Classic Philly Cheese Steak – Cheese Steak Shop, E Santa Clara St, San Jose, CA

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The Classic Philly Cheese Steak from Cheese Steak Shop, a Bay Area chain

Some time ago, I dined on a po’ boy and considered the role of the outpost. If a sandwich is attempting to represent an entire region, I reasoned, being univentive is no great crime. And the folks at the Cheese Steak Shop make it very clear that their sandwich is intended to be just what you might get in Philadelphia. A Bay Area chain, they really stress the authenticity of their food. They go to some lengths in this pursuit, importing the rolls and peppers from Philadelphia. I do not wish to sully sandwich discussion with my own personal thoughts about America’s varied cities, but it seems to me that this kind of misguided but strong provincialism seems exactly Philadelphian. Think about the fact that the rolls are shipped across the country. The roll, while serviceable, was unspectacular. Surely there is a Bay Area bakery capable of producing an acceptable hoagie roll. Sourced locally, it would be bright and fresh when it gets to me. What makes this roll so special? Why is it good? I can imagine the reply: Because it’s from Philadelphia. If aiming to convince me of your quality, this is ultimately a losing strategy. If you’re only going to put one thing on your resume, make it something other than your address.

Enough. The sandwich hit the spot on a rainy Saturday. I enjoyed it. But something about it was bothered me, and it wasn’t until I was back out on the street that I figured it out. The Cheese Steak Shop understands what a Philly Cheese Steak is: Beef loin is minced beyond recognition, piled in with provolone, onions, and hot & sweet peppers. Grease dripped out as I lifted the sandwich, and the cheese was, at times, a bit much. That is not a complaint, those are hallmarks of the Philly Cheese Steak. In fact, what I came to realize is that it isn’t that the sandwich is needlessly authentic, it’s that it isn’t authentic enough.

For all of the boasting of imported rolls, the sandwich is missing something some essence of Philadelphia. It isn’t aggressive. The cheese is only overwhelming at the occasional bite. Grease may leak out, but the sandwich itself holds together nicely, the portions are sensible and easily managed. Upon finishing the sandwich I was satisfied, but I did not sit back and let loose one big sigh and two or three cusses. And that, as you might imagine, is a far cry from Philadelphia. This sandwich may be enough to impress someone who has never been to the city of brotherly love, but that isn’t me. I’ve been to Philadelphia, and “sensible” isn’t a word you would use to describe a cheese steak.

Pan con Lechon – Porto’s, North Brand Boulevard, Glendale, CA

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Porto’s is a Cuban bakery and café, and features several interesting-looking sandwiches. This certainly won’t be the last you’ll see of Porto’s on this site, dear reader.

For my first trip there, I selected what is normally a can’t-miss, namely a roasted pork sandwich. The Pan Con Lechon is touted to be slow roasted pulled pork, grilled onions, and mojo sauce on grilled Cuban bread. As the above photograph makes clear, Porto’s served me my sandwich without cutting it in half. It is a rare beast these days when any foot-long sandwich – shy of those on offer at a Subway or Quizno’s – is served in a single quantity, without even an offer of being cut.

It is perhaps this method of delivery that failed the sandwich. The pulled pork was plentiful and tender, but the few other components ranged from “scant” to “nonexistent” during my dining experience. From time to time, I would experience a transcendent bite, full of satisfying flavor from all components in abundant and equal measure. Unfortunately, this was the exception rather than the rule. The distribution of ingredients was woefully uneven throughout. I would occasionally have a bite of mostly soggy roll, or a quantity of pork that neither sauce nor onion had ever touched.

Those few spectacular bites left me mostly frustrated that the majority of the sandwich fell well short of its potential. Had all components been applied evenly, this is a no-brainer. We shall see whether the other items at Porto’s merit regular trips in the future.

