Get Sammiches Eat Sammiches

You can tell a lot about me from my lunch habits. If I’m ingesting a massive, greasy chicken roll from the local pizzeria every single fucking day like a big fat shithead, I am probably not in a very good state of mind. If I’m routinely chowing down on overpriced sushi, odds are I’m trying desperately to distract myself from some more substantial misery. The daily chicken sandwich, however, has always been a sign of stability and comfort. Something about the bare bones-ness of it; some chicken, maybe some swiss cheese, a little mayo, a roll or a bagel… it’s healthy enough to suggest that I’m not trying to kill myself and simple enough to suggest that I’m not compensating for anything.

That said, I’m consistently amazed at how many places manage to fuck up this sandwich. Over the last couple months, I’ve often found myself munching joylessly on a chicken sandwich from local coffeehouse M. Rohrs, who excel at the kind of absurd flavored coffees I love, but can’t seem to run a fucking lunch counter to save their lives. Their chicken, though theoretically made “in-house,” is some of the worst shit I’ve ever tasted — dry and mealy, overspiced, too thick and not nearly wide enough. What’s more, they usually don’t even fucking have the stuff on hand, leaving me to either order sliced, sawdusty Hoar’s Bed “golden chicken breast” or get the fuck out of there as fast as possible.

So, one day, after scurrying out of Rohr’s, I decided to try the grilled chicken sandwich at the local bagel shop. Now, Tal is a pretty ok bagel shop, but it’s nothing to write home about — certainly not worth mentioning in the same breath as the far superior H&H Midtown Bagels East. But, to my surprise, Tal really hit the nail on the fucking head with this sandwich. The chicken is just right; a little charred around the edges, a hint of lemon flavor, tender and perfectly proportioned. Normally, I would order this sandwich on a roll, but Tal’s kinda-too-crunchy bagels turned out to be much better suited for sandwichdom than they are for schmear. Plus, the semi-circular ridge left in each side of the sandwich makes a perfect place for mayo and melty cheese to congregate.

So, long story short, this sandwich is a worthy staple food, a welcome addition to my daily routine, and a good sign that everything is pretty ok.

FINAL RATING: 8 / 10

In response to Alex’s comment: Yes indeed, it appears that the fat sandwich craze has reached the white cap-infested streets of Princeton. But rather than sanitizing the oft-risque titles of these sandwiches (which have, in fact, been cleaned up a bit over the years by the owners of the Rutgers trucks), the fine folks at Hoagie Haven have gone the opposite route. The portly gent? The fat wallet? No fucking way. Instead, we get “The Sanchez.” Just to eliminate any doubt that this sandwich is named in reference to the obscure sex act, Hoagie Haven gives you the option of ordering the sandwich “extra dirty.” As your local sleazy prostitute and/or her pimp friend will tell you, “extra dirty” is gonna cost you an extra 50 cents, so I opted to get my Sanchez, uh, just regular-dirty.

So what’s in the sandwich? Chicken cutlet, mozzarella sticks, french fries, lettuce ‘n’ tomato and — get this — “Sanchez sauce.” Given the nature of the Dirty Sanchez, it’s difficult to deduce what exactly could be Sanchez-y about this sauce, unless each serving contains exactly enough fecal matter to constitute a nice, solid moustache.

Thankfully, “Sanchez Sauce” appears to be little more than honey mustard. (After all, this sandwich isn’t called The Santorum.) And while the omission of the “fat” prefix might be a bit confusing at first, it befits this magnificent sandwich; as you can see, The Sanchez isn’t particularly fat. The chicken cutlet is expertly cooked — dark, thin and flavorful. The mozzarella sticks are crispy on the outside and firm but melty on the inside. The french fries are hot and fresh, and kept to a reasonable quantity. Indeed, the proportions here are more or less perfect, giving each impeccably prepared ingredient ample room to establish its own flavor and texture. A “half”-size hoagie (which is, really, as big as a full-size hoagie anywhere else) left me thoroughly satisfied, minus the pangs of regret that inevitably result from eating a proper “fat” sandwich.

All of which begs me to ask, why oh why did they call this sandwich “The Sanchez?” If they’re pandering to douchebag fratboys, they could have at least called it “The Date Rape.” I would have no problem with an obscenely named sandwich if its moniker bore any relevance to its substance (my humble suggestion: The Felch). Stupid name notwithstanding, this is a truly delicious sandwich, superior in every way to the R.U. Hungry originals. And, even though it’s located in Princeton, it’s still cheap.

FINAL RATING: 9/10

Firstly, I’d like to officially welcome Kevin to the blog!

