “gravy-dip” sandwiches, but that is not what we do here. It is our business to consume menu items as presented, and as intended, be they sandwich or merely masquerading as one. I am pleased to report that, although far from being a sandwich (and looking like a horror show), “The Big Nasty” — as is the case with many truly indulgent foods — tasted miles better than it looked. The baguette was fresh and withstood the dampness of the endeavor, the roast beef was tasty and plentiful, and the gravy was wonderful and tied everything together. Not a sandwich, not a Hot Brown, and not in the correct city, but I feel I made the right choice.

Sausage & Egg – Le Boulanger, Bascom Ave, San Jose, CA

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I popped into Le Boulanger one evening, thinking I would enjoy a quick sandwich before heading on my way. At the counter I simply ordered “the sausage sandwich,” thinking of the turkey & chicken pesto sausage sandwich that I have enjoyed in the past. Apparently that it was dark out wasn’t sufficient context to convey that I wasn’t interested in a breakfast sandwich, and so I received the Sausage & Egg you see above. I didn’t really have time to attempt an exchange so I took what I was given and went to eat.

I’ll cut to the chase: This was a bad sandwich. I don’t write about a lot of the sandwiches that I don’t like, because I prefer On Sandwiches to be a celebration of things we love.  That said, sometimes something just strikes me the wrong way and I can’t let it slide. This wasn’t any good. It goes beyond uninspired. A few scrambled eggs, a breakfast sausage patty, some cheddar cheese. That kind of simplicity is one thing when I’m paying three or four dollars in a deli. But if I’m handing over a ten spot and barely getting enough back to buy a newspaper I expect a little bit more. The eggs were unobjectionable. If pressed to describe the sausage patty the best I might be able to come up with is “It’s a sausage patty.” The cheese quickly took on that oily sheen that makes you wonder why anyone bothers with any cheese, at all, ever. The dutch crunch roll was as good as dutch crunch often is, but it was all wrong. It would have been swell on the sandwich I thought I was ordering, but here it just didn’t fit. Between that and the aim-low-and-we-won’t-have-far-to-fall ambitions, there wasn’t anything redeeming here. A trio of uninspired ingredients somehow came together to be a good deal less than the sum of their parts. Enough. On Sandwiches is a celebration; I am an enthusiast, not a critic. There is no need to dwell here, there are great sandwiches out there, waiting to be eaten.

Crumb Donut & Ice Cream – Made at Home

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I am something of an active individual. I see much value in the pursuit of physical culture, and so I pursue with great vigor in a variety of ways. I do this both for its own sake and because it allows me certain indulgences in my diet. I earn a great deal in miles traveled and pounds lifted, and what good are things earned if you never cash them in?

And so it was that on a recent summer day I concluded a vigorous bit of cycling with a donut ice cream sandwich.  A donut was procured from a local shop, a pint of ice cream from the convenience store. I took a bit of the ice cream and fashioned a crude patty, which I returned to the freezer to firm up. It doesn’t take much to push me towards including a bit of summer fruit in things, so a nearby white peach was conscripted. The donut was sliced in half, the ice cream came out of the freezer, and I had myself a tremendously rich, creamy, fluffy, tender, aggressively sweet bit of indulgence. It was phenomenal.

When I decided that yes, I really was going to cut a donut in half and add some ice cream, I felt as if I might be transgressing the bounds of good sense. Adding the fruit only compounded that feeling, and I as I raised the sandwich to my mouth I felt for sure that I had gone too far. But in eating it my mind began to open to the possibilities.  A chocolate donut, for example, encrusted with lightly crushed graham crackers and holding a bit of marshmallow flavored ice cream would be a tremendous take on the s’more. The whole thing might be dipped in chocolate, leaving a shell to be devoured in concert with the decadence inside. Cracked nuts, macerated fruits, peanuts buttered…with each bite my mind reeled farther and farther away from what I was eating, creating ever more outlandish donut ice cream sandwiches.

This sandwich was otherworldly in its goodness. And, despite my initial thought that this was over the line, I now see that there are worlds beyond worlds, sandwiches of almost incomprehensible indulgence. But some doors are better left unopened. I cut a donut in half, added ice cream and fresh peaches, and I ate it. I believe I will strain my ear to catch the last echo of my good sense and hurry off after it.

