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.

Savory Chicken Delight – The Garret, Bascom Ave, Campbell, CA

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The Savory Chicken Delight is a hell of a name for a sandwich. It’s a lofty claim, an unmistakable boast thrown right at the opening. This isn’t a chicken sandwich, where italicized menu text informs you that it’s a savory chicken breast, grilled to juicy perfection, an instant delight. This isn’t a savory, delightful chicken sandwich. It’s a sandwich so savory, so delightful that it could bear no other name than Savory Chicken Delight.

That was the claim, anyway. The Garret is a menu board sort of establishment, and there was no description of any of the sandwiches. But Savory Chicken Delight, I figured that had to be impressive. When I ordered this sandwich, the person working the counter asked me if I wanted everything on it. Everything, they told me, entailed lettuce, tomato, and mayo. When I got the sandwich I was taken aback, and wondered what on earth I would have gotten had I passed on “everything.” Would it have just been a bun with a bit of chicken on it? In another restaurant, with another sandwich, something like that might be a kind of inspired minimalism. This was just mediocre. A bland piece of chicken on a bland roll, with a few slices of unspectacular tomato and obligatory lettuce. It wasn’t savory, and it surely wasn’t delightful. I’ve had bad sandwiches, but this wasn’t even bad. It wasn’t anything. A sandwich that aims high and misses the mark is an understandable failure. Being reckless with bold flavors is no mortal sin. But why on earth would you bill a sandwich as a savory delight and then serve something so uninspired. It was boring, and boring is a sin I cannot forgive.

Ham & Turkey Sandwich — Colorado Donuts, Colorado Blvd., Los Angeles, CA

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We have touched upon the subject several times before, but one of the great crap-shoots of being a sandwich enthusiast is ordering a sandwich as an establishment that is not a sandwich shop, a restaurant that includes sandwiches as an afterthought, or perhaps a place that isn’t an eatery at all. How could I possibly pass up a donut shop with a neon sign in its window garishly proclaiming “SANDWICHES”?

I certainly understand the logic of serving sandwiches at your donut shop. Perhaps you’d like to stay open past 11:00 AM and perhaps drum up a little extra business for people who stop in for a mid-day lottery ticket, or tall can of Arizona Iced Tea. Why not hook them in with a bite to eat that isn’t a sugary pastry?

I opted for the Ham & Turkey on toast. An interesting and seldom-used mixture of two disparate meats, it was prepared for me with lettuce, tomato, onion, mayo, mustard, and “cheese,” which I can only assume was either American or cheddar. I was overjoyed to find that, unlike the aforelinked Bellissimo Cafe, Colorado Donuts understands how to make a sandwich — honestly and simply. Don’t put on airs, don’t reach beyond your means; simply make a sandwich for your customers as you would make one for yourself. The ingredients were fresh and evenly distributed, the toast perfectly toasted, and a great value (a good many dollars less than I shelled out at Bellissimo).

A quality sandwich means much more than the quality of its ingredients, or the creativity involved. Sometimes, even a sandwich aficionado can enjoy a simple sandwich that includes both mayonnaise and yellow mustard. I ate it with a smile on my face, and was perfectly content.

Tuna Steak Sandwich – Made at Home

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When I went to Ike’s Place, I tried the first sandwich on the menu for a reason. ” In that sandwich,” I wrote, “one often finds the favorite child; The sandwich loved longest, made most often, the sandwich in which someone’s dream begins to take form.” For me, this is that sandwich. Don’t get me wrong, I have no plans to open my own establishment any time soon, having no desire to turn my passion into my business and having no access to capital. But this is my sandwich. It is the sandwich I think of in idle moments, the sandwich that instills me in me a possibility I know I must pursue.

When I spoke of the tuna steak sandwich at Ramsi’s Cafe on the World in Louisville, I made it a point to mention how shameful most of the tuna we eat is. That still stands, one day the tuna fish will be gone and when we are asked about it all we will be able to do is lower our heads and think about how we allowed so magnificent a fish to be associated with such mediocre cuisine. This sandwich is an attempt at something better, a love note to a fish, an attempt to live up to a possibility.