Secondly, I’d like to commend Kevin for acknowledging his error in ordering the “Fat Moon.” Eggs? What the fuck, Kevin.
Having learned the lessons of a previous Fat Sandwich encounter, I opted for the “Fat Fella,” a formidable pile of cheese steak, chicken fingers, mozzarella sticks, bacon, french fries, lettuce, tomato and honey mustard. The cheese steak, bacon and honey mustard combo is definitely the heart and soul of this sandwich, and provides a formidable backbone of tangy/smoky flavor to be soaked up by fried and/or breaded things.

If I may digress for a moment, though, I would like to suggest that the name of this fine establishment is not simply a clever play on the university whose parking lot it calls home. It is a very important question, and one that needs to be thoroughly considered before attacking one of these monstrous sandwiches. While Kevin claims that he was “starving” before eating his Fat Moon, his own words suggest otherwise. Sure, that last bite may have been little more than a blob of thick, congealing mayonnaise on crusty white bread. But if U R hungry — really hungry… well, then, that sounds pretty fucking delicious.

Unlike Kevin (who, reliable sources have it, ingested a substantial quantity of food as few as five hours before patronizing R U Hungry), I was hungry. Really, really hungry. Unfortunately, I was also sober — a critical error that left me open to the crushing realization that these sandwiches ultimately do require some degree of cognitive impairment (via intoxication or stupefying hunger) to be enjoyed properly. The ingredients themselves are not particularly tasty, but combined they form an extremely satisfying mushy-greasy uber-texture. That said, I couldn’t poop for two days after eating this. Enjoy at your own risk!

FINAL RATING:

IF U R HUNGRY (sober): 7/10
IF U R HUNGRY (inebriated): 10/10
IF U R NOT HUNGRY: 3/10

I wanted so badly to enjoy this sandwich, but some combination of its mediocrity and the date-rapist frat boys revving their BMWs in the parking lot behind me made for rather unenjoyable eating–good company and refreshing Ginger Ale notwithstanding.

The Fat Moon–mirabile dictu–consists of chicken fingers, french fries, bacon, eggs, lettuce, tomato, ketchup and mayo crammed onto a bun. Great, you think, all of my favorite foods, united in sclerotic harmony! Lest you forget, however, that it’s possible to have too much of a good thing, proceed with utmost attention.

The relative blandness of the principle ingredients (chicken fingers, fries, eggs and mayo), not to mention their generally mushy consistency, creates an undifferentiated mass of greasy mush, not unlike a hot wet sponge. The only elements that really pop are the bacon–surprisingly crispy, given the soppiness of the rest of the sandwich–and the ketchup.

Full disclosure: I could not eat the final bite of my Fat Moon, which consisted of a large wad of mayo (although Jason Sigal perhaps rightly insists on calling this substance “white sauce”) perched precariously atop a half-dollar-sized piece of bun, like a parasite that had outgrown its host. Having made quick work of the rest of the sandwich, the sight of this white sauce effectively paralyzed me and I ran to the garbage, sobbing with disgust and shame.

To be sure, the Fat Moon does not taste ‘bad’ by any account; it’s simply not as good as the other Fat Sandwiches offered by this Rutgers University late-night landmark. I failed as a responsible eater, forgetting that one must parse the logic of a meal’s ingredients before ordering it. Chicken fingers, french fries, bacon, eggs, lettuce, tomato, ketchup and mayo are all great things on their own, but as sandwich components they do not work collectively.

Thus, I have only myself to blame for the general “meh”-ness of my selection. For future reference, I recommend trying any of the Fat Sandwiches that feature “cheese steak” or “gyro”–am I crazy, or are these “ingedients” not sandwiches unto themselves?–which I’m told have more flavor.

Rating: 5.5/10

At most hoity-toity restaurants, a hamburger is little more than a grudging concession to the existence of monetary constraints — a crude, cheap blob of meat amidst the “ginger-apple compote”s and “red wine jus”s. It’s the go-to item when somebody who can’t really afford to take you out to a fancy dinner takes you out to a fancy dinner, the reason we need the phrase “it’s okay, you can order whatever you want.” And most of the time, let’s face it, it’s still just a fucking burger. You can go on all you want about “OH WOW, THIS BURGER IS SO GOOD. THEY REALLY KNOW HOW TO COOK IT HERE. NO, REALLY, THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED,” but you know as well as I do that you would’ve rather ordered the swordfish or the fillet mignon.

If you’re looking for a copout-burger at New York’s Prune, you’re shit out of luck. This hamburger is made from a blend of beef and lamb, covered with artisinal cheese, and served on an English muffin coated with parsley-shallot butter. That’s right, “parsley-shallot butter.” You’re fucked, asshole.