Pizza Steak – Mick’s Sub Shop, Lindley Ave., Encino, CA

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Many times, when at a new establishment with an eye toward a sandwich to review, one must opt for the road less traveled. One cannot always expect a sandwich counter to offer anything beyond “Roast Beef Sandwich” or “Turkey Sandwich” or “Cold Cut Combo.” Thus, while scanning the board at Mick’s Sub Shop, the words “Pizza Steak” jumped out at me and I was forced to inquire. I was informed that the sandwich consisted of “steak,” grilled onions, pizza sauce, and mozzarella. Intrigued by what sounded like a beef parmigiana sandwich, I placed my order.

The end result was, perhaps, less than it could have been. But it could also have been much, much worse. The first notable aspect of the sandwich was that the large was cut into thirds, an anomaly if there ever was one. The grilled onions were hardly more than warmed, and if they were properly browned and caramelized, I feel it would have contributed a great deal toward making this a better sandwich.

As I elaborated in last week’s post, too often is sliced roast beef presented as “steak,” but in the case of presented a sandwich called “pizza steak,” one can forgive the euphemism. This was a greasy and strange sandwich, although not actively bad. I cannot in good conscience recommend the item, but I will say this: the third of the sandwich that I took home with me was immensely better two days later, eaten cold out of the refrigerator, than the two thirds I consumed fresh and hot inside Mick’s.

Tortas Milanesa – Adelita’s Taqueria & Mexico Bakery No 2, San Jose, CA

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The torta milanesa at Adelita's Taqueria in San Jose

Mexican food doesn’t get a tremendous amount of respect. Whether or not it gets the respect it deserves is a matter for another site, I suppose. Something about its ubiquity and its ability to remain tasty while suffering in quality, though, has led to it assuming a place in American cuisine where nobody is expecting much. I think that’s too bad. I eat a fair number of tortas, probably more than any other particular type of sandwich, and I’m hoping that one of these days one of them is going to really knock my socks off. What I have long suspected is that there is a sandwich out there that is as transcendent an experience as the bánh mì at Saigon Bánh Mì. That there is a torta out there that is genuinely sublime, something that when I find it will forever influence my greater sandwich worldview. I had a great, great sandwich at Los Reyes de la Torta, but the very fact that I’m writing this suggests that it didn’t have quite the impact that it could have. You might be wondering what makes me so certain that sandwich is out there, and I’ll admit that for a while it was just an idle thought, something I would consider from time to time but never really embraced. But when I sat down to eat the Torta Milanesa from Adelita’s Taqueria, I knew my search had begun in earnest.

It isn’t a particularly great sandwich. It’s an above average torta, better than La Victoria, but not as good as Los Reyes. What jumped out at me here, though, was the milanesa. The milanesa, cousin to the Italian cotoletta and the German schnitzel, is a thin slice of beef spiced, dipped in egg, dredged in breadcrumbs and shallow fried. That last step was the downfall of this particular torta, as the milanesa had been fried well before it ended up on my sandwich. By the time it got to me the coating was a bit damp and well detached from the beef in places.  In spite of that the beef was tender and the whole thing hinted at what could have been. A crunchy coating on a tender piece of beef, creamy avocado, just the right salsa…it could have been something really special, had it been well executed. I finished the sandwich a bit disappointed, but now certain that there is a torta out there, a transcendent torta just waiting for me. So I went looking elsewhere.

The torta milanesa from Mexico Bakery No 2
My first thought was to try Mexico Bakery No 2, the downtown location of the place that serves what might be the best torta in the south bay. My previous experience with them was downright delicious, a chorizo torta that was that wonderful kind of greasy. If anyone had mastered the milanesa, I figured, it had to be them.