I don’t have it quite right. It’s a good sandwich, probably the best I’ve ever made, but it isn’t quite right. The preparation starts with slices of carrot, about a sixteenth of an inch thick. They go into a marinade of soy sauce, rice vinegar and water (in a 1-1-1 ratio), ginger, toasted garlic, red pepper flakes and a touch of honey. After a few hours in there they come out, and the marinade goes into a skillet to be cooked down.  Similar slices of cucumber are prepared but left unadulterated. Wasabi mayo is prepared, with a strong emphasis on the wasabi. I’m no great fan of mayonnaise. In fact, my attitude might be best characterized as “tolerant.” It has its place, but if you use too much…well, I hope you’re right with the lord, because I’m not likely to forgive you. But I find it unobjectionable as a sort of neutral vehicle for another flavor, and it performed well here. The bread went into a 200 degree oven to really maximize the crisp, although I’m not really sure how much this adds to the final product. Anyhow, the tuna steak is coated on both sides with sesame seeds and black pepper, and it goes into a hot pan for a scant couple of minutes. Cooking tuna for a sandwich is no different than any other application, and as always it’s best to undershoot. After coming out of the pan the fish is cut into quarter inch slices, laid atop the carrots, and finally drizzled with the reduced marinade.

It isn’t quite right. Between the carrots and the sauce there’s too much soy. I still want to get the ginger and the garlic onto the sandwich, but I need to back off the soy somehow. Perhaps the ratios in the marinade can shift, I’m still not sure. I might have gone too heavy on the wasabi, although to be frank I prefer that to going light. The flavor of the fish is well represented in the sandwich, but it’s missing something that would bring the ingredients from combination to harmony. I think a bit more black pepper in the coating will help things come together. But don’t let me run this down! This is a damn fine sandwich, and I only spend so many words pointing out its flaws because I know what it is capable of. This is already the best sandwich I make, and it’s only going to get better.

A Tale of Two Sandwiches — Made at Home

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An associate of mine suggested a night of building sandwiches indoors and stretching out the hinges of a seldom-used sandwich press. Needless to say, I leaped at the opportunity. Fine, fresh ingredients were procured, with options for meat, bread, and accouterments. The first of my eventual creations, pictured above, was turkey with avocado, home-cooked bacon, Swiss cheese, tomato, lettuce, red onion, Philippe’s spicy mustard, salt, and pepper on olive rosemary bread.

The second sandwich consisted of ham, avocado, Swiss, tomato, onion, sprouts, bacon, and again, Philippe’s spicy mustard, this time on white French bread.

Both sandwiches were tasty, warm, crisp, and hearty. The sandwich press performed admirably and set one to wonder why it had heretofore been used so sparingly. The grill of the bread was enhanced by leaving a thin sheen of the bacon grease on its griddled surface before pressing the sandwiches. My two creations were roughly equivalent, but the few minor tweaks left one sandwich standing head and shoulders above the other.

The ham sandwich was good, and had it been the only sandwich made this evening, I would have nodded to myself, a job well done. Unfortunately, the degree to which the turkey sandwich came together exposed the shortcomings in my creation. Had I chosen to place sprouts on the turkey sandwich and lettuce on the ham sandwich, rather than vice versa, the two sandwiches would have achieved something closer to equilibrium. Sprouts, often masquerading as a “health-food item,” do not pair well with ham. They are usually seen on turkey or chicken, and, as I discovered tonight, for good reason. The earthy tone of the sprouts stood apart from the creaminess of the Swiss, the ham, and the avocado, which left two disparate tastes in the mouth, fighting for attention.

The other major factor here was the bread. The olive-rosemary loaf was spectacular, and took the press and the bacon grease with aplomb, bringing yet another layer of wondrous taste to an already spectacular sandwich. I feel bad for old ham on French, as he showed up on the wrong night and was outclassed. I look forward to many more nights spent with the sandwich press and a loaf of this fine bread.

Carnitas Torta, La Victoria, San Carlos St, San Jose, CA

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A carnitas torta from La Victoria taqueria, San Jose

Living in the area that I do, there are a fair number of pretty good establishments serving Mexican food. And the torta, as a class, is a pretty good sandwich. (I’ve previously covered tortas here here and here, though the best I’ve ever had was in Phoenix, not California.) So the combination of two things that are good more often that not gives you a really good shot at getting a sandwich you know will excel. Sadly, La Victoria managed to slip through that narrow window with this disappointing offering. La Victoria’s claim to fame is their orange sauce, a creamy hot sauce that is everything its reputation promises. It is obscenely good, and a healthy dose of it made sure this sandwich was tasty enough. But beyond the sauce, there just wasn’t much there. There was a thin roll, a handful of iceberg lettuce, a few slices of tomato, and a helping of carnitas that might best be described as just on the friendly side of acceptable. If there was avocado in there, it was doing its best to hide from me.