The bad news: this delicious concoction will set you back twelve bucks. The badder news: it’s not even that big, and it comes with a paltry little pile of McDonald’s style-fries. The good news: this species-defying burger is a grenade of pure deliciousness. Cut through the middle and you’re treated to a perfect gradient of meat; pink and bloody in the center, almost-crispy on the outside. And while the ingredients are decidedly premium, there’s nothing delicate about this burger; with each messy bite, blood, grease, and butter further engulf the meat and the muffin. The beef-lamb blend makes for a more flavorful patty, and the cheese (usually cheddar) is sharp and melty. I wasn’t expecting to be full after eating this sucker, and I guess I wasn’t, seeing as I washed it down with a slice of pie. But I get the distinct impression that I should’ve been.

FINAL RATING: 9/10 (Needs more fries)

More info: http://www.prunerestaurant.com

Q: I ask you, What would our sandwiches be without condiments?
A: Sort of drier.

Drum roll, please.
Sweet disappointment! It’s the first(and, who are we kidding?, probably last) installment of this stupid blog’s Condiment Salute! One more sentence for compositional balance!

Durkee’s Famous Sauce deserves(suffers) our mention for two important reasons: it is delicious; it is quickly disappearing from this great land of ours. Once a giant of the American condiment world, Durkee’s Famous Sauce is now only available on the West Coast(And readily; the paltry Safeway near my house even carries it). My brother was working at a sandwich shop in Minnesota a few years back when the Durkee company scaled back the stuff’s availabilty and the owner stockpiled hundreds(I’ve decided) of bottles of it. And when my father’s cousin in Pennsylvania requested my dad bring him some the last time he visited, my interest was peaked. Durkee Sauce is made up of one the most intuitive combinations of the sandwich world- mayonnaise and mustard -but there’s something strangely appealing about the taste of it. Of course, you could make your own approximation of the sauce by just mixing mayonnaise and mustard instead of going out and buying a bottle. You could also take the stick out of your ass.

Perhaps it’s the sweet taste of a great American story that sets Durkee Sauce apart. Invented in 1857 by Eugene Durkee, the Durkee website claims Abe Lincoln liked it so much he brought it with him to the White House, and that “historians” have found empty Durkee Sauce bottles along the Oregon Trail left there by littering pioneers(who were probably flayed by dirty hippies when they finally got to Oregon). I can believe the Abe Lincoln thing but the part about the pioneers is so obviously a whopping pile of bullshit that I thought I would go ahead and invent an interesting account of the history of Durkee Sauce myself, which I present below:

Eugene Durkee was a man of little worth; feeble, nebbish, ugly. His cats often shat on his bed(near the pillow) and in his shoes(near the toe). Weak livered, the slightest whiff of liquor would throw him into an alcoholic stupor and the ingestion of it would result in a virulent and directionless rage, often stoked by the malice and teasing of the neighborhood waifs and urchins, who would all probably die of the clap within a few years. Much to his surprise, he one day found a letter in his mailbox(a rare occurrence), and opening it, discovered a distant and wealthy relative had passed away and willed his fortune to Eugene. Upon reading this lucky news, he immediately had his incontinent cats put down and moved to Los Angeles. He lived out the rest of his days inviting into his house and inventing delightful stories to entertain the local high school girls swim team. He died peacefully at the age of 67 of appendicitis and/or the clap.

Furthermore, the plural of mayonnaise is mayonnaises.

Ok. So the crustless peanut butter and jelly thing I kind of, maybe, understand. Untoasted white bread is spongey, peanut butter and jelly are slimey — if crust really offends you, at least you’re eating the right motherfucking sandwich. But grilled cheese?! What the fuck, people. At its best, a grilled cheese sandwich is all about crispy-gooey contrast…. Why, why, why, why, why would you take away the crust!?!

That this question even needs to be asked is troubling enough; more troubling, however, is the repulsive piece of shit that is a Smuckers “Grilled Cheese” Uncrustable. Presumably because anyone who would buy these is too stupid to be trusted around an open flame, “Grilled Cheese” Uncrustables come “pre-toasted”; you put each frozen-yet-suspiciously-golden-brown “sandwich” in a little “crisping sleeve” a la white trash favorite Hot Pockets, stick it in the microwave for a minute, and out comes a crispy pouch full of bright-orange cheese-like stuff.

With no crusty edges to serve as release valves for excess filling, these things come out of the microwave like armed cheese-grenades; unless you eat them very gingerly, you’ll probably wind up splattered with neon goo. On the plus side, being scalded by Smuckers’ “cheese” filling is actually much more enjoyable than eating it. Think of the worst, most flavorless movie theater nacho cheese you’ve ever tasted. Then punch yourself in the face. It’s kind of like that.

