Tag Archives: Sandwiches I Have Eaten

Salami & Provolone – Whole Foods

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On a recent Friday afternoon, I found my energy lacking as I attempted to transition between responsibilities and more personally rewarding pursuits. A pick-me-up was needed, and so naturally I went looking for a sandwich. Whole Foods happened to be conveniently located, and knowing that my esteemed colleague has found some good sandwiches there, I went to see what they had on offer. I found a sandwich of peppered salami, provolone cheese and pesto on “New York Rye,” which was then pressed in a standard sandwich press. It turned out to be just what I needed. The pesto was liberally applied to both the top and bottom slices of bread, giving that flavor the verve to stand up to the spice of the peppered salami. The meat to cheese ratio skewed heavily in the favor of meat, but better that than the alternative. (That’s my preference, of course, and if you prefer the other way that’s your business.) The press left things crisp and warm, and just like that I had started my weekend on the right note.

Torta Milanesa – Taqueria Tlaquepaque, Willow St, San Jose, CA

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I have to say, friends, that upon eating this sandwich I felt like quite the fool. Part of that is the fault of Taqueria Tlaquepaque, but I deserve a share of the blame as well. I’ve been on the hunt for the perfect torta milanesa for a while, something I first discussed here. In both of the sandwiches featured in that post, the main issue is that the cutlet, the meat of the sandwich, was not freshly fried. Fried food on a sandwich is pass/fail, it’s either crispy and delightful or soggy and off-putting. So when I saw that Taqueria Tlaquepaque’s sandwich featured a freshly fried, crisp-as-can-be center, I was delighted. Sadly, my delight faded within the first few bites of the sandwich.

This is where my feeling like a fool comes in. The torta isn’t a complicated sandwich. You need a particular type of bread, most often a bolillo or telera roll. You need some some meat, some avocado, lettuce, tomato and cheese and you’re all set. It can certainly be more complicated than that, but at its most basic level the sandwich is a simple matter. And so, having had two decent-but-not-great tortas, I had assumed that every establishment would be able to put together the basics and once I found some place that was curteous enough to make mine to order I would be all set. Taqueria Tlaquepaque quickly disabused me of that idea, as I set in to a sandwich that was positively dripping with crema Mexicana. Mexican table cream is a bit like sour cream, but a bit thinner in consistency and more mild in flavor. I know people who abhor it, but like most things I think when used responsibly it has its place on a sandwich. But nothing about this was responsible, as there was so much cream even the fresh fried goodness was hard to find. There was avocado in the sandwich, but I’m relying on the picture to tell me that because I certainly couldn’t taste it. This sandwich really could have been something, and I take no joy in relating to you this tale of absurd levels of condiment. I should have known to take each sandwich on its own merits, and to never expect anything without good reason. But my heart got ahead of me, and it was a lousy sandwich that pulled me back to earth.

Grilled Portobello – Sonoma Chicken Coop, Campbell, CA

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I’ve had a number of the sandwiches at Sonoma Chicken Coop, and until this number nothing was really worth talking about. They weren’t bad, just nothing special. When I put in my order, the girl behind the counter’s eyes lit up. “Ooh,” she said, “That one’s good.” I try not to put too much stock into things like this. Everyone has different standards, and I have a strong suspicion mine are higher than most. Further, people tend to have a bit of an inflated opinion about the place they work. Self-pride leaks into critical judgement, I suppose. Anyhow: The sandwich, a charbroiled roasted mushroom cap accompanied by roasted red peppers, feta cheese, and a little balsamic was very, very good. The tang of the feta cheese paired perfectly with the sweetness of the peppers, and the grilled mushroom has the strong, earthy flavor one only gets from a large hunk of mushroom. It’s a squat, simple sandwich, but it’s perfectly balanced and mighty tasty. The nice thing about a sandwich like this is that it seems remarkably easy to put together on your own. It’s nice when you can leave an establishment not just sated by a particular sandwich, but with your own go-to index one recipe richer.

Tortellini Sandwich — Made At Home

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Yet another experimental sandwich this week, hastily thrown together using the leftover ingredients at hand. We’ve got this recession on, you see, and sometimes the desire for a sandwich will overlap with a lack of funds and motivation, resulting in a segment of the Venn diagram that come sometimes lead to regret and embarrassment. Such was the case a few evenings ago, when some leftover seven-cheese tortellini found its way onto a couple of slices of toasted wheat bread, along with Swiss and Parmesan cheeses and a healthy dose of garlic-rosemary pasta sauce.

I am pleased to say that in this case, there was a minimum of both regret and embarrassment. In fact, I consider the experiment a rousing success, at least in the sense that I took the road less traveled and saw my vision through to the end. For some reason, as I was building the sandwich, I was anticipated a warm sandwich in the vein of a meatball sub or a chicken parm. I neglected to realize that cheese tortellini is not a meat product. In fact, it’s already a tiny cheese-filled bread. So the overall experience was somewhat akin to eating a sandwich with bread as the filling, but was much more pleasing than that sounds.