Maybe it’s that Northern California Mexican cuisine is ruled by the burrito, and in many cases the torta appears on the menu as an afterthought. Perhaps La Victoria thought they could skate by on what is admittedly superb sauce, and they just didn’t pay their torta much mind. Well that’s too bad, because even simple sandwiches deserve an honest effort, and the people who eat them deserve a better sandwich than this.

Turkey Croissant Club — Marie Callender’s, N. Pacific Ave., Glendale, CA

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This blog has spoken before about what our founder feels is the finest sandwich of all time, and just this week wrote about his search for a banh mi that might replicate that experience. Another of our contributors has weighed in on what he feels is the finest sandwich he has eaten.

Although the search for the finest sandwich is a quest that one hopes will continue until one’s dying day, it is one of the most noble undertakings I can imagine. Certainly, I have had a number of fine sandwiches, and recall the best experiences with aplomb. But today I am not here to talk about the finest sandwich I have ever eaten. I am here to talk about something else: my favorite sandwich.

The finest sandwich and the favorite sandwich are two entirely different beasts. I will illustrate with an example: Suppose you, at age eighteen or nineteen, are on a road trip. It doesn’t matter where. Say, from New York to Philadelphia. Or from Atlanta to Pensacola. Or from Sacramento to Los Angeles. Or from Des Moines to Denver. Or from Cleveland to Austin. Along the way, you spy a diner, or a sandwich counter, or a drive-in, or a greasy spoon. For whatever reason, you feel compelled to stop. You order a sandwich off the menu, and it is the finest sandwich you have ever eaten. It propels you for the duration of the trip. When you think back on it, the corners of your mouth curl upwards — ever so slightly — all on their own. Several years later, at age 23 or 25, you are taking a similar trip, and stop in at the same place. If it is, in fact, still in business (no guarantees there), the sandwich probably pales in comparison to that first experience.

This is all too often the case. There is no promise that the finest sandwich you’ve ever eaten at a given location will hold up on repeated visits. You must hold on to those memories. Even the master sandwich maker may have an off day, or burn the bread slightly, or cook the bacon too long, or use a slightly-too-under-ripe tomato.

We don’t often touch on chain restaurants in this forum, because chain restaurant sandwiches are mostly of low quality, or are pedestrian, or boring, or there is nothing much to say. If you have had a French Dip at a Coco’s, you have had the French Dip at Baker’s Square, and at Lyon’s, and at Denny’s, and at Carrow’s, and at IHOP, and a hundred other similar restaurants. Which is not to say that these are bad, or good, but certainly there is no comparing these to the original French Dip at Philippe’s, a dipped sandwich without peer.

Marie Callender’s is a ubiquitous chain in the western half of the United States. Not seen on the low level of Denny’s or Applebee’s, but certainly not much better. There is scant little I enjoy on the Marie Callender’s menu, up to and including their famous pies. However, they serve my favorite sandwich, and I say this with my head held high. The turkey croissant club — although some may pick nits with its labeling itself a club sandwich — is a marvelous creation, and I recommend it to anyone in need of a warm sandwich in an unfamiliar location.

The meal itself is fairly straightforward: turkey, lettuce, tomato, bacon and avocado, served with mayonnaise on a croissant. There are two aspects here which truly make it stand out. The first is the croissant, never too flaky or too buttery, which is sliced and both halves lightly griddled before building. The second is that the turkey is fresh-sliced to order, and kept warm. Warm turkey on a sandwich is a rarity, and one bite of this sandwich will have you scratching your head and wondering why. The crisp bacon, snap of lettuce, and firmness of tomato offset what would otherwise be an overwhelming creaminess of the remaining elements. I can find no fault with this creation. Indeed, were it not served at a chain restaurant, one may hear of this sandwich in hushed tones among those in-the-know.

As I say, this is my favorite sandwich. My constant, as it were. It is not the finest sandwich I have eaten to date, but it is always there for me when I need it. I hope all of you have a sandwich you think of as fondly.