Remember that commercial for “Beggin’ Strips” where some fucking stupid dog runs around yelling, “Bacon, bacon, I smell bacon, Only one thing smells like bacon and it’s BACON”? “Grilled Cheese” Uncrustables are kind of like that– a pale and insulting approximation of food that only really makes sense if you’re stupid enough to eat your own shit.

FINAL RATING:
ATROCITY

From the pretentious Parish Cafe Webbe-site:

The Rialto / $12.25
Created by: Jody Adams, Chef/ Owner - Rialto, Cambridge
Paper-thin Proscuitto, fresh Mozzarella, basil-pesto and a garlic-oil rub served on white bread. Baked to a golden brown and served around assorted greens, sundried tomatoes and a pine-nut dressing.

The Parish Cafe serves overpriced designer sandwiches, dreamed up by some of Boston’s premier chefs and prepared by some of Boston’s Mexicanest Mexicans. The Rialto is the crown jewel in the Parish’s menu (or, at least, the most fucking expensive sandwich on the menu). Here’s a picture:

Taken on their own, the ingredients don’t look like much of anything. Sure, there are some fancy words (”rub”, “sundried”, “douchewhistle”), but this really isn’t much more than your standard issue proscuitto ‘n mozzarella panini. And, truth be told, it isn’t even that good. The ingredients are fairly bland, especially the terrible military-grade white bread. Every bite goes: crunchy, then salty. That’s basically it; white bread shrapnel with a salty-oily aftertaste. Thirteen dollars. Fuck you.

That said, the salad is a decent touch, especially when the tasty dressing spills over onto the li’l sandwich-triangles. And, to the Parish Cafe’s credit, their menu definitely sports some more interesting-looking choices, especially Chris Schlesinger’s jack cheese on banana bread melt. Still, I can’t believe that a “nationally renowned” chef couldn’t come up with something better than this. The Parish website claims, “trust the professionals and you won’t be dissapointed”…. Well, The Parish Cafe, how am I supposed to trust somebody who clearly thinks that sandwiches are for assholes?

FINAL RATING: 5/10

“I can’t believe you dudes are even fucking with Geoff’s”
-Max, a former employee, posting on this blog 2/10/2005.

A year ago I stood in wholehearted agreement. But now I’m not so sure you can really judge an entire establishment by the quality of their BLT and rubberyness of their avocado. And even if you can, two very important things have recently opened my mind (and throat) to Geoff’s. The first is “2-for-2’sdays,” a popular concept that sucks when applied to radio but is the only way to justify eating at Geoff’s, where the sandwich I am about to review typically costs $7.29. Second is this sandwich, the flagship of Geoff’s 3-meat Triple Combos, which has forced me to reevaluate my sandwich reviewing criteria. Check it out:

JAMIE BROCKETT
official ingredients: “hot roast beef, kosher salami, onion, ham with melted Swiss & Cheddar cheese, mayo, Tiger sauce, Russian dressing, tomato.”

review: They never seem to have any kosher salami around, but the regular salami is better according to the employees (if you don’t mind hellfire). I have already alluded to Geoff’s reputation for poor ingredients, and this has ruined their more basic sandwiches where the quality of each ingredient is dintinctly palpable. Such subtleties are less of an issue in the Jamie Brockett which has 3 meats, 2 cheeses, and 3 kinds of sauce. I can’t even pick out what Tiger sauce is; all I can tell you is that this gigantic sandwich tastes pretty good and packs a lot of flavor. Geoff’s flimsy wheat/white breads can’t handle Jamie Brockett (Geoff’s sandwiches are inclined to get soggy and fall apart), so I suggest ordering yours on a sturdy roll (as pictured). Also, the employees seem to dread making this sandwich, so be sure to leave a tip.

The lesson here is a simple one but it is one that we should all learn: if you can’t go for quality, go for quantity. This is not a maxim that applies to all sandwiches, but certainly one that applies to Geoff’s Superlative Sandwiches.

RATING
on a tuesday: 8/10
any other day: n/a…try a Happy Dumpling instead (it’s in the same building of the Thayer St. location)

more info: http://geoffsonline.com/

food for thought:
At first I assumed the sandwich was named Jamie Brockett after Davy Crockett because that rhymes. But upon further research, I have learned that one Jamie Brockett, who posessed “prowess on the hammered dulcimer” (allmusic.com), was responsible for the 1969 folk hit “Legend of the USS Titanic.” I’m still not sure why (or even if) the sandwich is named after him, but I’ll try asking on Tuesday and in the meantime feel free to share whatever insight you may have.

Monte Cristo Sandwich - 401 Diner, Conshohocken PA
Monte Cristo Sandwich - @ Ease Cafe, Providence RI

In these two exemplary sandwiches, we find the very identity of the Monte Cristo in the throes of Derridian crisis — is it a hefty lunch sandwich served on “french toasted bread,” or is it syrupy sweet french toast filled with swiss cheese, ham, and turkey?

