Tag Archives: Beef

Beef Patty on Coco Bread – Island Spice, Teaneck Rd, Teaneck, NJ

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If you told me this was a lousy excuse for a sandwich I wouldn’t put up much of an argument. There’s nothing there but two bits of bread and a beef patty, which itself isn’t much more than a pastry shell and some spiced ground beef. There may not be much involved here, but I can say without hesitation that on my recent trip east this was the sandwich I was looking forward to the most. (Well, the second most. Nothing supplants The Finest Sandwich.) Part of the reason I was so looking forward to it is that there isn’t much Caribbean food in the bay area, and so if I happen to get a craving for a beef patty and coco bread, the odds aren’t good that I’m going to be able to pick one up. A craving is hardly predictable, as we all know, and my yearning for a beef patty seemed to fade in and out at the most inopportune times. But more than the fact that I hadn’t had one in a while was the simple but not insignificant power of nostalgia. Coco bread is something I ate weekly as a teenager, usually with a beef patty sandwiched in the middle. It’s also a fairly distinct bread, meaning there’s no close cousin for which I can settle.  I’ve made the bread before, but that takes even more time than biking over to one of the restaurants would take and is also something that can be difficult to indulge in at odd hours of the night.

So what does all of that mean? I don’t care that this was a beyond-simple sandwich. It’s a classic combination and I grooved on nostalgia as I savored every bite. I wouldn’t expect anyone else to have a similar reaction, but I hope that each and every one of you has your own sandwich that you remember with such fondness. I hope you get to have that sandwich, readers, regularly enough that your fondness never fades but not so often that it burns out.

The Rossini – Burger Bar at Mandalay Bay, Las Vegas Blvd, Las Vegas, NV

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This is a sixty dollar hamburger. When I told people I had paid sixty dollars for a hamburger reactions varied. Some people gave me the business, the kind of good-natured ribbing any sandwich enthusiast gets from time to time. Others were simply shocked and called me a fool. Still a few people sort of shrugged and gave it a “well of course you did.” Their reasoning, it seemed, was that faced with such an item you would have to try it, for the novelty of being able to claim you did so and basically because it’s there. It’s a hamburger that costs sixty dollars; how could you not order it?

Before I headed to Las Vegas I solicited opinions as to where I might find a good sandwich. Associates had a few suggestions, but nearly all of them where hamburger joints, rather than sandwich shops. Las Vegas, it seems, is a burger kind of town. That was fine with me; having recently started featuring hamburgers in Slummin’ It I figured a classy burger would be a nice change of pace. When I got to Vegas one associate regaled me with a tale of a burger he had just eaten. “They put a short rib on top of it!” he crowed, and I looked at him quizzically. “Why not,” I asked, “just make a short rib sandwich?” There was a burger on the menu at the Burger Bar that raised the same question, a burger with half a lobster tail on top. It just seems so unnecessary, like a hamburger and a sandwich had stumbled together into a transmogrifier, emerging as an awful hybrid. That The Rossini didn’t commit this error is a big part of what I found appealing. Contrary to what associates suggested, I didn’t just order it because it was there. In truth, I was charmed. The Rossini is a wagyu beef patty topped with pan seared foie gras and black truffles, served with a brown sauce. It’s not a burger piled high with everything they can think of, it’s not trying to convince you of its value in sheer size. At a glance, there’s nothing ostentatious about it except the price. It looked to my eyes like a burger someone had crafted, legitimately sat and thought about for a long time. A burger someone had mapped and measured, a burger that had ingredients working together to produce the harmony I value so much in sandwiches. But sixty dollars is a lot of money to pay for a hamburger, and the ingredient list wasn’t enough to convince me to order it.

