As I spent some time last week maligning Subway for their woefully inadequate bread, I thought it would be as good a time as any to talk about one of the better offerings out there. In the Subway post I mentioned that I can forgive people for crowing about great bread, and All About the Bread is certainly crowing. It’s in the name, of course, and they make sure to inform you that the bread is baked fresh every 30 minutes. I’m not exactly sure what that means. Am I getting the bread that’s fresh out of the oven? Do you take a batch, sell what you can in a half hour, then throw the remainder away and start fresh? While the specifics are hazy the implication is clear: This is fresh bread. As for the rest of what’s on display here, The Godfather is a pretty standard Italian sub. The ingredients vary a little depending on where you are, and All About the Bread features spicy capocollo, mortadella, prosciutto, ham, salami and provolone on the namesake bread. I thought it was OK, but enough of my associates proclaimed it too heavy on the mustard and hot peppers that I feel obligated to pass that information on to you. Considered apart from the sandwich, though, the bread was spectacular. The crust is marvelously crisp, having bubbled up into a crackly shell just waiting for your bite to smash through. The interior of the bread is soft and light, not tasteless but willingly playing a supporting roll to the sandwich. Although I would likely steer clear of The Godfather again, they offer a number of other sandwiches your humble enthusiast is anxious to pair up with that outstanding bread.
Tag Archives: Sandwiches Made For Me
Beef Patty on Coco Bread – Island Spice, Teaneck Rd, Teaneck, NJ
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 Italian – Sal, Kris & Charlie’s Deli, 23rd Ave, Astoria, NY
Sal, Kris & Charlie’s Deli is a sandwich institution on the west side of Queens. This is their Italian, one of two staples on offer. The body is salami, mortadella, pepperoni and provolone, with lettuce and tomato capping things off. As with any good Italian, there are hots if you want them. They also offers something they call “The Bomb,” which is substantially bigger and adds ham, turkey, and two more kinds of cheese. The Italian is more restrained and is a better sandwich for it. It’s quality meat and they don’t skimp, piling it high on a locally baked semolina roll that is, without question, the best hero roll I’ve ever had. It has a wonderfully crunchy crust, a strong, chewy body and brings another layer of flavor to the sandwich.
That said, I don’t like this sandwich. I don’t like this sandwich, but I think you should try it. Let me explain. It’s no secret that I don’t particularly care for cold cuts, but I’d like to think that I’ve shown that I’m willing to be fair. Being fair doesn’t obligate me to like something, though, and I think I can be fair to this sandwich without liking it. This sandwich is the platonic ideal of the grinder. Quality meat, plenty of it, and a great roll. This is everything a hero can be, and if you were called upon to defend the whole idea you could do no better than to cite this sandwich. But it just isn’t for me, and I’m happy to admit that’s about me and not the sandwich. I’ll further admit that I’ve made this site a bit personality heavy. Perhaps that makes this the best time to remind you that I’m not the ultimate authority on the sandwiches you eat, you are. I have my opinions and philosophies and I hold to them, but ultimately I can only experience sandwiches for me, and you only for you. So it may seem a bit contradictory to say that I wouldn’t eat this sandwich again but you should, but that’s what I’m going with. Should I find myself back in Astoria with an associate I’ll gladly guide them to Sal Kris & Charlie’s and enjoy a slice of coffee cake while they settle the issue for themselves. I recommend that one day you do the same.
The United Nation – Green Leaf Deli, Amsterdam Ave, New York, NY
There are some really good corner delis in New York City, but they can’t all be good. The law of averages, in fact, would have it that there are just as many that are lousy as are good. And if you’re in an unfamiliar neighborhood, finding a good deli can be a bit of a crapshoot. There are frequently many to choose from and they all seem to serve largely the same thing. You can go by price, by looks, by how popular they seem to be, or just choose at random. You put your faith in fate, get your sandwich and go on your way.
And so it was that I found myself on the upper west side on a bright sunny mid-morning, looking for a sandwich. The Green Leaf Deli seemed as good an option as any, and I admit to being charmed not by the kitschy names for the sandwiches, but by the grammatical tweaks. The United State. The Union Square Best. The United Nation. Singular/plural can throw even the best of us for a loop some time, and I hold no error in language against a good sandwich. Unfortunately, The United Nation was not a good sandwich. Dry, tough prosciutto accompanied dry, waxy mozzarella cheese. Peppers, onions, lettuce and tomato were all present but woefully inadequate and the promised oil & vinegar had barely any taste at all. This was the first sandwich I ate on a day where I figured to eat a good number of sandwiches, and midway through I looked down and couldn’t think of a single reason to finish it. Wasting food is a sin, and wasting a sandwich is likely cardinal. But this sandwich was just no good, and no amount of piety can save a bad sandwich.
Filet-O-Fish – No. 7 Sub, Broadway, New York, NY
I was excited to try No. 7 Subs. I’d heard them spoken of fondly by other bloggers I respect, but it was more than that. One person described them as “avant-garde,” and it was with this in mind that I looked forward to sampling their wares. I’ve got a quick way to describe the sandwich I had, and it isn’t “avante-garde.” It’s “lousy.” The above photo quickly gives away the main issue: Where’s the filet? This is a $9 sandwich. I get that it’s Manhattan. I’m no country rube, eyeballs shooting out of my head when confronted with big city prices. I’ll pony up for any sandwich, even almost ridiculous amounts. $9 isn’t going to bankrupt me, but when I part with it I expect something more substantial than an undersized filet hiding in the middle of a bread brick. (I should note that the above picture only depicts half of the sandwich I was given.) That only thing you can really see in the photo is bread and cheese is fitting, because that’s about all the sandwich was. There was cilantro in there, and a roasted tomatillo-chili mayo, but neither made themselves known. All I got was a dense roll and too much American cheese, much to my disappointment.
