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Found a photo of the actual CDLPB from the fest.
Attached.
JAF

This just in from YMSMINY … JAF (Your Main Sandwich Man in NY, JAF)

Looking forward to sweating down in Nawlins at the end of next month, and to eating Cochon de Lait Po’ Boys at the Fest. Dinner reservations this year include
K-Paul’s, Brigtsen’s, August, and Cochon.

JAF

Mailbox coincidink…Bon Apetit jumped outta the box today and fell open to…

Not going to Jazz Fest, for the 6th year in a row, or is it 7 now, is killing me. K.I.L.L.I.N.G. M.E. Not going to Cochon is a further slap in the face. Such disrespect. What is this world coming to, I ask you?? Disrespecting the conceptually dead.

When Teddy was two, still stoller-bound, my agenda was his agenda, we took a long weekend to Jazzfest. And to a plethora of restaurants all around town, day and night, each one noisier than the next (I did the itinerary based on decibels). He was a trooper. Uglesich’s, Casemento’s, Cafe du Monde and The Camellia Grill are all deep in his collective unconscious. Closer to the surface in mine, riding the waves gloriously.
At the time Teddy had an odd habit of licking his shirt sleeve. Lick, lick, lick, lick, until a wetspot formed. The sort of peculiar quirk you pray your child will quit before college. The sort of peculiar quirk that ~ poof ~ suddenly is over. And you miss it.

Each day he and I would leave the fest a little earlier than the rest of our clan and take a long, long walk, strollering along greeting anyone we met, him snoozing, me sauntering. Those fest days were ~ HOT ~ and as we trundled through the exit turnstile one afternoon the attendant chortled, “He so thirsty, he lickin’ hisself.” Hah! Heavens he was a cute and quirky baby.

The World’s Most Perfect Food

Assuming you want to actually call this food. Okay, go ahead. Knock yer bacon-soaked socks off! Consider your credibility destroyed.
Yuppers!
Okey doke, now back to emptying the kitchen drawers, inserting them in their slots upside-down, carefully sliding in the contents and closing the drawers. WATCH OUT! The clock sez it’s still April 1st!

THE BREAD ART PROJECT

Beth and Rachel seem to share a joint breadcrust halo. Rising, rising, rising up to heaven. A heaven made of tender, finely-crumbed BREAD!

Blithe She-Does-Her-Best-to-Suit-Herself Correspondent Cynthia brought this to the attention of the Lunch Encounter news desk. Extra! Extra! Bork all about it! I do not want to go to there.

The McSurf N’ Turf

Adding sagely, Not sure if this will cheer you or totally gross you out.

I think the whole general idea of “suft n’ turf” is pretty hilarious. Who is the genius who started selling surf n’ turf? Where did it originate? Call your mom, she’s a food historian, right? I want to know.

(I find it challenging to imagine any of the parts of this sandwich emerging from turf or surf. Spontaneous regeneration on a factory floor seems more plausible.)

On the right day, I could kinda go for the Scotch Egg on a Stick. Much of the rest is just gross, sez Cynthia. Scotch Eggs on a Stick sounds like the Edinburg County Fair to me. Collops on a Stick, Rumbledethumps on a Stick, Fuarag on a Stick. Wash it all down with a yard ‘o beer.

You can see more delightful foods here at THIS IS WHY YOU ARE FAT.COM.

My imagination is thinking, “Would you like to downsize that??” As in, a Terre et Mer of Lambchop and Sardine. On a sliver of sourdough. Gotta work on that. The local fishmonger, aka Whole-in-My-Wallet Foods, brings in sardines on weekends. I asked them to set one aside for me. Just one. Bring yer own bag. 5¢ off.

The Best Roast-Beef Sandwich on Earth

Bound by the thoroughfare of New York Avenue, NE and by loping-along Florida Avenue, DC’s wholesale Capital City Market is a mishmash of meat wholesalers, bulk souvenir joints, remnants of the bustling produce market it once was, a cute-as-a-button former Little Tavern turned Subway (how sad),
and A. Litteri’s on Morse Street, parallel to Florida, more or less, and one short block north.

I left a piece of my heart on Morse Street. Worked there as the chef for a catering company in a former wholesale meatmarket – talk about a MAN-SIZE walk-in – around 1984. The market hood is still on the dicey side. In the 80’s it was rougher and harder scrabble – traveling by bicycle to and from I skirted potholes big enough to swallow Rhode Island and wolf whistles strong enough to blow you down.

Our business shared the space with a small pastry company, an acrimonious arrangement, the two owners in a headlock over god knows what, dividing the employees into rigid, silent-treatment camps. The radio played on our end of the room while soap operas hummed out of their flour-dusted television. Occasionally a volume war would swell. Swear to St. Dobosh there was a red line painted down the center of the room.