 

Roasted Eggplant and Fresh Mozzarella – Los Gatos Gourmet, W Main St, Los Gatos, CA

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The Roasted Eggplant & Mozzarella Sandwich at Los Gatos Gourmet

Sitting down to write this post, I looked at the photo I had taken of the Roasted Eggplant sandwich at Los Gatos Gourmet, and I wanted to talk about how delicious it was. It looks really, really good. With eggplant, roasted red peppers, basil, mozzarella, and mixed greens tossed with balsamic vinaigrette on ciabatta, it’s a fine construction. Each element is plenty tasty, and they all go well together save one, and that’s where the whole thing comes apart. As much as I’d like to tell you how great this sandwich was, I cannot.

I am certain that whoever provides Los Gatos Gourmet with their bread is a fine baker. And I am sure that Los Gatos Gourmet has only the best intentions in purchasing that bread. It was a fine loaf of bread, artisan bread in the sense where artisan actually means something. A good sized crumb, not too large and not too small, tender flesh, and a crisp, chewy crust. As bread, it excelled. As bread, I have not one cross word to say about it. But as a part of my sandwich, it just wasn’t right. It’s a question of execution. You have roasted eggplant, roasted red peppers, greens tossed in a vinegrette—any sandwich maker worth his salt can look at that list of ingredients and conclude that that bread has to yield. It’s a great set of flavors, but there’s a lot of sliding in there, and too much pressure on the bread will send all those flavors right out of the sandwich. I enjoy sandwiches a great deal, and I’m willing to go to some lengths to enjoy them, but having to stop after every bite, pick pieces of eggplant up and place them back in the sandwich is asking too much. Yet that was exactly my task with each bite of this sandwich. The crust was thick and robust, taking the force of my teeth and sending ingredients straight out the back, over each side, in every direction other than the one I wanted them to go.

It isn’t hard to get this right. You just have to think about what you’re doing before you do it. Sadly, no one at Los Gatos Gourmet thought this sandwich through. I would speculate as to how, or why this came about, but frankly it’s a bit beyond me. I can’t comprehend it! I just wasn’t raised to make this kind of mistake. Be deliberate in your sandwiches, my father told me. Be deliberate.

Avocado Al Fresco Sandwich – Whole Foods, North Glendale Ave., Glendale, CA

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Tomato, arugula, avocado, parmesan, bacon and olive oil on a delicious brown sweet pretzel roll.

Many have railed against the at-times unnecessary, yet ubiquitous inclusion of tomato in the sandwich field. In fact, I noted in my first posting here that the unskilled sandwich maker will view tomato as much a requirement of a “true sandwich” as bread. Today, I am pleased to present an example from the opposite end of the spectrum.

The daily special at the Whole Foods sandwich counter was the Avocado Al Fresco sandwich. Olive oil, arugula, tomato, avocado, parmesan, salt and pepper, to which I added bacon and selected a sweet pretzel roll to hold it all together.

As the sandwich was being constructed, I noticed that the Whole Foods employee took pains to build the sandwich in a specific way: oil on both sides of the sliced roll, two thick tomato slices, halved into semicircles and laid down as the “ground floor” atop which was tipped the salt and pepper, and so on. It was a sandwich constructed in a deliberate way. Whether it was due to Quality Control, or because of the demands of the sandwich itself, I cannot say. But I will say this: sandwich construction is important, particularly when building at home, and a careless hand often leads to a sandwich with neither adequate soul nor taste.

The sweet pretzel roll was outstanding, the perfect mix of firmness and lightness that lent itself to the bacon and avocado. The bacon-avocado marriage is something that cannot be denied; salty and creamy, chewy and smooth. But what really held it together were those four pieces of tomato. The perfect ripeness, the perfect thickness. Not mushy, watery, or inundated with seeds, as so many sandwich tomatoes are. They offered a spectacularly satisfying texture and gave the sandwich heft. The parmesan did not add anything noticeable to the experience, but the rest of the sandwich was so pleasing that this can hardly be considered a complaint.

The tomato has not worn out its welcome.

