Ta daaaaah! The Currywurst Museum has opened!

Deutsches Currywurst Museum
Schützenstraße 70
10117 Berlin

A Museum Devoted to a National Snack Obsession

BERLIN | There’s no doubt that Germans love their currywurst, a national fast food favorite that consists of fried pork sausage served with a sauce typically made from ketchup and curry powder. And there’s no other German city more obsessed with currywurst than Berlin. It is it often said that the dish was invented in the city by a woman named Herta Heuwer in 1949 (though Hamburg also claims to be the its birthplace). Soon the city will be celebrating the opening of a museum dedicated entirely to the humble snack.

Read on here.
What’s not to like, I ask you?

Pittsburgh welcomes world leaders with open-faced sandwiches

A tidbit to wet your whistle:
I’d steer visitors first to Primanti Brothers for the city’s best-known sandwiches. It’s in an old warehouse district, known as the Strip, by the Allegheny River. Here’s the formula: a slice — nay, a slab — of Italian bread, your choice of a couple of dozen meats (pastrami, Italian sausage, etc.), topped with sweet and sour coleslaw, sliced tomato and, wait for it, chunky French fries, before the top slab of bread. Legend has it that Primanti’s (founded in 1933) started making sandwiches this way so workers could operate machinery with one hand and eat with the other. It’s open 24 hours in the unlikely event that, say, the Saudi and South Korean delegations go on a rager and need some good grease to sop it up.

These sandwiches’ influence is such that “Pittsburgh style” is the local vernacular for fries in unexpected places.

Read all here.

Thank you, Mara!

Pondering dreamily over lunch not too long ago, She-Does-Her-Best-to-Suit-Herself Cynthia expressed a desire to open a hot dog stand and name it Frank’s. “Dumb, I know,” she remarked. Not dumb. Or rather, so dumb it is good. Frankly speaking. Although she has been scooped by an Austin hot dog outfit, I’d bet my bottom bun that she is not disappointed. A trip to Frank is in order, no doubt. 
I’ll take the Notorious P.I.G. neat, with a Bacon Makers back! One for here and one for the road. The high road – the mile high brown bag club.  Return flight sausage in a plain brown bag.

Long and rambling, this story will NOT be wrangled. For more than a week, I have been swingin’ my lasso, catching the mournful fwup, fwup, fwup in my ears as the rope first strikes the hide, then hits the ground. Taking one last tough stab at it today and then slipping it into my out box. Here it comes. Here it goes. Here’s the sandwich tease.

More about cheese steaks after a word from our sponsoring beefcakes.
We were there in Philly Sunday last for the mighty, mighty Bloodshot Records B¤B¤Q, making a splash, having a blast. Barbara Q Sauce never made it over to our table, all out, 86’d was the word, so we ordered off the menu. A far cry from BBQ – carrot soup. Fancy. Some Yayhoos were nearby, a duo of ’em, hatted, and we sent over a love-noted bev nap. Oooooh, they do twinkle on that Love Train.

We felt twinkly too, me and I-Do-My-Best-to-Suit-Myself Cynthia, and Along-for-the-Ride Heidi, all of us in red and white and black all over, subconsciously bloodshot. The line up at the World Cafe Live was hair raising, all the hair on  the back of your neck erect, quivering, yeeeiiii, what a beautiful ruckus of Ha Ha Tonka, Robbie Fulks, Cordero and then, and then, and then, darkness fell, and rock and roll rose with a triple whammy, The Bottle Rockets, Yayhoos and Waco Brothers. PoW PoW PoW.

On the Saturday afternoon preceding the Philly shindig, The Best Band on the Planet, The Bottle Rockets, came for dinner, before their load-in and sound check at Iota.

After the weekend fairy dust settled and everyone was back to business, firing up their work computers and taking advantage of corporate wifi, I bragged on myself on the Bottle Rockets message board, with a link to the pie fest post.

Brian Buck Stopshere Henneman posted this fine note:
The food had excellent presentation, a wonderful bouquet, with a strong finish.
Did not impede my rocking one bit (only because I passed on a second piece of pie. I was “takin’ one for the team” by doing so, ’cause I REALLY wanted more pie…).
It was so good, that the starfruit and mustard greens were not missed in any way.
It was so good that John Horton did not have to send any of it back.
So good that Keith happily allowed it to cross over into his pre-show “herbal hours”.
So good that Mark didn’t have to eat 600 pounds of it to be satisfied.
So good that I said “Hell YES” to pie, carb counts be damned.
‘Twas a fine ol’ time.
Definitely.
Thank you Lisa!
Brian

And this too. Swollen head material.