The torta milanesa from Mexico Bakery is considerably more elaborate than the one from Adelita’s. Where Adelita’s brought simple lettuce / tomato / avocado accompaniments, Mexico Bakery provides those things plus a couple slices of soft cheese and a healthy dose of pickled jalapeños. It’s very different than the sandwich at Adelita’s, and very good. They had a bit of a heavy hand with the jalapeños, but a small adjustment evened things out. When consuming the second half of the sandwich I swapped out about half the jalapeños and put in their place a good dose of tomatillo salsa, and that really made things sing. This was a very good sandwich, but ultimately it is not the end of my search. It suffered from the same thing that derailed the earlier torta, namely that the milanesa itself was not freshly fried. Fresher than Adelita’s, but not cripsy or showing any other hallmarks of the genuinely fresh. If it isn’t fresh, there isn’t a whole lot that can save it. It speaks to the quality of Mexico Bakery that the sandwich was so good in spite of that, but ultimately fried food on a sandwich is pass/fail. This sandwich didn’t pass.

So the search continues. There’s a torta milanesa out there, one that’s really, really good. One day I’m going to find it, and on that day I’m going to eat it.

8 oz. NY Steak Sandwich – Smalley’s Roundup, South Main St., Salinas, CA

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There are two distinct families of steak sandwich. The first is sliced or shaved steak, which is normally seen either the heading of “tri-tip” or is a roast beef or French dip sandwich that is gussied up and putting on airs. The second family of steak sandwiches is generally about as honest as a sandwich can get: a steak on bread, typically with some sauce. That is the beast we are dealing with today.

Smalley’s roundup is the most famous and tenured BBQ establishment located in the home of the California Rodeo. Beloved for its sauce and grilled selections, I hoped the quality would translate well to the sandwich medium. There are three steak sandwich options: the 8 oz. NY, the 5 oz. Filet, and a “BBQ Beef” option, which is sliced tri-tip. When dealing with the steak sandwich family that is “a steak on
bread,” I feel the key to a fine sandwich lies solely with the tenderness of the steak. Since the filet would be a more naturally tender cut than any New York strip, I wanted to put Smalley’s through its paces, as it were. You can often gauge the overall quality of an establishment by its basest offering.

I am pleased to report that the steak was tender and did not necessitate my tugging at it as though I were a dog with a chew toy. The sauce was flavorful and applied with just the right amount of gusto. The bread held up nicely without being anything special. The overall experience was one of a hearty, pleasing, and filling meal. Simplicity can often be richly rewarding.

Fried Egg & Anchovy – Made at Home

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I like anchovies. I like them quite a bit, and I’m a bit bewildered that they’ve got the reputation they do. The chewy fish run right up to the edge of “Mercy, this is too salty” and, in my opinion, stop just short. I think they’re delicious, but they’re not the easiest thing to incorporate into a meal. They’ve got quite an attitude, and they’re prone to standing at the forefront of a dish regardless of where you put them. So while I’m quick to try and incorporate them into a sandwich, the boldness they bring is of particular concern. A good sandwich, as we all know, relies on balance. What could stand against the anchovies? My thoughts quickly turned to eggs. A perfectly fried egg, the yolk warm and runny, is incredibly rich. That seemed like just the thing to balance out the anchovies.

I started with a large roll, spreading roasted garlic across the top and laying a bed of caramelized onions and tomatoes on the bottom. Now, I must admit that I can be a man of appetite and I’m unlikely to open a tin of anchovies then put some aside for later. This was where I first cast restraint aside, reasoning that I had a full tin of anchovies, so they all ought to all go on the sandwich. With that many anchovies, then, I figured that I needed two eggs to achieve the balance I was looking for. That decision, dear readers, would prove to be my undoing.

I like a soft yolk in my fried egg, and so I accept that any fried egg sandwich I make is probably going to be a bit messy. The egg/bacon/avocado breakfast sandwich I wrote about earlier was a bit messy, but the two sandwiches I prepared that day were both tremendous. And that’s the rub, friends. That day two sandwiches, this day one. And the gulf between two fried egg sandwiches and a sandwich with two fried eggs was one I wasn’t capable of crossing. This sandwich was just a complete mess. The roll just couldn’t handle all of that yolk. I was left with hands covered, but afraid that if I put the sandwich down I might never get it back together again. I would like to note that construction aside, this was a good sandwich. The flavors were on point, the richness of the eggs married with the anchovies exactly as well as I suspected it would. But I lost my head in making it, and absent proper restraint I can’t rightfully call this a good sandwich. I tried something and I failed. I learned a few things and I feel my next anchovy sandwich will be absolutely excellent, but there was no excellence here, just a lot of anchovies and a whole mess of egg yolk.

