My mother is 98-years-old now. My mother is four scores and eighteen. So many scores to settle. So little time. The scores will not be settled. They will settle themselves in memory. May they settle in peace, tranquility, humor, love and – sorry, mom – FUN.
Enjoy EVERY sandwich. Even the meh ones. Warren Zevon said it. Why he chose sandwich rather than meatball, muffin or mango, we will never know. The sandwich is a metaphor for everything though, even the meh parts, so, to my satisfaction, the question is answered. I know this but do not practice it consistently. Because the questions. Who deserves to enjoy EVERY sandwich? Why would enjoyment be the point of living? If I enjoy this sandwich will I have to pay the piper? Come on, eating, aka life, is for pleasure? Suffering is the human condition, why not me? This sandwich? Now?
Please take my word for it and start now. Do not wait until you are the child of a 98-year-old, even if you are the youngest and so you are not almost 80-years-old yourself. Still… Still enough for pleasure. Be still enough for pleasure. Take your time. Swish it around, let if waft over you, grab it if you need to grab it.
She is not enjoying her sandwiches, hard as I try to make them delicious. Well, occasionally, small twinkle in her eye, seemingly reluctantly, she lets on we struck gold, a delicious gold egg yolk crushed into salad with its white, some mayonnaise, little grated onion, minced celery. Once in a while, so subtle. It is killing me, the lack of enjoyment. Gah, the moments seem especially precious, even though they are the same moments as those given to a baby.
So much stripped away by age. Experiencing it a little, seeing it a lot. Fun is there to be had. You just gotta make it, or take it.
“I am not effusive,” she said the other day. “I am not a mind reader, mom,” I commented. We are both getting mean. I’m still holding a grudge from this long ago remark, “Lisa, you have a maddening way of seeming to always have fun.” Not to put too fine a point on it, but that was not a compliment. And there is this as well, “Lisa, you put a premium on fun.” I’ll take it!
Small aside. I believe the one person we all believe over anyone is our mother. Tell your children they are lovable, beautiful, remarkable. Have fun with them. Fact: we are all remarkable. Fact: we believe it most when spoken by our mothers.
Please forgive me for seeming unkind to the vulnerable, intelligent, complicated woman who is my mother. I am not at all ungrateful. Word.
Cheese-crusted grilled cheese with ham and spicy honey. (Photo by Scott Suchman for The Washington Post; food styling by Lisa Cherkasky for The Washington Post)
With a lovely balance of sweet and tart, J. J. Goode, recollecting his father’s fathering – and musings on his own parenting puzzles – created this sandwich. I love it for a quick and deeply satisfying supper. The cheese is on the outside, people, all crunched up into frico, and on the inside, too, of course.
Honestly though, who could resist the peel-and-eat opportunity of the frico? And who would know the difference? No kid I can think of. A simple sacrifice in the name of the higher power of fried cheese.
In the wise words of the photographer Scott Suchman, “The key to a happy life is editing.” I can think of no better advice for any parent. So freeing. Take the frico, leave the sandwich. Your kid will never notice.
That’s a fried green tomato slice in there. Lit so beautifully by Scott Suchman.
It’s the season. Around here there is a drought and my tomatoes have stalled at green. I can make stuff with those green tomatoes, unlike the thousands of tiny green rocks masquerading as figs hanging out back. Bring on the pimento cheese and pickles! The birds can have the figs.
WASHINGTON, DC – JUNE 24: Fried Green Tomato and Pimento Cheese Sandwiches for Weeknight Column in Food photographed on June 24, 2025 in Washington, D.C. (Photo by Scott Suchman; food styling by Lisa Cherkasky/Both for The Washington Post)WASHINGTON, DC – JUNE 24: Fried Green Tomato and Pimento Cheese Sandwiches for Weeknight Column in Food photographed on June 24, 2025 in Washington, D.C. (Photo by Scott Suchman; food styling by Lisa Cherkasky/Both for The Washington Post)
Three guys walk into the Milburn Deli, a recording engineer, an artist and an access specialist. The sandwich man says, “Is this a joke?”
No it is not!
The first man whips out a pad of paper and a pencil. “This is a head scratcher, fellas. So many choices, only three of us. It’s a deli-emma.” The venerable Joe requires a Venn. That is to come. I need a minute.