@ Ease Cafe, formerly known as Ocean Coffee Roasters, makes a Monte Cristo that falls comfortably within the lunch paradigm. @ Ease’s “french toasted bread” is still chewy enough to comfortably hold together a sandwich, and often garnished with a bit of parsley — certainly no Sunday brunch treat. The ham, turkey, and swiss chese are cut thick and piled high, topped off with just a hint of sweet mayo. Yes indeed, this would be a magnificent lunch sandwich, if they could figure out how to cook it right. For whatever reason, @ Ease is infuriatingly inconsistent with their sandwich preparation — about 30% of the time, the sandwich is excellently prepared, the warm meats and melted cheese perfectly offset by the cool mayo. The rest of the time, the meat is nearly frozen, the cheese is cold, stiff, and brittle, and the bread is inexplicably only cooked on one side. What the fuck, guys?

401 Diner, an excellent li’l restaurant in the quaint town of Conshohocken, PA, takes an altogether different route. 401’s Monte Cristo is unequivocally and unapologetically served on French-fucking-toast (asshole), dusted with powdered sugar and accompanied by a small jug of maple syrup. Unfortunately, the meat and cheese are thin and flavorless– even the slightest excess of syrup obfuscates their taste almost entirely.

Which of course begs question, why the fuck would I want to put maple syrup on a ham, turkey, and cheese sandwich? I’m all for trying new things, but this particular experiment in meal-miscegenation simply dosen’t pay off. The slight sweetness of the Mayo in @ Ease’s Monte Cristo proves much more rewarding than 401’s sickly-sweet syrup.

And then there’s the issue of size. A good Monte Cristo, much like any fucking ridiculous sandwich, should be regrettable on sight, but deeply fulfilling on completion. At 401 Diner, I ate a sandwich with cheese and two fucking meats, served on fucking French toast, and I was still hungry afterwards. How does that work? I was left with no choice but to bitterly scarf down a plate full of soggy, maple syrup-soaked fries. Seriously, pray to God your precious fries never come in contact with maple syrup.

All this has left me wondering — where can a man find a good — a REALLY fucking good — Monte Cristo sandwich? Please send your tips to matt@gethimeathim.com, attn: sammiches.

FINAL RATINGS:
@ Ease Cafe Monte Cristo (good day): 7.5/10
@ Ease Cafe Monte Cristo (bad day): 4/10
401 Diner Monte Cristo: 5/10

I’ve always been wary of the move to incorporate lunch and dinner foods into the realm of breakfast cuisine. The two most prominent examples of this trend are the “breakfast sandwich” and the “breakfast burrito,” which, though I’m unable to articulate it clearly, strike in me some sense of doom or foreboding, something like looking at a picture of a two-headed lizard or reading about the bubonic plague. It’s of course possible that such reactions are hyperbolic and unwarranted, but it’s also possible that our world exists in a delicate balance the disturbance of which would cast all semblance of ordered life into a free-for-all melee of murder, destruction and hand-jobs. Some beckoning, tortured, inscrutably teutonic voice inside me calls out “No!” to the question of the breakfast sandwich. There are, however, two other voices that often call out “I’m hungry” and “It’s cheap”(actually, those voices make up what I like to call my “conscience”). And so it was that I ordered the bacon and egg biscuit sandwich at the Ye Old Colonial Tavern in the impossibly quaint Madison, Georgia. Simplicity is the name of the game. Biscuit, scrambled egg, bacon. QED. The biscuit- warm, hearty without being in-the-back-of-the-throat-sticking, flavorful- was the perfect bed for the succulent eggs, but it all would have been an unbalanced affair if not for the salty, meaty, crispy-and-also-tender bacon which was the perfect punch of texture and flavor. This sandwich was a dream and I savored every bite. But why bother with the sandwich, why not a simple egg, biscuit and bacon breakfast? says some pesky voice somewhere. That would indeed be an awesome meal, but it was the combination of all three ingredients that really made the thing. And it cost something around $1.60.

FINAL RATING: 10/10

Hoping for a Bob Pollard sighting, me and the other Get Him Eat Him boys found ourselves eagerly scanning the other tables in the indoor “piazza” that makes up Marion’s cavernous interior while waiting for our ticket numbers to be called out. The decor is ambiguously 70-ish and the other patrons seemed ambiguously Daytonian. That is to say, Marion’s is pretty thoroughly a “family pizza restaurant,” save for the suspiciously large stock of beer taking up almost an entire wall of the place. I’ll be honest, it was my fault for ordering the steak sandwich. Having filled up on deep-dish pizza in the windy city earlier that day, I wasn’t really in the mood to OD on one of Marion’s strange little 9-inch-ers(no slices, just 9- and 13-inch thin-crust pizzas). So you’ve got the facts; “steak” sandwich at a family pie joint. Which means: a fluffy, white, sub roll, a ground steak patty, red sauce, some kind of mushroom sauce, banana peppers and onions. It was mushy and kind of bland. In it’s favor, it was a lot of food for $5.50 and was filling. And it wasn’t my business to be ordering a sandwich at a pizzeria in the first place.

