Tag Archives: Sandwiches I Have Eaten

The Sailor — Granby Bistro and Deli, Granby Street, Norfolk, VA

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Every now and again, a menu item may jump out to you and seem just a bit out of the norm, just slightly left of center, and just original enough that you feel as though you couldn’t possibly pass it up. The Sailor at Granby Bistro and Deli stood out to me in particular because of my recent at-home experimentation with sausages and what sandwiches they can become.

The Sailor is the most complex simple sandwich I’ve encountered in some time. It consists of pastrami, knockwurst, Swiss cheese, and “bistro sauce” (Russian dressing, as you’d expect) on rye bread. It’s a very interesting spin on a traditional deli sandwich, and I was more than rewarded for spying it on the menu. The ingredients meshed better than I could have hoped. I’m finding more and more that, although pastrami is a fine meat in and of itself, it is the perfect complementary or supporting meat in a two-meat (or more) sandwich. It is to sandwiches what vodka is to mixed drinks: versatile, unobtrusive, and reliable. If you are in Norfolk and in need of a tasty and satisfying sandwich, I cannot recommend The Sailor enough.

 

Apricot & Egg Sandwich – Made at Home

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I recently prepared a meal of roast pork loin with apricot glaze and as I considered the leftovers the next day a sandwich seemed like the obvious choice. I’ll be honest: It’s a rare set of leftovers that doesn’t suggest a sandwich. I had some arugula left over from a stellar arugula & grilled potato salad and I laid it down on a toasted whole wheat English muffin. The pork loin was sliced as thin as I could manage and seared in a skillet, lending it a wonderful crisp. Apricot preserves went on the top half of the English muffin. As it stood then, though, it just didn’t seem like a complete sandwich. Since it was still morning, albeit late morning, an egg seemed like a natural addition.

Mixing eggs with fruit preserves seemed a bit risky, so I decided to scramble the egg. The more mild flavor of a scrambled egg, I reasoned, was less likely to get all crossed up with the preserves. That instinct proved to be correct to a fault. The egg didn’t do much of a job announcing itself, and I had no real sense of how the egg and the apricot worked together because I couldn’t taste the egg doing any work. It was a tasty sandwich, but it was lacking. Luckily, this was a problem with an obvious remedy: Fry the egg.

Frying the egg wasn’t the only change I made. Immediately after putting the egg down in the pan I sprinkled it with minced toasted garlic, the setting egg holding the garlic fast. I also went into the fridge and replaced the standard preserves with a bit of leftover pan sauce from the night before, a concoction of preserves, citrus, butter and savory drippings. Arugula and seared pork made for the same base as before, but the rest of the sandwich had been considerably upgraded. The actual eating quickly confirmed what I suspected, that this was a very good sandwich. I suppose the pan sauce and the garlic stack the deck a bit in favor of the fried egg, but it was the rich, creamy yolk that brought those new, stronger elements together in harmony. The first sandwich was pleasant enough, but the second one was exceptional, a surprising bit of genuine deliciousness on a lazy morning. And what more could I ask for, really, than a fine sandwich to ease me into the rest of my day?

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.

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.

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.

 

 

 

 

 

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.

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.

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.

Bánh Mì (BBQ Pork) – Cam Hung, Reed Ave, Sunnyvale, CA

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The BBQ Pork banh mi from Cam Hung in Sunnyvale, CA

Bánh mì is Vietnamese for “sandwich,” more or less.  There are scads of different varieties, all of which have their own name I would doubtlessly butcher in trying to pronounce. This is a fairly small problem, though, as the vast majority of Vietnamese sandwich shops are kind enough to display names in English as well as Vietnamese. The problem is that the categories the sandwiches are slotted into are too wide. Bánh mì thịt nướng is my preferred sandwich, the one featured at the top as The Finest Sandwich, and the one I am forever searching for. But that gets translated most frequently as BBQ Pork or Grilled Pork, and within those categories there are numerous variations in both recipe and cut of meat. I’m very rarely disappointed, but excepting The Finest Sandwich, I never find quite what I’m looking for.

And that’s how it was at Cam Hung. This was a tasty sandwich, don’t get me wrong, but the thin slices of pork were a far cry from the substantial, chewy pieces I had hoped for. The roll could have been a bit crustier though, but that’s as far as my complaining can go. This was a fine sandwich, with the wonderful flavor I so love. The marinade brings a savory base, with layers of garlic and fish sauce, in between which plays a distinct sweetness. A healthy portion of jalapeño on top covers the heat nicely, and carrots and daikon radish brought a nice contrast to the soft pork.  Inherent uncertainty aside, ordering a pork  bánh mì rarely goes wrong, and this time was no exception.

Garlic Chicken Press Sandwich – Tanya’s Lunchbox, Glendale Ave., Glendale, CA

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It's pretty unexceptional.Tanya’s Lunchbox is a new, unassuming little storefront, touting itself on its “kebabs, falafel, sandwiches, and salads.” I can’t speak to the other three options, but the sandwich I selected left me underwhelmed.

Granted, their sandwich selection was less than half a dozen options, nothing dazzling or avant-garde, which is perfectly acceptable if you’re starting something up and not attempting to put on any airs. “Don’t reach beyond your means” is a fine lesson for any new business. Certainly they cannot be faulted for this. I asked for a recommendation, and the attendant behind the counter suggested the Garlic Chicken pressed sandwich. The sandwich is chicken, lettuce, tomato, and garlic spread on a pressed, grilled roll.

The sandwich was fine, but its shortcoming was its blandness, its ordinariness. Let this not be confused with my earlier comment about putting on airs. There is a great difference between flaunting a fancy-pants sandwich that you can’t back up or doesn’t appeal to the average person, and presenting a humdrum, bland, dry sandwich that could be improved with minimal effort. The “garlic spread” was just that: garlic paste, spread along the length of the sandwich. It turned the sandwich into a dry, grueling affair that honestly made one feel was “too garlicky,” a phrase seldom used in our circles. Some sort of garlic mayo, garlic aioli, or garlic pesto would have been preferred here, anything to give the sandwich some creaminess or break from the monotony. Similarly, a bit of red onion for snap, a hint of dijon mustard, a strip or two of red pepper…any number of slight changes that would make the sandwich come alive, but still not turn away any potential customer with a finicky palate.

The sandwich was not terrible, but it was boring. A sandwich should not be a chore, but a reward.