In the meantime, MMSMINY, Curtis and LRoy walked into the Milburn Deli. Preemptively I had implored them to guest post. The fellas obliged.
My best friend L. Roy Goldberg and I grew up in Springfield NJ – the town next to Millburn. Since high school in the 70s, we both have been huge fans of the Milburn Deli Joe. Since it has been years since our parents passed away, it has been some time since either of us visited our old haunt. That changed today, as our good friend, “Fun and Pretty” artist Curtis Wallin, drove us out there from Manhattan.
Our initial Idea of a jaunt to the Deli turned into more of a pilgrimage, as we not only got our long sought after Joes, but also drove past the homes L. Roy and I grew up in, and visited the graves of L. Roy’s parents on the way back to the city. While taking pix in front of the house I grew up in, the current owner, who remembered my parents and me, came out and invited us in. I had always wondered how the house had changed on the inside and was quite surprised to find out that it had changed very little.
It felt so great to enter the Deli once again and get swept up in the rhythm of the crew behind the counter as they cranked out Joes and other popular sandwiches, including the Godfaddah (chicken cutlet, bacon, fresh mozzarella, Russian dressing on a sub roll, pressed).
As we left the deli with our weighty order – 2 Turkey Joes, 1 Ham Joe, and 3 homemade iced teas – we were salivating as we entered adjacent Taylor Park to find a shady picnic table at which to chow down most mightily.
I don’t need to describe the Joe here, since I did that back in 2008 on this blog. I am happy to report that the superior quality sandwich is nearly identical to the first one I ever had, with the one exception being that the rye bread is now a bit “spongier” than it used to be, which is in no way a deal killer. We devoured our Joes, washed them down with the iced teas and, with big smiles on our faces, vowed to return.
James Farber (unmasked: formerly JAF – Lisa’s Main Sandwich Man in NY
And from LRoy, the ham man:
It was an eagerly awaited challenge – get the three of us out to Jersey and get our hands and mouths around a Millburn Deli Joe. The planning took months, but we finally made it. Aside from some very garish signage and a hundred new sandwiches with Jersey mobster names, the place was pretty much the same. But would the sammys be the same since the last time I had one (6 years ago? 8 years ago?).
The structure was the same, the layers and layers of rye, ham (for me – the boys had turkey), Swiss, cole slaw, Russian. Cut into three pieces: left, right, wedge.
But wow, could they really have always been this big? So heavy? The bag must have weighed 20 pounds (with the homemade iced tea for each of us, natch). Would we really be able to consume such a monstrosity? The challenge was on and none of us was going to back down – eat or die. Eat and die. And maybe a few weeks sooner because of this Joe (ironic that we visited my parents grave sites after lunch, and James suggested I lie down next to them. Not dead yet).
So consume we did.
We were proud of ourselves (though we did need to hose ourselves down in a nearby bathroom). Has our capacity for gorging ourselves been diminished with age? Should we have split one or two? Would we order it again? Yes, for sure, definitely – but the consensus also was, maybe we should wait a few years, until we digest today’s mighty Joe. Curtis said that afterwards we were moving like we were all in our 3rd trimester. But happy as hell.
L.
From Curtis, is a Joe fun and pretty?
Is a sandwich as good as a memory ? Sloppy Joe, Milburn Deli
On Monday I drove out to Milburn NJ with James and L.Roy. They grew up together nearby and wanted to visit the homes they grew up in. No old home tour is complete – in my opinion – without food from your youth to complete the memory.
When my wife was taking care of my parents in Lansing, MI. I took her to many haunts old and new. When an old haunt is new, your memory starts there. When it is old you bring your senses (dimmed). At home in Michigan, Jersey Giant had to change their bread, once locally made and fresh daily, and it became a par-baked industrial loaf from Jersey. The bread brought the outside, the first thing that hit your tongue, down. But still, the best quick sandwich in town. The pizza I grew up with was Sir Pizza (my father engineered their early buildings and took pizza as a trade). My favorite pizza then was BROWN BERRIES, until one day a new waitress delivered my MUSHROOM pizza and my six year old brain melted down. (From the moderator: haha.) The Sir Pizza pie was snappy and crisp and our pie was BBQ sauce and sausage. Strangely divine. Until it was not. Time had done it in.
Back to Monday. After a fine tour of the home James grew up in off we went to the Milburn Deli with an impressive staff that kept the line moving. My guys insisted I go for the Sloppy Joe. I followed James with the Turkey Joe.