THE TIME HAS COME WHEN YOU ADD UP THE NUMBERS:

4/10

And, alas, no Bob Pollard.

Ah, Huntington! Home of the Dan Quayle Museum, an antique store that advertises “some good stuff and some poopy stuff,” and Nick’s Kitchen, birthplace of the pork tenderloin sandwich (and key stop on The Quayle Trail).

Tipped off by the always-essential Roadfood, we first experienced the midwestern pork tenderloin at Smitty’s of Des Moines, Iowa, on the way home from recording our album. Smitty’s tenderloin was, like most of the people we encountered in Des Moines, large, unhealthy, and butt ugly. Raf ordered a “veggie tenderloin” and got a huge slab of pork with a piece of sad, wilted lettuce. Welcome to America, hippie.

According to Roadfood, the original owner of Nick’s discovered the pork tenderloin when he lost his fingers to frostbite, and somehow came to realize that his stumps could be used to tenderize meat. What the fucking fuck. But hey, there were promises of delicious, buttermilk-soaked and cracker-battered tenderloins, and homemade pie, so we decided to give it a shot.

This was the sandwich of the fucking tour. Juicy, tangy, crispy, and sublimely hearty, this is midwest cuisine at its best. The tenderloin itself is crusted in thick, delicious cracker crumbs, not your standard bullshit breadcrumbs. The buttermilk flavor really does make a big difference, bringing out the surprisingly complex flavor of the meat itself. Unlike Smitty’s tenderloin, which is hammered too thin and sticks out to the edge of the fucking plate, Nick’s tenderloin is left thick enough to taste like, you know, meat. We rounded off our meal with a selection of delicious pies, none of which disappointed.

So, Nick’s Pork Tenderloin, we are proud to crown you the official sandwich of the Get Him Eat Him 2005 summer tour. Unless, of course, Raf would rather reserve that honor for a hummus, twigs, and abortion sandwich.

FINAL RATING: 10/10

THWAP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

we’re back, you crazy fools.

10/10

the ru hungry grease trucks of rutgers university in new brunswick, nj, are home to the greatest sandwiches in the world. i am using the word great as it applies to volume. in other words, fat. the original fat cat burger was based on a simple concept: put the fries in the burger cos it’s the same in the end. and make it a double cheeseburger cos i’m hungry. in 1987, a student named darrell revolutionized the fat cat sandwich by applying the same philosophy to chicken fingers and mozzarella sticks. add some fries and marinera sauce and you’ve got yourself the now legendary fat darrell (learn more: http://www.fatdarrell.com/FD/History.htm).

for this review, i chose the fat phillippino because, for $4.50 (a mere $.25 more than the 15 other varieties of fat sandwich) you get cheese steak, gyro, chicken fingers, mozzarella sticks, and french fries. let’s not forget that all of these components would normally be sold separately. as you might expect, the fat phillipinno tastes really good. a little bit cheesy. a little bit lamby. the fries are soft like a pillow. the chicken fingers are perfectly crispy. the fat sandwiches are deceptively well thought out; each ingredient’s unique flavor and texture adds to the experience of eating a fat phillippino. though a general sogginess pervades by the time i finish, it is not bowl-of-ceral soggy; no, this is a sogginess of grease, of melted cheese mixed with white sauce burrowing into the pores of once toasty, now chewy bread. the fat phillippino is good to the laste bite.

if you’re the kind of person who occasionally experiments indescriminently with leftovers, nutella, etc, in the kitchen, then this is the sandwich for you. even vegetarians who dip fries in their milkshakes can enjoy the veggie fat cat or veggie indian (falafel, mozzarella, marinera, fries, lt, onion, mayo). perhaps, as a sandwich “expert,” my tastes should be more evolved than to fall for such an overwhelmingly straightforward sandwich. sure, there’s something to be said for subtlety, but it’s hard not to like a fat sandwich that gives you everything you want and more. i mean, who would have thought to mix lamb with steak and melted cheese? and chicken fingers? and fries? and mozzarella sticks? a creative genius, that’s who.
final rating: 10/10

ru hungry?
parking lot at college ave and hamilton st
new brunswick, nj
732 246-2177
732 246-1902
(pick up only)

One of the overarching truths we’ve emphasized in the blog is simple: food is just as much about the experience as it is the taste. I think it might be obvious then that the best sandwiches occur in the comfort of a home, simply flavored, nourishing to a growing boy in dire need of food. And though it is a virtue to give, sandwiches often taste best when given to you. With that in mind, I had the best sandwich of 2005-so-far last week, in the spacious Williamsburg apartment of Michelle Higa and Jesse Casey, (my psuedo-bosses at chaise magazine) made by their lovely roommate Allison (who writes the independent film channel’s blog).