After all, foie gras and truffles is a bit on the nose, isn’t it? It’s almost hoity-toity. It’s a caricature of a fancy burger. Its design might be carefully considered, but I am not so naive as to think it couldn’t be simple gimmickry. Maybe someone simply thought of the fanciest thing they could put on a burger and waited for some rube to come in from out of town and fall for it. Was I willing to be that rube? What settled the issue for me, what finally got me to pay sixty hard earned dollars for a hamburger, was Rossini.

I mention Rossini somewhat frequently in my conversations with people, and it’s usually the same quick story. The opera composer used to tell people that he had only known two moments of true tragedy. The first, he said, was when his mother died. The second was when a truffle roasted chicken fell over the side of a boat, lost forever. I have one associate who scoffs at this story. He thinks it speaks ill of Rossini to compare those two events. I love the story. I think it speaks to how deeply we might hold our passions in life, and not only that but how much we might put into each and every instance of our passion. Do not just love food, the story tells me. Love each and every meal, look forward to each and every roasted chicken as if it held the key to your very existence. Savor every moment of pleasure, and mourn each as it departs.

Stepping back for a moment and trying to read that as I imagine someone else might, it seems a bit much. But that’s exactly the point! Let what you love consume you. Be fearless. Order the sixty dollar hamburger.

It was good. It was very, very good. It was probably the best hamburger I’ve ever had, but I don’t eat that many hamburgers so I don’t know exactly how much stock you should put into that. The beef was juicy and immensely flavorful, the foie gras rich and with a deep flavor that wasn’t afraid to play at the uglier edges of savory. The truffles were an earthy counterpart, cutting the richness of the beef and the foie gras in a way more subtle than other options, something spicy for example. The ingredients worked as I thought they might, a delicate harmony that was at its best at the very center of the burger, the meat the rarest, each bite containing the most foie gras and truffle. Whether or not it’s worth sixty dollars is something each of us would have to decide for ourselves. I’d order it again, full price, without hesitation. Whether or not it’s worthy of Rossini’s name…I might argue that nothing is, but that doesn’t mean that nothing should try. I can only say that it was a very, very good hamburger.

Jewish Corned Beef – Hatville Deli, Arch St, Philadelphia, PA

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Don’t serve me a sandwich with a fork in it. This has happened to me a number of times recently, and sooner or later I’m about to start demanding that it be served with an apology as well. Serving a sandwich with a fork in it is a naked concession of defeat. It is openly admitting that the sandwich you have served me will fall apart in my hands. “This is gonna be a mess,” it says, “you clean it up.” It’s an insult, and I’m tired of it. There are plenty of sandwiches that lose a bit or two as you eat them, but including a fork almost makes it seem like you think it’s a feature. Don’t give me a fork. Put a little effort into putting forth the best construction you can.I’m going to leave aside the curious fact that the Hatville Deli, staffed by the Pennsylvania Dutch, felt the need to label the corned beef as Jewish. It’s something that doesn’t strike you at first, but a split second later earns a full “Wait, what?” I’m not sure what’s going on there, so I’ll focus on the fact that they mince it practically to dust. A big hunk of corned beef can easily be sliced into strips fit for a sandwich. In fact, it works like nearly every other meat. But not so at the Hatville Deli! There they prefer to completely obliterate the cut of meat, shredding it to a completely irresponsible degree and leaving you on cleanup duty. There wasn’t really anything special about the sandwich beyond that. Minced beef, Russian dressing and coleslaw all came together in a sloppy construction it somehow became my responsibility to remedy.

Slummin’ It: Double Whopper With Cheese – Burger King

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As some states have made calorie information on the menu mandatory, many national chains have instituted such policies across the board. Burger King is one of those chains, with each item on the menu board bearing an estimated calorie count. What studies are beginning to show, though, is that no one cares. Instituting mandatory calorie labeling hasn’t lead to people making different choices. To my mind, this makes perfect sense. I walked in to Burger King wanting a double whopper with cheese, and that’s what I was going to leave with. The fact that the menu board informed me I was about to consume about a thousand calories didn’t sway me.