It’s not something I think I would ever try again, but it wasn’t awful, and it was certainly interesting. It wasn’t a bad sandwich, but I don’t know whether I would go so far as to call it “good.” It simply was. Considering the strangeness of this sandwich, I would chalk that up as a worthwhile experiment.

Slummin’ It: The McRib — McDonald’s

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I had toyed with the idea of Slummin’ It with the McRib, but ultimately I try to keep things positive around here and I didn’t forsee good things. Then an associate made a special request, and at On Sandwiches we aim to oblige. (Whether you’re pleased with the result or not is up to you.) So I went, bought the sandwich, and took it home to eat and to consider. The issue that arose was exactly what angle from which to judge the McRib. It’s not really fair to compare it to the sandwich world at large, is it? It’s a processed pork patty only available when the scraps it is composed of drop below a certain price. No, I decided, to be fair I would have to judge the McRib on its own merits. And to a certain degree, on its own merits it is very much a success. The pork patty has the consistency that it always has, the sauce is almost sickeningly sweet, and the limited-time-only nature of it leaves it feeling like something special. My point here is this: the sandwich is exactly what it intends to be. I cry foul when I feel a sandwich is content to mire in the middle of things, but there’s an odd place in the world for aiming low.

But setting concept aside, how stands the execution? I have to say, friends, that I was disappointed. Not by taste or consistency, those were exactly what I expected them to be, but by effort. What you see above is exactly how the sandwich appeared to me, and that’s not a sight I find appealing, even if I go in with low expectations.

McDonald’s is in a bit of a unique position. Simply due to the scale of their operation, they can, within profitability, do whatever they want. The exact nature of every ingredient is exactly specified. Color, taste, size, quantity, it’s all carefully planned out. Workstations are designed around the food, nudging poorly motivated workers towards putting out food exactly as it is intended to be. Just stop for a second and think about the size of McDonald’s operation, every decision made between the origin of your meal and your consuming it, all of the people involved in those decisions. Think about that for a moment, and then stop and think about why all of those people, by their combined smarts and effort, couldn’t get more than 8 scraps of onion on my sandwich. I’ll forgive the scant pickles, the fast food industry has some fetish about two pickles being appropriate for an entire sandwich. That’s a story for another day. But there couldn’t be more than a tablespoon of onion there! That pitiful onion is something I simply can’t abide. McDonald’s has an army at their disposal, an industry, a kingdom. When I looked at my McRib all I could think about was the scale of the operation and how something so comprehensive, so obscenely large, had managed to produce something so haphazard and unimpressive. In effect, the sandwich had passed through a thousand hands before it ended up in mine, and I don’t think it’s unfair to suggest that I might be the only one involved who gave a damn.

Turkey and Black Bean — Made At Home

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A while back, I had an amazing sandwich from Porto’s that featured a black bean spread. At the time, I was struck by the simple elegance of an ingredient that I had never before considered. Recently, finding myself with a small quantity of leftover black beans, I was suddenly moved to try a small sandwich experiment. Hastily thrown together with what I had at home, I ended up with toasted wheat bread, deli sliced turkey breast, sweet hot mustard, the reheated black beans, and some Bermuda onion.

The experience was perfectly fine but nothing too great. The failure of this sandwich was the thrown-together nature of the sandwich. An attempt to make the ingredients at hand adhere to an experimental base could have gone much, much worse. As we have mentioned here before, the journey of your life’s greatest sandwich often begins at home on a lazy afternoon, tinkering with this and that.

 

Lemongrass Chicken – Green Bites Cafe, Bascom Ave, San Jose, CA

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Green Bites Cafe is located in space that used to house Zino’s, an establishment that, to put it mildly, left a lot to be desired. When I saw a new sign out front I wondered if the proprietors had simply elected to re-brand, hoping to fool your average sandwich enthusiast. I am pleased to report that is in no way the case, and Green Bites Cafe is a brand new establishment. On top of that, I’m even more pleased to report that they make a delightful sandwich. The Lemongrass Chicken is a lemongrass marinated chicken breast, with pickled jicama, carrots, herbs and a special sauce. Wheat bread was suggested, which was just fine by me. The lemongrass flavor is subtle, and the pickled jicama is a wonderful flavor and crunchy bit of texture. The secret sauce had a hoisin sauce sweetness to it, but not so sweet as to overwhelm everything else. The chicken could have been a bit less dry, but the only place I’ve ever seen that can serve a moist chicken breast all day long is the late Crosby Sandwich Connection, so I don’t hold it against most places. What really made the sandwich sing, though, was that everything was fresh, just delightfully fresh and bright and vibrant. It may seem like things only go one way in this world of ours, but Green Bites Cafe stands as proof that sometimes the old rubbish is swept away and something lovely grows in its place.