Spiritual renewal relied on tripping two doors down daily to Litteri’s for something essential. Switzerland beckoned at A Litteri’s. A person could breath there, huffing prosciutto perfume. One purchase at a time to ensure a visit du jour. Olive oil, provolone, loose sausage… I lingered, counting my change carefully.That was not the best stretch of my life, typical tangled, late 20’s life, not quite there yet, illegible map, and Litteri’s provided a vivid landmark. Vivid and stable. The store had aged to a constant state, perfectly patinaed.

I got through it. Not quite none the worse for wear, although close, and, BIG and, the memory of Litteri’s left a lingering good taste in my mouth.
Teddy and I stopped into Litteri’s yesterday, a good intention finally fulfilled, making the dog leg through the tall, compactly stacked wooden shelving to the deli counter in the back right. The stacks of my urban education.Warmly flirtatious, young and old alike, accommodating, working the slicer at an easy pace, the guys behind the counter used to chat with me while I waited. Although I did not recognize a face in the place now, 25 years later, the mien (Assuming a store can have a mien. I think it can.) has not changed.

“Whaddya say?”, said the counter man to my son, leaning over the top of the case. “Have you got a bathroom?” said Teddy. “Sure thing,” said the man, leading him to the back, passing under a plethora of signs, prefab and handscrawled, loud and clear, NO PUBLIC RESTROOMS DO NOT ASK.

While we waited for our meatball sub, 4 inches on a soft roll, for him, and a classic Italian, 9 inches on a hard roll (it is not a proper sub if the bread is not hard enough to cut you) for me, Teddy wandered around and took pictures. The free floating green olives with holes fascinated him. “Mom look, they are pitted, you could get some.”

When I was a market denizon my shop compatriots did not share my affinity for vinaigrette soaked subs at lunchtime. Tall, drawling Buddy from Newport in southeastern Virginia was in my care during the workday. A near indentured servant, he lived with my boss, the owner, a southeastern Virginia native as well, who perhaps paid Buddy and perhaps did not.

Sweet as sweet tea, and about as unhurried as the steeping of sun tea, Buddy drank coke, coke with sugar. Coke with added sugar that is, not “Passover coke“, as the stuff straight out of the can was not sweet enough for him. The sound of a stainless steel teaspoon tap tap tapping on the sides of a tall metal mixing cup, the sort used for mixing cocktails, told my ears where Buddy was, stir stir stirring his Coke before each sip, keeping the sugar suspended.

Reduced to eating in the car – cold day, not a bench or tree in sight – my son had the wherewithall to fasten his seat belt before unwrapping his mighty, mighty meatball sub. That thing was turbo charged and could knock a person sky high! Sauce and cheese galore!

She did, that’s what Betsy Andrews said in her story about two Manhattan shops preparing “carefully made sandwiches” described variously as “baroque combos”, “magnificently filling”, “tiny but mighty, with worldly panache”, and “the sandwich equivalent of cargo ships.”

Within Six Blocks, Worlds Apart

By BETSY ANDREWS
Published: March 18, 2009

NANCY AND AZIZ LAMAZOU hail from Lebanon and Tunisia. During Mr. Lamazou’s years as a diplomat, they ate their way across the globe. They’re purveyors of fine European packaged goods. They cave continental cheeses beneath a New York City sidewalk. They sell carefully made sandwiches.

Nicky Defonte, born and raised in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, is the kind of guy who says “New York” and means Manhattan, as in: “Brooklyn is a great spot, don’t get me wrong, but New York is where you get the recognition. And I always wanted to come to New York.” He buys his bread from “Joe in Coney Island.” He, too, sells carefully made sandwiches.

Their shops, Lamazou 370 Third Avenue (27th Street), (212) 532-2009, lamazoucheese.com, and Defonte’s of Brooklyn 261 Third Avenue (21st Street), (212) 614-1500, defontesofbrooklyn.com, are six blocks from each other, but they’re worlds apart.

Read on.

Thank for the tip,When-I-Grow-Up-I-Wanna-Be-You, Ellen.

My sister went to Denmark and I didn’t even get a souvenir Viking helmet! Perhaps I need to ask her to knit me one for Christmas. She did however, eat some sandwiches and bring me a vicarious lunch.

A few weeks ago in Aalborg, northern Denmark, my old friend Jesper and I met up with his daughter Zola at the centuries-old wine cellar Duus.
One beer later we headed down the street for lunch at Mette Vons’ sandwich shop, located in yet another ancient house. As it turned out, this was our lucky day: Mette Vons was running a two-for-one special.I decided to take a break from my eat-your-weight-in-cheese travel diet and chose something with chicken, avocado and veggies. I don’t remember what Jesper ordered, but model-thin Zola managed to down two huge sandwiches and then a brownie. Actually Zola, who’s still in school, does occasionally work as a model, in a lingerie shop that was visible through the eatery’s upstairs windows.

Tak!

This just in from Mimi “Livin La Vida Unemploya” H:

Parisi Bakery
Cafe Duke
SCANWICHES (I can’t shout it LOUD enough! Take a LOOOOOOK!!)

Mindbending to think what technology can do for you. I dare any quasi-Luddite worth her weight in hand-sliced corned beef to look away. No peeking.