The information may not have moved me, but it did stick in my head. As I ate the sandwich I considered the number over and over again, constantly comparing it to what I was eating. I have no problem eating a thousand calorie sandwich. Some back-of-the-envelope math had the kimchi grilled cheese I made at close to 1000 calories, and had I included bacon it surely would have gone a ways past 1000. So it wasn’t the size of the number that was needling me, but simply the number in comparison to the sandwich. Because above all else, what struck me about the Burger King Double Whopper with Cheese was how insubstantial it was. The patties aren’t particularly thick. The bun isn’t tremendously fluffy, large, dense or really anything at all. There’s no sea of mayo, it’s only a few slices of cheese at most, but somehow you end up with a sandwich where there’s nothing there. The lettuce and tomato are lost in the mayo, what little flavor the beef has is lost in the cheese, but the beef is really very dry so the texture of the beef overwhelms everything else. The bun is quickly compressed to almost nothing, and just like that you’re left picking sesame seeds out of your teeth, having consumed a few slices of cheese and a helping of mayonnaise. And for this you’ve paid 1000 calories. The last time I brought up calorie count on this blog was over two years ago, in discussing a sandwich at Panera Bread. “You only get to eat so much in this life,” I said. “There’s no reason to waste 1000 calories on this sandwich.” In that case, it was that 1000 calories were wasted in the service of a borderline lousy sandwich. In this case, though, I think the sin is greater. It’s one thing to waste 1000 calories on a bad sandwich, but quite another to waste them on nothing at all.

The Istanbul – SUNdeVICH, 9th St NW, Washington, DC

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Sundevich is tucked away in an alley. I might not have even found it if not for the small chalkboard propped outside the door. The chalkboard read “SUNdeVICH – NOW OPEN.” I submit to you that this announcement was an almost superhuman display of modesty. The chalkboard should have read, at the very least, “VISIONARY AT WORK.”

I stood a few steps in from the door, staring at the chalkboard menu. I was paralyzed. I’d come expecting a good sandwich shop, an out-of-the-way gem. I wasn’t prepared for what I’d found. Consider The Cairo: hummus, cucumber, brined vegetables, walnuts, and fresh herbs. Or The Beirut: skirt steak, hummus, tomato, brined vegetables, and fresh herbs. Even the more simple sandwiches seem brimming with promise. The Athens: lamb, lettuce, tomato, red onion, and tzatkiki. The Madrid: chorizo and chimichuri. Their stated mission, local ingredients and global flavors, seems ripe for pretentious indulgence. Yet the menu is full of wonderfully creative sandwiches, one after another begging to be tried. Sundevich was not my first stop of the day and standing there looking at the menu I nearly came to tears facing the ugly fact that I was only going to be able to eat one of the sandwiches. I was leaving the DC area early the next day, too early to even pop in and grab another sandwich on my way out of town. No, I had to look at these offerings, make my choice, and live with it. Life isn’t fair, dear readers. Over and over again we hear this from parents and other adults as we grow up. We never really believe it though, do we? In our hearts we doubt it until one day we stand there, the warmth of our dreams departing us, the cold of reality cementing its grip.

I went with The Istanbul: Ground beef and lamb, sumac onions, tomato, yogurt spread and fresh herbs. After I made my order I saw the gentleman behind the counter put a patty of lamb and beef on a skewer and place it over the grill. Meat cooked to order! It’s one thing to get that in a sit-down restaurant, but in a counter-based sandwich shop it’s beyond rare. Any concerns I had that Sundevich would be high concept/low execution went out the window. The sandwich itself cemented my feeling that Sundevich is something special. The bread had a noticeable crust without being a chore to get through, the meat was well spiced but didn’t overpower the rest of the ingredients, the yogurt sauce and the herbs (chiefly cilantro and big leaves of fresh mint) made a tremendous pair, a tangy and sharp back and forth playing over the whole sandwich.