 

Salami Sandwich – Eagle Rock Italian Deli, Colorado Blvd, Los Angeles, CA

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Having recently enjoyed a vegan sandwich and said some bold things about lunch meats (they aren’t very good), it occurred to me the other day that I might not be being quite fair. To judge them only in comparison to other, more whole meats was to ignore a whole class of meats that easily transition to a sliceable loaf. Though an honest bit of pork may go down a dark road and become ham, it is also possible that it might take a more noble path and end up better for it. In my earlier condemnation of lunch meat I ignored this, and I do a disservice to my dear readers when I see things so myopically.

So today I offer as penance a shot of this delicious sandwich from the Eagle Rock Italian Deli. The bread was a real standout here, a spectacularly crunchy, brightly flavored traditional Italian hero loaf. Lettuce, tomato, provolone and mustard accompanied what I felt was just the right amount of salami, neither too much nor too little. Cheese, of course, is something with which I’ve also had issues. So between the lunch meat and the cheese it’s easy to see myself really disliking this sandwich. But it was really good. Nothing fancy, just very good. And besides, isn’t this how so many people know sandwiches? As a hoagie, or a hero, or a sub? Meat, honest or not, on bread, with cheese. There’s value in that, isn’t there? Certainly there are much greater heights, but…I don’t know. Maybe this was just such a strong example of the idea, or that I was eating it on a sunny, warm day, but I have no issue with it. I didn’t even mind the yellow mustard! It’s not so surprising, I suppose. The right Soprano or Tenor can sing an aria you’ve long grown bored with in such a way that it becomes fresh and new, and you see its beauty in a new light. And so it is with sandwiches, where good bread, good ingredients and a strong hand can take the mundane and work magic.

Honey Roasted Turkey – Gelson’s, East Green Street, Pasadena, CA

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Fresh-sliced honey roasted turkey and baby Swiss on ciabatta with lettuce, tomato, and "Dijon" mustard.

Gelson’s is a chain of upscale supermarkets in Southern California, specializing in fresh foods and upscale tastes. Imagine a more mature and dignified Whole Foods, but geared towards 50-somethings rather than 30-somethings.

The Gelson’s deli section is home to perhaps my favorite salad dish on earth, but they have an enormous selection of Boar’s Head meats and cheeses, standing at the ready for patrons to select either by the pound, or to build their own sandwich, selecting from a smaller selection of breads and accents. For those less finicky, the deli section also offers three to four “ready-made” sandwiches for a smaller fee; meat, lettuce and tomato on bread, to which they will add your choice of condiments and cheese before wrapping the enterprise up for you.

I selected the honey roasted turkey on ciabatta, to which I added baby Swiss and what Gelson’s had listed as “Dijon” mustard. This latter proved to be the downfall of both myself and the sandwich.

As most sandwich practitioners and enthusiasts can attest, Boar’s Head makes quality, consumer-grade meats and cheeses, and the honey roasted turkey and baby Swiss were both outstanding. Shockingly, it was the mustard that ruined this sandwich – something I was previously unaware with anything short of the foul yellow paint that emerges from a squeeze bottle. The Gelson’s “Dijon” was actually coarse stone-ground mustard with intense heat, and applied with a decidedly uneven hand. It completely overwhelmed the subtle and delicate meat and cheese. What’s more it separated from the rest of the sandwich. Every other bite would be chock-a-block full of the mustard, which would land straight on my tongue, burning, as I chewed the rest of the sandwich around it.

Amazingly, this was a sandwich that would have benefitted from mayo, no mustard. Let this serve as a reminder to fans of mustard that, foremost, there is such a thing as “too much,” and secondly,  to pair your mustard carefully with the main ingredients, lest they be lost in the shuffle.

Bacon, Egg & Avocado – Made at Home

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On a recent Saturday morning, after a morning of yoga and other elements of physical culture, I stood in the kitchen wondering what I should have for breakfast. Now, after one’s gotten one’s sutras in order and engaged in bouts of meaningful vigor, it’s important to keep the momentum rolling. That’s not the kind of day where you want to become a lump on the couch. No, it’s a day where you immediately want to set out and achieve great things. And so it was that I started with a couple of sandwiches.