I should have known what I was in for as soon as I set foot in the door. The menu features a pulled pork sandwich, and that pulled pork sandwich features feta cheese. Cheese on pulled pork has come up here before and…an associate once remarked that “No one who puts cheese on a pulled pork sandwich has ever, or will ever, be loved.” That’s a nice summation of my thoughts on the matter. The associate I was dining with at No. 7 Subs had the asparagus sandwich and was kind enough to let me sample it. Her fortunes were no better than mine, as overcooked asparagus sunk a nice granny smith/cashew dressing. “Avante-garde” is probably a fair way to describe the sandwich shop, but they’re aiming high without securing the basics. They’re trying to paint a masterpiece with a rumpled paper bag and a dried out set of watercolors, and it’s a sad sight. This isn’t falling short via trying something that didn’t work. It’s falling short via not trying, and I can’t get behind that.
No. 7 Subs does brisk business, so it’s possible I simply caught them on a bad day. I would be doing my wonderful readers a disservice, though, if I gave them the benefit of the doubt. If you’re searching out a good sandwich in Manhattan I’m sure you’ll have someone telling you how good No. 7 Subs is. I suppose you might have your reasons for taking their word over mine, but if you’re putting stock in the word of your humble sandwich enthusiast, that word is “avoid.”
The Rossini – Burger Bar at Mandalay Bay, Las Vegas Blvd, Las Vegas, NV
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
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.
Roast Pork & Cherry Peppers – The Cask Republic, Crown St, New Haven, CT
This was a fantastic, fantastic sandwich. This was a restaurant I picked at random and chose largely because they had a wide selection of beer, so I was not expecting something so good. But it was to my surprise and delight that I was served such a phenomenal sandwich. Incredibly juicy roast pork worked with cherry peppers, a bit of cheddar cheese, crispy fried onions and a dijon mustard aioli to come together in perfect harmony. Somewhere in there the chef snuck a bit of spice, and so there was a present-but-not-overpowering heat throughout the sandwich, delightfully playing against the sweetness of the peppers. The onions were a crisp contrast to the chewy pork, again demonstrating a skilled balance. The ciabatta roll was neither toasted nor grilled, and contrary to what you might expect that only added to the appeal. With each bite, more of the juice from the pork soaked into the roll.
With every squeeze, the bread itself grew exponentially in flavor and the sandwich began to disintegrate slightly. Not so much as to become a negative, but just enough to remind me that pleasures in life are fleeting, that all things should be appreciated as they are in front of us, and that nostalgia is a sad shadow of experience. Things built and built until the final bites of the sandwich were barely holding together in my fingers, the experience peaking in a clash of appreciation and regret, hostility towards the very idea of the passage of time and the scarcity of all things. I was left with a plate of french fries, half a glass of fine stout, and an aching sense of loss. Undoubtedly, I was better for the experience.
Breakfast Sandwich – Kevaccino’s On The Beach, Vista Del Mar, Los Angeles, CA
I have a special place in my heart for the breakfast sandwich. Simply put, there’s no better way to start a day than with a good sandwich. It sets your spirit right and sends you into the world sated and ready for anything. A good breakfast sandwich doesn’t need to be complicated, but trying something a little bit more involved can often yield an excellent sandwich. On one recent cloudy morning, while cycling between Venice and Manhattan beaches, I stopped for a bite to eat. The breakfast sandwich at Kevaccino’s seems on the simple end of the spectrum, being listed on the menu board as simply eggs and cheese. An addition of avocado and having the sandwich grilled are offered, and I took advantage of both options. I’m not a man to pass up and avocado, and if you’re not dealing with a roll, toasting or grilling bread for a breakfast sandwich is almost mandatory.
The basics of the sandwich are on point. As you can see in the photo, the sandwich had a substantial amount of scrambled egg, and it was light, fluffy and moist. The cheese was a fine sharp cheddar and there wasn’t too much of it. The grilled was very light, just enough to give the bread a crunch without really trying to brown it. That leaves one remaining hurdle: The avocado. I’m sorry to say that that’s where the sandwich stumbled.
Making my way through the first half the sandwich, I gradually came to realize something was not quite right. Peeling open the second half of the sandwich my suspicions were confirmed. What you see above is the entire amount of avocado provided on one half of the sandwich. The first half contained a similar amount. Combined, the two would struggle to equal even half of the most diminutive avocado. The avocado was not a casual “extra peppers” sort of addition to the sandwich. It was a specific option for which I tendered an additional dollar. I can appreciate that a restaurateur operates between thin margins, but what I saw in that sandwich strains the boundaries of what I can accept. I looked down at the second half of that sandwich and I felt cheated. This, I suppose, is the risk in pinning the start of your day to a sandwich. When it goes well, you set off with your best foot forward and greet everyone you meet with a smile and an open heart. If it goes wrong, though, if some charlatan, some rogue takes your money and delivers only the barest pittance of what he has promised, then what faith can you be expected to have in the world at large?
Slummin’ It: Double Whopper With Cheese – Burger King
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.
On Sandwiches 