I must also add…
My favorite pie memory of the weekend was actually in Philadelphia.
Lisa brought a pie for The Yayhoos.
I walked into the dressing room, and there it was…
The ENCORE pie!
With the rocking and rolling completed for the evening, there was nothing to hold me back.
Myself, Roscoe, Dan Baird, John, Mark, Keith, Terry Anderson, all eating pie, as if it was a pizza.
Roscoe slicing it, and passing it around.
Dan had three pieces.
I was respectful, and let those Yayhoos have as much as they wanted, it WAS their pie.
It was such a happy scene.
A room full of rockers, eating pie.
Maybe not as enthralling as Led Zeppelin aftershow stories, but, perfectly enthralling by my standards…
Brian

BACKREADING FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE NOT VIGILANT LUNCH ENCOUNTER PATRONS
(You know who you are, pretty dang near all of yall I expect.)
DO NOT READ AHEAD WITHOUT FIRST DOING THE LEGWORK. HERE TIS.
Conversation that passed over hor d’oeuvries on the porch the afternoon of the Brox Iota gig:
Eyeing Brian, Cindy said, “My husband would look really good in that hat. Can he try it on?” Eyeing Cindy, Brian said to Jon, Cindy’s husband, ” I think I would look really good in your wife’s underwear. Can I try it on?”

Following Brian’s posts, and those of other Brox boarders, Cindy and I had an e-post-post-post mortem and she sparkled on Brian a bit. Cindy typed: Brian’s posts are so nice. It makes me like him even more. What a sweetie. I wish I had thrown my underwear at him.

I typed:  May I post this?

Cindy typed: You can post it on the board ONLY if you also say that I would not have thought to do it if he hadn’t asked to wear them!

I typed:  I will put it in context.

Cindy typed: Ok then. Just so folks know I would need a good reason to throw my underwear…

Tell you what, brother, she toyed with the idea of tossing panties onto the stage at The World Cafe Live. Had we only planned ahead a bit and stocked up on a cache of fresh, cute pairs…

NOT that we didn’t have enough fun. Keeping the level to myself, cause I will be condemned to a life of drudgery, just to even the score, should the powers that BE discover that the mercury blew through the top of my funometer.

We had as much fun as is legal at the Bloodshot BBQ, including coercing enforcers to bend rules for the three resident prima donnas. The following morning, were we haungry!!!! Reading Terminal Market, diner destination, was locked up tight on Labor Day. Our faces fell, and our appetites sighed real heavy.  Press faces to glass, silent as a tomb.

Boink. Bounced our heads on that drawing board we turned back to it so swiftly. Cheeeeeesesteaks, here we come!

Kitty corner, signs screaming in diagonal unison. EAT HERE EAT HERE EAT HERE EAT HERE EAT HERE! Pat’s? Geno’s? Pat’s? Geno’s? I got suckered by the neon. You know me, if it looks vintage, I’m in. Here to be bought, I am. That offcolor cheesesteak lumbering up the stairway to heaven should have tipped me off to the unsavory spiritual state of the place. Eeek.

O. Kay. Can you say, I’ll have mine with a side of intolerance? I could swear there was a wave of immigration from Italy, just, uh, not that long ago, in the grand scheme of things. Like a mere millisecond in the history of the world.

Warning: Reading this sign may cause all mastery of the English language to vanish from your brain. Blank. I went blank. Blinkety blink blink. Are you kidding me? Are you out of your minds? Don’t make me take you down in French!

As if we weren’t disgusted enough…  We saw red – in the sign at Pat’s King of Steaks, across the streak, and bolted for it. “We are going across the street for fries and drinks,” said Cindy, and she took off like the aggravated mother of a dawdling child. Long, strong strides. We scampered behind her and she did not reach back with a hand.

Je voudrais une steak du fromage, s’il vous plait, avec les frites de liberté. Oh, wit whiz. To put it in a univerally understandable, utterly non-English way.

We were enthralled with Pat’s “collateral”.

The wood grain cups especially tickled our fancies.

Oh, that sounds kind of suggestive, doesn’t it?
Fancy now, weren’t we?

Home again. Heidi got a souvenir, while I will have to souvien. Just below her devilucious winged minerva runs the word BLOODSHOT. Bloodshot she ain’t. Disheveled maybe, deviluciously disheveled. On the order of Record Companies We Love, by Jove, Bloodshot is Jupiter!