I fried up a few slices of bacon in a skillet, with enough of the fat reserved afterwards to fry a couple of eggs. But before the eggs went in I went for a special touch. I put a few minced cloves of garlic down, waiting a minute for the flavor to develop, then cracking the eggs into the pan directly on top of the garlic. (Truth be told it was more than a few cloves, when it comes to garlic I’ve a heavy hand and offer no apologies.) The egg white held the garlic in place as it cooked, and when the eggs went between wheat toast the garlic came with it. Each sandwich was two slices of bacon, one egg, half an avocado, some cracked black pepper and a few dashes of hot sauce. They were transcendent. A little heat, obscenely rich, and underwritten by delicious, toasted, savory garlic. The avocado was perfectly ripe, offering that instantly-yielding hint of firmness that stood as a subtle middleman to the toast and the egg. An East Coast associate tells me that he has to give up on avocados this time of year, that by the time they get to him they’re completely bereft of flavor. It breaks my heart that he’ll have to wait months to give this sandwich a shot, but I hope when he finds himself in warmer days he does so immediately. This wasn’t a complicated sandwich, it wasn’t revolutionary or an amazing discovery. But it was incredibly delicious, and I suspect that it will quickly find a spot as one of my regulars.

Old Fashion Chicken Salad Sandwich, The Oinkster, Colorado Blvd, Los Angeles, CA

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Chicken Salad sandwich from the Oinkster. A chicken salad sandwich sliced into two triangles, piled with nearly equal portions of chicken salad and pickles.The Oinkster is an eatery of moderate fame in the north end of Los Angeles proper, in the Eagle Rock area. It is famous for its pastrami sandwiches and its peanut butter-and-jelly cupcakes. I have a particular affinity for neither of these items. I visit The Oinkster frequently, but my “regular” item of purchase is their pulled-pork sandwich, which my esteemed colleague has written about, at length, but which I find more than agreeable.

I felt that my first foray for On Sandwiches should not be a well-traveled road, so I selected the “Old Fashion” Chicken Salad Sandwich. Chicken salad is a very interesting sandwich star: underrepresented, little thought-of (at least on the West Coast, and among those under 40), and potentially pleasing under ideal conditions and when in a particular mood. In my mind, chicken salad has two defining characteristics: the first is that it is the classier older brother of tuna salad; the second is that it is the very definition of the “Oh, ______ sounds good” menu item. An item you see on a menu that you hadn’t considered before sitting down, but darn if that doesn’t sound tasty on a fine Spring afternoon.

So it was with the thought of giving time to the neglected Chicken Salad that I ordered. As is customary for On Sandwiches, I ordered the item as presented on the menu. The only item that gave me pause was the inclusion of pickles. I am traditionally averse to pickles, but pressed ahead, eager to file my first column. My eagerness turned to dread when confronted with the sandwich itself, which, as you can see in the above photo, was fairly inundated with pickle.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must relay the following information: on the menu board at The Oinkster, the ingredients were listed as follows: “pulled roast chicken, housemade (bread and butter pickle), mayonnaise, tomato and onion on focaccia bread.” I had never before encountered the term “bread-and-butter pickle,” so the wording of the sandwich ingredients was beyond baffling to me, particularly when the placement of parentheses were considered. What was housemade? The pulled roast chicken? The bread? Some sort of “butter pickle?” Perhaps it’s my West Coast location, perhaps my picky eating as a child, or maybe due to my unfamiliarity with pickled cucumbers and their briny ilk, but the term had passed me by. All I knew was that it was a chicken salad sandwich, and pickles were involved.

I hefted the sandwich and took a bite, expecting an overwhelming burst of briny, acidic pickle dwarfing everything else. It was at this moment I learned that “bread-and-butter” pickles are sweet, rather than the salty tang of your standard dill. And this element, ladies and gentlemen, is truly what made the entire sandwich sing. I can only imagine how my eyes must have lit up upon that first bite. What an experience! The creamy, savory chicken salad was the yin to the sweet pickles’ yang. Joining the two as a splendid accent was the crisp bite of the onion, which was administered with skilled hand in just the perfect amount. The focaccia bread was, in a word, the perfect vessel, a spectacular firmness without being hard or crunchy, and without soaking up the moistness of the components within. If there was a fault to be found with this sandwich, it was the inclusion of tomato, which truly added nothing to the experience. It has been written about on this blog before, but it has come to the point that the watery fruit is, more often than not, added to a sandwich out of a perceived necessity than paying attention to the needs of the individual sandwich. “Making a sandwich, eh?” the unwashed masses must say to one another, “Better make sure you throw some tomato on there.”