I’m haunted by that menu. DC isn’t one of my regular destinations and it may be a year or more before I get back. When I do return, though, it will be on an empty stomach and I intend to make a beeline for Sundevich. I’m going to line them all up in front of me: The Kingston (jerk chicken, spicy slaw, salsa, garlic mayo), The Shiraz (beef tongue, pickled vegetables, mustard), The Ifshan (souffle of (spinach, mushroom, walnut, barberry), feta) and more. I probably don’t have the appetite or capacity to make it through the whole menu, but that won’t stop me from trying.

USDA Prime Beef French Dip – Cole’s, 6th St, Los Angeles, CA

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The Beef Dip sandwich from Cole'sHaving featured (and highly praised) the French Dip from Phillipe’s, it is only fair that I give a chance to the other establishment claiming to have invented the sandwich. Where Phillipe’s claimed a roll was inadvertently dropped into a pan of jus, Cole’s story is that such a dip was made intentionally, to cater to a customer with sore gums. I’m not sure which story is true, and to be frank I don’t care. It’s the sandwiches I’m after, not the trivia.

This is the beef dip, where the linked Phillipe’s sandwich is the pork dip. I’ve tried the beef and the pork at both places, so forgive me for jumping back & forth while only having a picture of one or the other. I suppose the simplest way to do this is to simply run down who does what better. The beef dip is better at Phillipe’s, and the pork dip is better at Cole’s. The fact that the pork dip is listed above the beef on Cole’s menu suggests that maybe they’re aware that their pork supersedes the beef. Whether they know it or not, though, those are the facts as I see them. The associated matters seem an even draw. The mustard at Phillipe’s is smooth and yellow with a substantial amount of horseradish, the mustard at Cole’s is pale and features even more horseradish, present in shreds. The atmospheres of the establishments differ significantly, Cole’s being a restaurant with subdued lighting and a bar that can put forth a very impressive old fashioned. Phillipe’s, meanwhile, is bright and the shared seating is bustling with familes, the young and old and everyone in between. Cole’s serves the sandwich with a small cup of jus and you dip on your own, at Phillipe’s the sandwich is dipped before it’s handed to you. All told I prefer Phillipe’s mustard and dipping style, but the old fashioned really is spectacular and I can easily see someone preferring Cole’s.

Neither the pork at Phillipe’s nor the beef at Cole’s is bad, both are very good, incredibly tasty sandwiches. It’s just that someone on the other side of town does it better. In a bit of symmetry, though, each establishment wins a particular category and the contest of the whole can only be called a draw. While some may see this result as something of a letdown, I can’t see it as anything but the best possible outcome. Think of it! Any one of us can travel to Los Angeles, patronize one or both historical establishments and eat a delicious sandwich. No matter which you choose you are unlikely to walk away unsatisfied. Truly, the winner here is neither Cole’s nor Phillipe’s but your humble sandwich enthusiast.

Cheese Steak — Outer Banks Cheese Steaks, Austin St., Corolla, NC

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The esteemed founder of this enterprise had an all-too-common experience with a cheese steak in the Bay Area of Northern California. As I have said in the past, I am forever intrigued by geographically-famous sandwiches, and perhaps equally as intrigued by sandwich shops that appear to be a bit out-of-place.

Since I have never visited Philadelphia, I have never had the opportunity to have a “true” cheesesteak, or indeed even a tasty approximation thereof. Finding myself in North Carolina, and finding my initial destination of a deli closed for renovation, I spied Outer Banks Cheese Steaks tucked away in the back of a shopping center. I figured, since this was as close to Philadelphia as I was liable to get for the foreseeable future, why not give it a whirl?

My first order of business was to find out how authentic an operation this was. I inquired as to the use of Cheez-Whiz. The woman manning the counter and the grill (for they were nearly one and the same) replied, in moderately offended tones, that the cheese in use was provolone. I opted for the classic cheesesteak, and further opted for onions and peppers, as I feared a large roll filled with steak and mild cheese would be too monotonous.