Meatball Sub – Paradiso, Auzerais Ave, San Jose, CA

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A while back I mentioned a meatball sub from Togo’s in a post, dismissing it as “not worth discussing.” And that remains true, but as I sat down to this number I tried to think if I’d ever had a genuinely bad meatball sub and I couldn’t remember a single one. The Togo’s one may not have been notable in any way, but it wasn’t bad. The last time I talked about meatball subs here I asked if there was any sandwich that better exceeded the sum of its parts, and I’m inclined to think there is not. There’s something magical about an honest meatball and a bit of sauce that always hits the spot. This one was scarcely more than that, just some meatballs, sauce, and a bit of parmesan. A few slices of provolone would have really put it over the top, but even absent that it was a tasty, tasty sandwich. Sometimes the meatballs themselves cause an issue, if they’re substantial and firm they can get a bit tough to handle. Paradiso went about solving that problem by taking a knife to them before loading the sandwich, allowing the chunks of meatball to settle to a more manageable level. Going too far in this direction can leave your sandwich more sloppy joe than sub, but things stayed within reason here.

Thinking about it further, I’m not sure I’ve ever had a truly great meatball sub. From the floor/ceiling perspective it’s a very high floor, as your average meatball sub is likely to be pretty good. But I’m not convinced the ceiling is much higher than the floor, as it seems that the flash of beauty the simple combination produces can only shine so bright. That is no great sin, though, not every sandwich need light up the heavens. Sometimes we just need a tasty number on a sunny afternoon, and that was exactly what I got from Paradiso.

Turkey & Cheese Croissant — Student Bookstore, CSU Los Angeles

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Ah, the prepackaged sandwich. I stood in line at the student bookstore, holding this item, and for the life of me couldn’t understand why. Purchased on a whim, I knew, with certainty, that I was in for an absolutely dismal experience. Visions of my colleague’s recent nightmare raced through my head.

Here, however, is our lesson for the day with regard to sandwiches. The lesson of experience surpassing expectation. It does not happen often. All too often, the sandwich falls well short of its potential, or is precisely what you expect, which is its own specific kind of disappointment — the disappointment of mediocrity.

When I opened this sad little package, I was surprised by two things: the first was that the croissant was moist and flaky, rather than the dry and crumbly mess I anticipated. The second issue was the cheese. I had expected — nay, known — that there would be one horrifying square of freakishly orange cheese topping off the affair. Imagine my shock when I saw instead a large, oval slice of what appeared to be genuine provolone — or near enough, at any rate. This sandwich, as with my recent experience at Billy’s was packaged with a packet of mayonnaise, and a packet of mustard. This, of course, is the standard for boxed sandwiches.

The sandwich was not bad at all, much to my endless stupefaction. Certainly, this was far from a “good” sandwich, but when one’s expectation is set at a 1, sometimes a 4 or 5 is heaven on earth.

Philly Cheese Steak – Philly Style Food, E Santa Clara, San Jose, CA

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I have looked at the Bay Area cheese steak before, and I found it lacking. Philly Style Food is a more recent addition to downtown San Jose, and it sits almost directly across the street from the Cheese Steak Shop. It’s hard to imagine it is anything other than a direct challenge, a move befitting an establishment bearing the colloquial “Philly” in its name. Aside from the name, though, Philly Style Food makes no additional boasts of authenticity. There is no note on the origin of the bread, for example. It seems they are content to let the food stand on its own; it will either pass as Philly Style or it will not. I wish I could offer you a verdict there, but I fear they walk a line so narrow it would take a local to make a fair ruling. I have walked Philadelphia, friends, but I have not lived it. The sandwich featured what I know of a cheese steak sandwich; beef was thrown a flat top with onion, minced fine, provolone laid on top to melt. After placing that in a roll, pickles and ketchup were added, and that’s where my knowledge fails. (I had, as is policy at On Sandwiches, replied to the standard “Everything on it?” with a simple “Yes, please.”) Pickled and ketchup aren’t completely out of place on a cheese steak, but they’re not part of the traditional, classical concept, and more than that I could have sworn that that sort of sandwich hailed from some other part of Pennsylvania. In short, it seemed to me that a sandwich distinctly billed to be Philly Style was exactly the opposite. But I cannot say for certain, and so I will reserve judgement on the philosophical component of the sandwich.

What I do feel qualified to rule on, though, was the quality. It was a fine sandwich. The cheese melted all the way down, mixing in with savory beef and well cooked onions. The roll had a nice chewy crust and the ketchup wasn’t so sweet it took over the sandwich. So while I may not be able to say with any certainty whether or not this was strictly Philly Style, I can assure you that it was a tasty sandwich.