There, I said it, I meant it, I’m outta breath. Pant pant pant. Over and under pants! Here, there and everywhere. Over and under where? There!

A man walks into a bar with a cheese sandwich under his arm. “A pint of beer for me and the cheese sandwich,” he says to the barman.

“I’m sorry, sir,” replies the barman, “we don’t serve food in here.”

Thank you, Freya.
Freya Photo by Heidi Leech, Sandwich Photo by Dan Whipps, Styling by Moi
Mined from the file “Jokes That a Three-Year-Old Won’t Understand, But Will Laugh at Anyway”:

What is a sheep’s favorite sport?
Baaaaasketbaaaaaall, with a sandwich.

What did one wall say to the other wall?
Meet you at the corner, with a sandwich.

What did the snail say when he took a ride on a turtle?
Wheeee, with a sandwich!

Malcolm sent a tiny url our way and I thought, Awwww, how cute, a tiny url. For meeee??

Am I the last person on earth to learn about tiny urls? They are so cute and tiny, no wonder they got by me.

Five tasty burger joints worth visiting!
According to CNN.

The Triple XXX has been serving unique burgers — such as its Duane Purvis All-American. The sandwich is named after a Purdue football player who played from 1932 to 1934. “Add thick creamy peanut butter on the lower deck and you’re in for the touchdown!” says the menu.

Not to split hairs – oh, what the heck? Isn’t Triple XXX redundant?

I know I’ve really made it when I have my very own Tiny Url. Will break a split of champagne over its hull and christen it Triple SSS. That will be one Small url.

Thanks to Sorry-Birds Ellen for alerting the Lunch Encounter to this breaking news:

In Praise of the All-American Mexican Hot Dog

“THE problem with American hot dogs is that they’re American,” said Tania Murillo, standing beneath a pink and blue bunny-shaped piñata, as she rang up an order of tortillas at Alejandro’s Tortilla Factory.

“A ketchup-and-mustard hot dog is boring,” continued Ms. Murillo, a high school senior. “They’re not colorful enough. You’ve got to make them colorful, and pile on the stuff. The best hot dogs come from Sonora,” the Mexican state immediately to the south. “Everybody knows that.”

Read more here.

Everybody. Me included. Now.

Or perhaps I should say “Untoasted Poasted” cause bologna and toast do not go. Wheat + bologna = conflict 2, n’est ce pas? Fried bologna and toast perhaps. Avec moutarde jaune.

How do they text in French?
2 = tu. Oh, of course not. Bien sur non! 2 = deux
8tres = huitres = oysters
3gros = Troisgros
O, I hav a hedache. Txtng is dffclt enuff in Englsh.
Tost post.
Tostd.

HALF SOURS HAVE NEVER BEEN SO SWEET
EIGHTH ANNUAL NYC
INTERNATIONAL PICKLE DAY
Sunday, September 14, 2008

Your favorite street festival lives on!

Guss’ Pickles, the famous Lower East Side institution that announced this week that it would soon leave that neighborhood for the lower rents and enthusiastic pickle purchasers of Borough Park, Brooklyn. Read more by clicking here:

Still Tasting the Sweetness of Growing Up in Half-Sours

Thank yous to the Sublime Miss M for the reminder.

Heard the one about the maligned violist? He arrives home as his house is burning to the ground. “Yeah, quite a calamity,” says a neighbor. “The sirens brought everyone out and word traveled fast. The entire orchestra came by to lend a hand, including the conductor.” “Oh wow,” says the violist, “the conductor came to my house!?”

URGENT EDIT

This just in from My-Main-Sandwich-Man-in-NYC JAF:

Always checking in on the sandwich blog.  Here’s a darker, funnier version of the joke you posted …

A violist with the city orchestra comes home one day, only to find that his house has been completely burned to the ground.  The Fire Chief approaches him and says: “This appears to be a case of arson, and we already have suspect … it’s your Conductor!”  “Really?”, replied the violist, “The Conductor came to MY house?“In case you haven’t heard, the Bottle Rockets are the best band on the planet. They came through town over the weekend and I had the cahones to invite them to dinner. Never thought they would take me up on it. Philly on Sunday for the Bloodshot 15th Anniversary show was the destination, with DC as the pit stop beneficiary. We waylaid them on the porch Saturday afternoon, a prelude to an Iota Saturday night. Can barely bring myself to say it, so I won’t. I will whisper the word,

Atkins

. Brian Henneman, front man for the Bottle Rockets could and should be the poster child for the