As it turned out, the roll was the tastiest part of the sandwich. A true grinder, it held the sloppy components admirably and provided pleasing flavor and texture. The rest of the sandwich was bland, bland, bland. The grilled vegetables had nearly no flavor at all, and the cheese was somehow lost, even though the steak appeared to have been minced and cooked with no seasoning whatsoever.

It was sustenance, to be sure. But one wonders as to the value of a large amount of nearly-flavorless food.

 

Slummin’ It: Arby’s Classic Roast Beef

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Arby’s was founded in 1964 with the desire to tempt consumers with something other than Hamburgers. It’s a window into what was available at the time that roast beef sandwiches were both a novel change and enough to propel a restaurant to moderate, then substantial success. I sincerely wish that I could consider this sandwich in that context, because by current standards it’s abysmal. Maybe that’s my fault, for selecting Arby’s classic offering instead of something new. I suspect, though, that the addition of three cheeses and bacon wouldn’t fix the underlying problem. The beef, which is apparently roasted in store and freshly sliced, tastes like it came out of a large can, with a white label reading “BEEF” in big block letters. I tried both the BBQ sauce and the “Horsey” sauce, a sauce ostensibly built around horseradish. I like horseradish and I think it’s underrepresented in American sandwich cuisine and so I had anticipating this sauce providing at least a few positive marks for the sandwich, no matter what else developed. Alas, readers, the Horsey sauce is…well, here’s how I picture it: Someone took a jar of mayonnaise and set it next to a jar of horseradish. They stared at both of them for a minute, maybe taking the jar of horseradish and pointing it at the mayo. Then they take the mayo and start doling it out as Horsey sauce. You could dunk your sandwich in the sauce and you wouldn’t approach a significant level of flavor, which is unfortunate. Horseradish is built around attacking the sinuses and if you dilute it to the level where you no longer have to be careful in its application you might as well not use it at all. The BBQ sauce I found a bit watery but basically inoffensive.

I ended the first Slummin’ It post with a hope that I would fine a really good sandwich where I was not expecting one. That is still my hope, but I now fear it may take much longer than I might have expected.

Canter’s Reuben – Canter’s Deli, N Fairfax Ave, Los Angeles, CA

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This was a fantastic sandwich. I have no great story to tell you, I do not desire to obfuscate this point with discussions of sandwich philosophy. This was just a Reuben, executed perfectly. Not long ago I had a disappointing experience with the Reuben at The Garret. If you’re interested there’s a picture here, but I decided not to post about it because I try to keep things positive and I’d already run down The Garret once. I need no such hesitation when discussing Canter’s, however, as I have nothing but good things to say. Canter’s is a deli, an honest, old fashioned Jewish deli that understands that there’s a certain way to do things, a right way. The Reuben isn’t complicated, but it’s easy to just rest on the recipe and assume that so long as you bother to put it all together the finished product will be good. I suspect that’s what happened at The Garret, someone figured that Reubens are good sandwiches and the details would sort themselves out. Canter’s doesn’t make that mistake, starting with a big pile of pastrami. The spices and the smoke and the salt all came together for a flavor that was about as bold as it can be before it overwhelms the rest of the sandwich. Helping to hold it in check was the sauerkraut, tangy and with a subtle crunch to oppose the tender meat. The bread was rye in both name and flavor, a combination that too many rye breads are missing. The Swiss cheese and the Russian dressing were both unspectacular but thoroughly satisfactory, bringing together a really great sandwich.

As I walked out of Canter’s, holding a black & white cookie from their bakery, I thought to myself that I’d just eaten a damn fine sandwich. Several hours later I had the same thought. The next day, again. It’s weeks now and I’m looking at that picture and thinking about how good this sandwich was. The classics are classics for a reason, and we’re lucky to have places like Canter’s that show them the respect they deserve.

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.