Fresh Roasted, three slices of un-seeded rye, cole slaw, Russian dressing, and a slice of cheese ~ TOPPED OFF with a square of folded wax paper with one pickle slice on top. You guessed it! That moment was my favorite thing about the sandwich.
I must say the sandwich was pretty swell. I have never had this type of JOE and it was juicy, and sloppy and tasty. It is what is an unpretentious taste of yesteryear.
The rye died on the vine and could have used more flavor to compete and complement the slaw and Russian. My guides informed me that it used to be seeded and more flavorful. Ahhhh yes, that memory.
But this Sloppy Joe was everything it was upsold as – a wet, chewy, triple-decker of joy left alone and not altered to compete with a TIC TOK-ready look that is made ready for seeing on your phone and not tasting.
No this was a memory I got to create, with dear friends through their eyes, and I cannot wait for our next trip, but I must include my wife, she needs to be part of the SLOPPY JOE CLUB.
“What is a baGEL”, asked the woman in line in front of me. Okay, it was a long time ago, yet in my lifetime, and in a town of some size, a university town. Anyway, that’s ok. Regionality is disappearing in countless precious ways. It’s a good thing, although I grieve it. Global is the glowball of peace. And yet. So good to see something you have not seen before, foodwise especially. So, yeah, she had not seen a bagel, lucky woman. Her town had not been subsumed.
Unabashedly self indulgent post here. The pictures following are work that I do. How I get paid. And also a major part of my identity. The accent needs to shift and the syllable on which to focus is life. One syllable. In the meantime, constructing a baGEL is what I do during work hours. I love the handling of it, the tactile, visceral mess of it all. The upcloseness.
Why I think any human enters a period of time when they have “earned” the right to not work is not beyond me. It is a social construct. We are built to work. Work is survival. Work for an older person looks different than work for a younger person. Still, it is work. Purpose, contribution, work, identity.
When I choose to no longer work as a food stylist – well aware that to have a choice is a privilege – my identity will morph, organically I hope. Ultimately organically, as I will become compost. Until then, carrying on with touching, constructing, handling, working.
of the New Jersey Sloppy Joe I have wondered why it has not been exploited, franchised, appropriated. Such a superlative sandwich.
And finally I was given the opportunity to make one. The Washington Post did a story on it. I did my best to procure proper ingredients and build authentically. The bread is a mystery. It can be oval and then cut into the iconic thirds, including the superlative triangle, or it can be made with pullman slices, cut into cute squares and arranged on a pedestal. I am not sure and have no opinion about which – if either – is “correct.” Therein lies the sandwich fascination. Many opinions, no answers.
The recipe asked me to butter the bread on the inside. Someone, I do not remember whom, remarked that the butter was not de rigueur. Growing up in a Wisconsin household including, iconically, a dad in the dairying business, we buttered bread for sandwiches to protect from sogginess. How about you, New Jerseyites, children of the Garden State, what is correct? Do you want the slaw to soften the bread or not? Tell me.
Truth, I love yesterday’s sandwich today.
WASHINGTON, D.C. – JUNE 2: New Jersey Sloppy Joe photographed for Food in Washington, D.C. on June 2, 2025 (Photo by Scott Suchman; food styling by Lisa Cherkasky/Both for The Washington Post)WASHINGTON, D.C. – JUNE 2: New Jersey Sloppy Joe photographed for Food in Washington, D.C. on June 2, 2025 (Photo by Scott Suchman; food styling by Lisa Cherkasky/Both for The Washington Post)
It is in Fayetteville, West Virginia. My friend Harold loves this place, takes his mom there, and I hope he will take me there someday too. I want to bust into anyplace that has a secret. There is a second outpost in Richmond, that’s a closer destination. If I have my way we will travel on blue highways, they whisper secrets at every curve.
From Harold, who is in the know about exceptional West Virginia:
David Bailey and his wife started TSSS in Fayetteville. They also started a pizza place called Pies and Pints. I believe P&P came first. Both are favorites. Eventually the Baileys sold the P&P concept to some investment group. Now, there are P&P’s in several states in the South and Midwest. The Baileys kept the locations in Fayetteville, Charleston, and Morgantown. It seems this process is now occurring at TSSS. The current owner is Lewis Rhineharr but the Baileys still own the name and concept.