She made a Fresh Direct sandwich accompanied by the standard Yuengling Ale. As a first-timer living in new york, fresh direct seems to be one of the finest and reliable purveyors of fresh food in the city. The bread was untouchably fresh — it was freshly baked in Allison’s own oven (after Fresh Direct’s flash-freezing), devoid of overcomplicated flavor, and was oh so soft when i most needed the oral comfort. The ingredients tasted so much better since she, already knowing how to make the best kind of sandwich ever, presented her choicest ingredients to me as if they were my own choice: “would you like cucumber or spinach. Perhaps mayo with that? Prosciutto?” All i could utter was “yes”,” and then in my under-fed state, slowly bite off chunks of wonder as we all sat and watched Steve Buscemi’s repeated brilliance (more of a reprise of his Billy Madison cameo, if you ask me, but still brilliant) in the Michael Bay classic, Con-Air.

Shopping for food once a week always prompted that sweet, “new” feeling to having a fully stocked pantry, sometimes moving folks to generosity. Fresh Direct seems to have compounded this feeling, it’s brilliant delivery scheme far removed from the travel, searching and actual cash transfers once necessary in the supermarket. Thanks for the generosity, Allison, Jesse and Michelle.

The Czech Republic is something of an oddity in the European continent. Wedged between Poland(an undoubtedly eastern European nation) and Germany(undoubtedly western), in the last century perception of the Czechs has placed them in the camp of the former. But is this an accurate categorization? Under the control of socialist Russia, Czech artists certainly experienced a suppression and censorship of the their work to a degree unknown to their western counterparts but the films and novels they produced do not seem Slavic in nature(Kundera’s Book of Laugher and Forgetting or Menzel’s Closely Watched Trains). Going back further, the story goes that there was a building in Prague where Hasek would frequent the basement pub, Kafka the second floor café and they would pass each other on the stairs. Perhaps the dual-personality of the culture is what makes it definitively Czech among the indistinguishable blur of the post-soviet east. Perhaps it is why my Wienerschnitzel sandwich was so delicious.

The simple run-down is as follows: breaded pork loin, hearty Grand Central Bakery roll, mysterious, red, carroty, “paprika spread”, sauteed onion, mayonnaise and horseradish. A basic explanation of why this sandwich was great is, without a doubt, unnecessary. Looking deeper, though, it becomes apparent that this sandwich was great because of it’s Czechness, because it was neither east nor west but the best of both. Robust, meaty, filling, it would seem like the natural impulse to pair it with a bowl of borscht or a plate of dumplings and to wash it all down with a tall glass of carrot juice. But that gigantic Wienerschnitzel was placed between two halves of a country style roll and topped with layers of fresh lettuce; the kind of sandwich to be accompanied by a green salad and a bottle of mineral water. So where does that leave us? With a damn good sandwich.

Tabor is one of the string of food shacks along 5th between Oak and Stark in downtown Portland that are open weekday afternoons to feed the city crowd(Tabor is actually on Stark itself, around the “corner” from the other shacks). The couple that run it, Karel and Monika, are friendly in a way rarely encountered in the world of food shacks. And I didn’t even mention that the Wienerschnitzel sandwich costs a mere $4.50 and was hearty enough to take me from famished to almost painfully full. Tabor also serves a variety of other Czech, German and Hungarian dishes like goulash, dumplings and potato pancakes. Food shack turnover on 5th is quick and ruthless, so let’s keep this one around for a while!

FINAL RATING:
9/10

Tabor Authentic Czech Eatery
10am to 3pm
503-997-5467
P.O. Box 42142(to write them letters?)
and
Large orders are available with a 24 hour notice.

This was probably the most awesomely fucked up meal I’ve ever had. The Beacon Drive-In is a famous fast food joint just off route 26 in Spartanburg, South Carolina that apparently serves more sweet tea than any other restaurant in the universe. It is scary and amazing and good and everyone should go there.