I can scarcely remember a time I have so enjoyed a new sandwich. This experience serves as an excellent reminder to not only myself, but to all of us, that you never know which run-of-the-mill sandwich base  may allow an architect to create something around it that will truly knock your socks off.

Vegan Sandwich – Figueroa Produce, N Figueroa St, Los Angeles, CA

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The "vegan sandwich" at Figueroa Produce in Los Angeles, CA

This was a fine sandwich. The bread was particularly good, large, tender sourdough bringing together fake chicken, fake cheese, lettuce, tomato, and a bit of avocado. I could go on a diatribe about the woeful inadequacy of yellow mustard, but that’s best saved for another day. The “vegenaise” was a more than acceptable substitute for the standard mayo, and that points at what is bothering me about this sandwich. The fake cheese wasn’t particularly good; you could see where it was aiming but it missed the mark. But the fake chicken, like the mayonnaise, was a fine substitute. Sampled alone, outside of the sandwich, it had a pleasing taste and a texture not at all unlike your standard cold cut. This was a good sandwich, I enjoyed eating it and would gladly return to Figueroa Produce and order another one. But even good sandwiches sometimes suggest larger problems.

I like chicken. It’s tasty, it’s versatile, it’s more-or-less good for you, and it makes a damn fine sandwich. You’ll find plenty of sandwiches here built around a chicken breast. But a lot of chicken sandwiches aren’t made with the breast. The same can be said for ham sandwiches, and turkey. These sandwiches are made with cold cuts, with lunch meat. This feels like a bit of a confession, but I don’t particularly care for lunch meat. Think about a chicken, and think about the kind of chicken you might get from the folks at Boar’s Head. Try as I might, I have trouble connecting that to an honest-to-goodness chicken. And that’s what this sandwich points to. What is done to meat that a couple of soybeans can cling together and stand in its place? Through the flavoring, the shaping, the retexturing, how does chicken get so far from itself that it’s just as easy and just as good to have such a drastically different ingredient? How might be the wrong question here, I don’t want the process explained to me. A better question is why? I understand the demands of cost and efficiency, but should we not aspire to higher ground? A sandwich can be a moment of delicious serenity in an otherwise chaotic life. Why let processing and preserving and stabilizing horn in on that?

I know I’m tilting at windmills. Let the supermarket delis exist, let franchise sandwich chains bury processed meat in salt. Let what was once an honest bit of pork sit, hopelessly round and absurdly pink, one side exposed to the air. Let it sit there for years, never going bad. I will be elsewhere, looking for a better sandwich.

Sausage Sandwich – Rosie’s New York Pizza, The Alameda, San Jose

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Not to keep harping on the previous subject, but I’ve had bad experiences with sausage sandwiches. Good experiences too, but when ordering one the odds that you’ll get a sandwich are as good as the odds that you’ll get a glorified hot dog. But not so at Rosie’s New York Pizza! They solve the sausage sandwich puzzle in a fairly uncommon way, making thin slices of cooked sausage and piling them on a roll with onions, tomatoes, and just enough sauce that you don’t ruin your shirt. It isn’t my preferred way of prepping a sausage sandwich, but it’s still a fine way to do so, and it made for a tasty sandwich. There isn’t too much to say beyond that, but I that’s enough. It has to be enough, doesn’t it? In sandwiches, as in life, though we may seek epiphanies, we fare better when we are satisfied with a few wise words. I may sit down for every sandwich hoping to find the second greatest sandwich in the country, but when all I find is a tasty meal I’m happy to have it.