Fayetteville is a former mining community that sits on the rim of The New River Gorge. It’s also the gateway to the nation’s newest national park. Many smart, creative, and young people began moving there fifty years ago. It’s a center for whitewater rafting and rock climbing.
Three intriguing words. Secret. Sandwich. Society.
Intriguing words from Harold, talking about Fayetteville:
Also my first memory in life happened near there.
I do not know of what he speaks, nor do I know if it is a secret. Someday, over a sandwich, I hope to know.
Lives are secret-filled, from inconsequential stuff such as the hated peas I dropped through the porch floorboards, to the turtle I might have killed by playing with it too hard to more important stuff. You know the important stuff, whether you can face it or not. Let’s not talk about it.
And then there are sandwich preferences. Let’s talk about it. Do you have a secret sandwich preference? Beef tongue could be a bridge too far for some, but not for me. I keep that a secret – no need to be maligned for my sandwich preferences. Mayonnaise is polarizing, I am told. I love mayonnnaise and also keep that to myself. Canned tuna, aka “tuna fish”, might be something someone might shame you for liking. I like it. A lot. Not telling anyone.
We have our differences, our preferences, our secrets, our guilty secrets, our proud secrets. Between two slices of bread all is confidential.
What a beautiful statement. Let me make you a sandwich.
I just listened to an episode of the Wiser Than Me podcast, hosted by Julia Louis Dreyfuss, in conversation with Patti LaBelle.
Patti’s sister, who died at 44, asked Patti to make her a fried egg sandwich the day before she died. Patti, just home from a tour – just, asked for a day to recover and then the sandwich – you know it would have been delicious! – would be made. Opportunity lost. Not throwing any shade because – obviously – no one knew that time had run out.
Apparently Patti LaBelle is a comfortable, happy, generous, capable cook and she is called upon to feed and nurture all those who know her. Lucky them.
Patti went on to talk about – and this has been documented in many notable forums – her guilt, regret and sadness about not making the sandwich. She was haunted by a sandwich not made. Understood.
Dilemma. Powerful.
Need I mention that a sandwich is the conflux of all things human? Of course not. Bread, the “staff” of life , holding/cradling/securing the necessary stuff, the essentials. And Patti cooks. She has authored countless cookbooks. Book covers hold/cradle/secure the necessary stuff, the essentials. Staff? She must have staff. The staff of life. To do what she does would require STAFF.
Dilemma. For me, if I ask you for a fried egg sandwich, it is the asking that matters. If you agree to make it, that is more than enough. The actual making? Not so much. Should we run out of time, for whatever reason – on to other things, sudden thunder storm, overflowing bathtub – it’s the sandwich thought that matters. Always.
Tomorrow morning we leave for Korea – my son, a Korean adoptee and me, his adoptive mom. I lived in the rainbow and unicorn world for many years, through the adoption process and long into his childhood. We had fun, checked all the joyful boxes, all of them and more, with zest and love.
Life got more complicated as he got older – bigger kids, bigger problems, everyone knows about this – and I was neither prepared or equipped. Am I now? No, I am not, although I have scratched the surface and found a deep, rich vein of resource. Podcasts, books, people, vocabulary, awareness, kindness, recognition, people, stories and vast reserves of love.
For years and years I have wanted to go to Korea and he said no. Okay, not ready, maybe never. That is for him to decide. Now the stars have aligned for reasons unknown and, magically, the timing feels very right. Earlier would have been off. We were both untethered, off-kilter, possibly desparate (me), possibly too young (him). In Beth Syverson‘s words, I walk beside him on this journey although, to be frank, I hope to walk a few paces behind him in Korea. Quietly.
Korean Street Toast is on our agenda. It’s a sandwich, from what I understand, a sandwich you buy and eat on the street. Yes, I want to learn ALL about Korea, anxious over-achiever that I have been trained to be. YES, this is a long time dream. YES, rainbows and unicorns are lurking. Should we get there and eat that toast together, that’ll be gravy on my mashed potato heart. Score.
Welcome to the Lunch Encounter, a blog devoted to the mighty sandwich, with particular focus on American regional specialties.
I am Lisa Cherkasky, a Washington, DC-based food stylist, writer and cook. To see some of my work take a look at my website: http://www.lisacherkasky.com
The Lunch Encounter 