Atkins

diet. Were they to feature him, I may even be able to endorse it. Not that anyone would take my word for it. At any rate, meat was a must-have, more rather than less. We love meat around this joint and were glad to oblige. On Friday I told the grill, hate to have to tell you, but you’re part of my future plans. The poor thing rarely gets out of the attic. In advance of the weekend, me and the bf foraged at the Italian Store and stoked ourselves with subs. Forgive me if I have told you twice but….The Bottle Rockets were coming to dinner! Hot and sweet (sausages)! Begs, begs, begs the retort, “That’s what she said last night!” A bit of f**die talk. Take that leg of lambie and break it down into individual muscle pieces. Mix a mash of minced parsley, lemon zest, squashed garlic, salt and pepper. Poke holes in the lambie with a sharp, narrow knife and press the mash into the holes. Let set as long as you have, in a bowl or ziploc bag in the fridge if it’s gonna be a while. Grill. Let rest. Slice. Oh, and salt it a bit as it grills. There were pies. Cooling. I must have known intuitively, but now know it definitively…blueberries need somethin’ with a tart bite beside and around ’em. Chosen punctuation? Blackberries. Made a mess, in the pan, on the plate, splat on the tablecloth, in my lap. The dough was especially tender, and especially contrary. Made a mess as well and I wrangled it. Patiently, if I do say so. Must say so, since this sort of opportunity is mighty rare. The patient part that is. You got to show the dough, ever so gently, who is boss. The guys had been watching a lot of Food Network on the motel cable and I was under threat. Starfruit and mustard greens was the order from Brian. Meet the challenge, he bellowed, or go down in shame. In tandem, in an entree, in the house. I squirmed, laughed and took a rain check. Situation mitigated with promise of pie. And not boring old starfruit and mustard greens pie, either. Alacritous Chicago Correspondent Linda had given me my marching orders: “make her a plate and take a picture.” We paused before eating and reflected on those not with us, including the lamb we were about to eat. Mark made a plate, colors of summer in a swirl, I stood on a chair and snapped. A plate for you, girlfriend. In the bank. Insurance. Parachute. Umbrella. Credit. Here when you need it. (Now the weekend is behind us, the autumn rains are steady, the electronic data has flown all over the world, and we are mid- e-post-post mortem. What Linda had to say was this: SIIIIGH. that is a rainbow on a plate. thrilled! thx. xoL She is a cool girl. And warm.) Shhhhh. Don’t tell anybody. Just between you, me and the carpenter bees on the porch, these hard-rockin’ fellas ate, ahem, dinner at 5 pm. They did not, however, start with black coffee. There is no gettin’ around the early bird special when you’ve got load-in at 6 pm. The thing about eating at 5 is, you can do it again after the show. Round two! We came in at 2 for pie (him) and meat (me). Who can not fall for a man who puts his napkin in his lap, and pins his knees so awkwardly together to balance a plate? While Martha Steward may just “step out to the restored barn”, we do not have a table to accommodate 15, so we perch, with plates on laps. Takes finesse. They way these guys swing an axe, no surprise they manage napkin, plate, fork, knife, glass, with panache. We didn’t need no stinkin’ table. If you are gonna go gaga, you gotta have girls in skirts. Skirts are good. Cindy said, “You and I cook together great and we should have a TV show.” Yes, we should. Who’s in charge here?!? Cindy’s CSA mandated cabbage slaw – another gorgeous dish I failed to immortalize via camera, although you can take a peek at it on the Dagwood below – was “painted” with beets. Very, very pretty. And delicious goes without saying. Eyeing Brian, Cindy said, “My husband would look really good in that hat. Can he try it on?” Eyeing Cindy, Brian said to Jon, Cindy’s husband, ” I think I would look really good in your wife’s underwear. Can I try it on?” Starting to think that Mark made off with that napkin.

Any reporter worth their weight in bacon grease carries a camera. I did not. (Not to the Bloodshot show on Sunday in Philly either, boo hoo. Anything I carry to a show must be something I am willing to lose. Breaks my heart that I do not have snaps of Joe, Rob and Nan from Bloodshot, nor the crazed elves who are the Yayhoos, nor the Bottle Rockets at on-stage lightning speed.) I knew I would be sorry, and I know myself well. I am sorry.




We did it ALL for the post mortem, over a Dagwood. Ha ha. Along-for-the-Ride Heidi took a mess ‘o these photos. She is real good at it. Pays attention, notices the obscure, frames up patiently, sees the good. Me, I’m not like that. Not adequately. Not yet. Too busy being excited and running at top speed towards the action.