If you read no further, read this: Find Rebel Heroes! Find them on Twitter and GO!

The authentic effort, dedication, humor, swagger and class is obvious. Rebel Heroes is a class attack.

We do want more heroes. Who do we have these days anyway? We must turn to lunch and its defendants.

From Sorry-Birds Ellen:
“Finally got a sandwich from Rebel Heroes, and finally am writing about it, ugh hectic summer life! I had their Cubano which was super tasty…loved the fresh bread and the pork and melted cheese hit the spot. Wren came along (of course) and cooed and oohed as I licked my lips. I think she is going to grow up and be a rebel! It’s lunchtime, off to find their truck again.”

I came upon Rebel Heroes one day unexpectedly, and was starved, and had a spare hour. Simultaneous opportunity and serendipity  blow me away. It can almost be too much. But it wasn’t. It was Righteous Pork Roast and a Vietnamese iced coffee. I do not know a drink that turns my blood into a super highway better than Vietnamese iced coffee. With EZPass at 400 mph.

Rebel rebel, your face is no mess, Wrenny.  You are a dish of a girl. Bubbling up all happy and tasty out of the sauce. My face met the Righteous Pork and was a righteous mess. And my hands and my lap, too. Perched there on a wall, with my rebel yellwich drip, drip, dripping. Aiiee, it was tasty. Those wiches are heroes. Let me emulate their bold, proud, streetwise goodness.

Tails Up!
According to a source as reliable as the horoscope, those born on December 24th, which is my birthdate, should be mindful of whether “the dog is wagging the tail, or the tail is wagging the dog.” No comment. When these sorts of experts hit the nail so hard on the head that the nail sinks through to China, it’s a bit freaky. My imaginary tail is one that wags so hard it takes me off my feet, clears coffee tables, and unsteadies me. Not quite to the point of toppling, but definitely to teetering.

The other day I had the pleasure of styling all these rockin’ dogs for theWashington Post Express. After a two-week vacation, this was the perfect job for re-entry. The online version does not show the credits so I will take care of shouting it.
MARGE ELY did the photography and LISA CHERKASKY did the styling.

For a food that’s the all-star of the American summer picnic, the hot dog often seems in need of an extreme makeover. Sure, dousing franks in ketchup, mustard and relish might be as patriotic as cheering for the Nationals. But there’s no reason to limit what you put on a dog to the old red, yellow and green standbys.

“The great thing about hot dogs? You can do so much with them,” says Red Apron Butchery’s Nathan Anda, who hearts Chicago-style dogs. To create a Windy City wiener, Anda insists on poppy-seed buns (preferably steamed) dressed with a salad bar’s worth of veggies (pickles, peppers, tomatoes, onions).

“Hot dogs are crowd-pleasers for both kids and adults,” says Katie Lee, author of “The Comfort Table” ($25, Simon Spotlight). “They’re perfect for groups. Everyone can customize their dog.” Lee sets up a bar full of different toppings, so each person can pick different combos, from simple mustard to a smorgasbord of sliced meats and cheeses.

So, whether you prep a Brit curry relish for a veggie bratwurst, saute onions for a sausage, or make your own mustard for a classic Oscar Mayer you-know-what, here are some ways to wag your dog.

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Mimi and Richard Fariña were a superglam couple to me when I was a tiny girl, looking up into the world of adults and music and California and motorcycles and all that. I bet they were mustard, not mayonnaise eaters, spread their own mustard, one hand at time. Richard got turned upside down hard, unfortunately, way too soon.

Thanks to Mike at ComicsDC!

Spit and string is all you really need. Wish I had a third hand so you could hold it while I scrape the toast with the other two.

Feeling extravagant, exuberant, euphoric?  Rich with clichés? A hope and a prayer? A song and dance? Dogs and ponies? Bring it all on. Count me in, a bit battered and bruised, but all in just the same. More so. Nothing a cute bandaid can’t remedy.

Rejoice when reality exceeds expectation. We did it at Porchetta. The bar was sky high.

The sandwich soared. When pigs fly and all that.



Color me delivered.

Shopping in Whole Foods a while back, picked up a loaf of bread in one of those stiff, crinkly, noisy plastic bags. Sharp cuts in the top crust, baked to steel blade toughness, had sliced the bag limb to limb. “Yikes,” I said to the bakery clerk, “This is some dangerous bread.” “You could CUT yourself on that bread!” she said.


Tofu bread, sharp as a stropped razor, lining the shelves in the east village. What would you put in it? Meat? Tofu? Metal filings?

Browsing for a sweepstakes? I can’t say priiiiciiiiisely what the stakes are, or what you might need to sweep ’em, but I can specify the basic parameters: two slices of bread.

Make That Sandwich Contest

Collage by the m(ighty)f(ine) bf

Somehow I failed to identify our era as the golden age of sandwiches. Not in so many words, that is. When I started this blog I had no idea that a tsandwich tsunami would roar in, bringing an onslaught of salumerias, bakeries, pickle makers, cheesemongers and a grilled cheese bonanza. And that is just a drop in the bucket, so to speak. Sandwich smackdowns are tossing contestants into trees and sub wars are dividing families.

Leave it to the NY Times to feature Advanced Sandwich Construction, Sandwich Evolution and the Sandwich Register. Thank you, Liz, for turning me on to this deep, deep well of sandwich history, lore and competition.

Golden Era is, to my buttery brain, the era when margarine was a foreign substance, and known as oleo. White, greasy, and revolting without guise. In those days, in Wisconsin, the dairy state, butter was golden, and regulations required that oleo be packaged with yellow color on the side. A housewife had to knead the color in on her own. Mmmm, skin so soft. We were a butter only household, and it went on the inside of every sandwich. When did we drop that and why? Those darn health and food scientists have lead us astray. Butter reigns again in two thousand and ten.

Trade in your vuvuzela for a sandwich.

Yes it does. Almost as dirty as if you had garnished it with a kumquat. On a frillpick.

Who can be found, when he is not hanging around The Lunch Encounter, at 8 Track Heaven.

Well, I’ll be dipped, Philippe the Original is featured on H.E. Doubletoothpicks Kitchen.

In this video you’ll see Hell’s Kitchen visit Phillipe’s “Original French Dipped Sandwich” shop in Los Angeles, then immediately afterward the contestants are challenged to make their own gourmet sandwiches. Very entertaining, sez MMSMSotMDL.
Watch Hell’s Kitchen