Beer Brat Sandwich — Made at Home

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Beer brats on sourdough. A few glimpses of bacon and avocado can be seen about the periphery.

Occasionally, one may find oneself in need of consuming leftover food before it had passed its date of expiry. It was such a day last week when I realized there were a few different items that would not last more than a day or two longer before needing to be either eaten or summarily tossed out. At once, my mind seized upon a plan of such base impulse that before I knew what madness had gripped me, I was simmering some leftover beer brats and toasting sourdough, while a pan of bacon cooked in the oven. As I sliced an avocado which was in its last few hours of ripeness, I took stock of what was happening and wondered if this was how the Earl of Sandwich himself must have felt: giddy, frantic, and chuckling a bit at the ridiculousness of it all.

As the Frankenstein’s monster of ingredients was being assembled into a sandwich — the brats sliced lengthwise to facilitate sandwichery, the avocado and bacon piled onto the toasted sourdough (one slice smeared with garlic mustard, the other with sweet relish) — I assumed that this was going to be a regrettable mistake. Surely there was no way — just no way — that the sandwich would be any better than its individual components. I was therefore overjoyed upon first bite. The combination of the brats and the bacon was lovely, and I was immediately glad the bacon had been baked rather than pan-fried. This smokiness — and dare I say meatiness — was both offset and complemented by the mustard and relish. The only component that was a bit overwhelmed was the avocado, but even that added a welcome creaminess to the enterprise.

What I had feared would be an inedible mess instead was a hearty and endlessly satisfying meal. There isn’t a thing I’d do differently, and if I owned a sandwich establishment this would be one of my featured items. Sometimes those little moments of madness can have a pleasing end result.

 

 

 

 

 

The Wild Wild West – Mr. Pickle’s Sandwich Shop, N. Santa Cruz Ave, Los Gatos, CA

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The Wild Wild West at Mr. Pickles is roast beef, ham, horseradish, provolone cheese, and avocado. That’s a list of ingredients I wouldn’t think to put together, but for whatever reason it struck me as the sandwich to get. I’m not going to dwell on that, though, because the story is elsewhere. As is my custom, when the people at Mr. Pickle’s asked me if I wanted everything on my sandwich, I answered in the affirmative. Everything, I learned, was the polar opposite of the inadequate minimalism of The Garret. Here’s what was added to the sandwich: G-Sauce (a garlic sauce of some sort), mayo, mustard, pesto, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, onions and peppers. Looking at that list, it has a stealthy sort of insanity to it. A quick glance and you might miss it, but dwell on it and you’ll realize that something isn’t quite right. The pesto gives it away. Pesto? Pesto is part of your everything? Pesto is an appropriate addition to all of the sandwiches you sell? That just isn’t reasonable. I respect the right of every sandwich maker to go about their craft as they see fit, but I know where the bounds of propriety lie and I have no problem telling you when you’ve crossed them. Pesto? On everything? Pesto? I just can’t quite get my head around it. The G-Sauce is another red flag. If it were there on its own it would be a risky trademark, but in conjunction with the pesto it signals that someone involved took “everything” far too literally.

But lets ignore, for a moment, the concept at play here. Low-grade lunacy it may be, but is it at least well executed? Sadly, no. The pickles and peppers could best be described as “scattered,” the lettuce and tomato similarly sparse. Do they want these things to be part of the sandwich or not? If they’re going to include them then thought ought include them, instead of telling me they’re going to and then leave me to hunt them down in a sloppy mess. And it was sloppy, whatever the G-Sauce is made of it joined forces with the mayo to send the top half of the sandwich sliding all over the place.  I can respect someone who gives a 3 out of 10 concept everything they have, but there’s no forgiving poor execution of a lousy idea.

This was a weird sandwich. The avocado was completely obliterated. When the horseradish was present the sandwich almost seemed to come together, but then the next bite would be all pesto. The pickles and peppers played similar in-and-out games. I tried to make sense of it, but eventually I just had to throw my hands up. I would like to note, though, that the bread was really, really good. A sourdough roll of unknown provenance, it had a hearty crust and some really great flavor. Even given the racket it played host to, the quality of the bread made for a small redemptive note in an odd, odd symphony.