My meal at the Beacon went something like this:

1) Marvelling at the old-timey yet freakishly massive facade
2) Realizing that the whole fucking highway the restaurant is on is named after the guy who founded the restaurant
3) Noticing that the restaurant is run by white people and staffed by black people
4) Ambiguous horror/guilt/confusion when the white owners call the black workers “boy”
5) Trying to figure out where the menu is
6) Calling your order out to the old blind dude who works at the front counter: “Chili cheese a-plenty, please!”
7) Watching the old blind dude cast his head towards the kitchen and scream “CHICHEESAPENNY!!!!!”
8) Watching as a metric fuckton of onion rings and french fries are piled on top of a huge chili cheeseburger
9) Eating a handful of crispy fries and sweet onion rings before digging out the grease-soaked chili cheeseburger and devouring it. Excellent.
10) Staring down a huge fucking pile of onion rings, sometimes eating them
11) Here comes the manager — “y’all in a band? Don’t y’all go anywhere till I tell you to!”
12) Fear
13) Manager emerges with two giant banana splits, hospitable demeanor
14) Banana splits are eaten
15) An hour or so in the bathroom
16) That was fucking awesome

Final Rating: 1000000000/10

Here in Providence, we take food trucks pretty seriously. We’ve got the cheap, delicious, and oh-so-sketchy “Chinese Food Truck.” We’ve got the “Federal Hill Sausage” truck, which is actually just a regular-type truck operated by a loud Italian guy who screams at you to buy packages of sausage. We’ve even got the famous Haven Brothers “diner on wheels,” which parks outside of City Hall every night and provides decent grilled cheese sandwiches and cabinets (Rhody-talk for “milkshakes”) to drunken gawkers.

While a lot of Providence food trucks bank on reliability, Moe’s Delicious Food (usually parked on or near the corner of Brown and George) is something of an enigma. It only seems to be there when I’m not looking for it, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen the same guy working there twice.

Though, like most late-night food trucks around town, Moe’s caters to the drunk and the fucking DrunK dUDE!!, I was actually not (yet) drunk when I ingested this particular sandwich. A poop sandwich on AIDS-bread tastes pretty damned good when you have three or four beers in you, and I wanted to be able to evaluate this sandwich with all my critical faculties intact.

Looking over Moe’s extensive hand-scrawled menu, I only saw meat and cheese combos listed under the “wraps” heading. I decided upon a simple steak and cheese, and prepared to place my order, only to find nobody standing behind the truck’s open window.

“Hello?”

No answer.

“Uh, hello?”

“Yeah, whaddya want”

I presently found myself confronted by a large, old, surly man.

“Oh hi, uh, could I have a steak and cheese wrap?”

An incredulous pause. “We don’t got no wraps.”

“Um, a sandwich then?”

A patronizing nod, and then the sound of meat hitting the grill. A few minutes later, I was presented with a shining, oozing pile of steak, American cheese, and mayonaise on a large doughey bun. I handed over four crumpled dollars and slinked away into the night. (Here is a picture of me post-slinking:)

I’ve had a lot of steak and cheese sandwiches in my day and, I have to say, this ranks among the better ones. The steak was crisp and salty (thanks in part to being actually cooked on a grill), the cheese was melty and well-proportioned, and the bun, though wonderbread-like in texture, wasn’t at all stale. Now before I’m flooded with e-mail from Philadelphians pointing out that a *real* cheese steak has to have some kind of Kraft cheese-piss fake cheese bullshit… fuck you. Seriously. “Holy fucking shit we figured out how to put steak and cheese together in a sandwich, and we even managed to fuck that up!” Shut the fuck up and go back to pretending you’re not (probably) from New Jersey.

This was a pretty simple, straightforward steak and cheese — no peppers, no onions — just steak, cheese, and some mayo on bread. Even if it wasn’t a “real” steak and cheese (yeah, yeah, you stupid fuckers), it was a delicious sandwich and an ideal four-dollar late-night indulgence, even for the crushingly, horribly sober.

FINAL RATING: 7.5/10

Sometimes you just want a sandwich. Nothing fancy, just two pieces of bread with good stuff inside. Well, White Electric is the place. White bread, roast beef, cheddar, greens, tomato, mayo, mustard and a pile of chips on the side. But good white bread, white bread that’s soft, full, chewy, with little bits of dried onion around the crust. And good roast beef. And good cheddar. And mixed greens that are fresh and tomatoes that are ripe. The right amount of mustard and coarse, flavorful mustard. Cut diagonally with little plastic swords. But the key is that this sandwich has that first-sandwich-after-going-shopping freshness, when every ingredient is at it’s peak. Staleness, dryness, wiltedness, crustiness, mushyness are all millions of miles away. Nothing innovative and nothing froufrou, just a good, solid sandwich. Plus those cool plastic swords.

FINAL RATING: 9/10

$5.50 with chips. White Electric is located at 711 Westminster on the West side in Providence, RI.