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The season for brown food and brown beverages is upon us. I can hear the ice clinking in my glass already.

The Divine Miss M loop de looped me on this:

The Brown Hotel Invites Louisville to Participate in 85th Anniversary Celebration

From 85 Cents to $85, a Taste of The Brown is Within Reach for All

LOUISVILLE, Ky. (Sept. 24, 2008) – – – In 1923, the price of gas hovered around 25 cents a gallon, Time Magazine hit newsstands for the first time and Zev was the winner of the 48th Kentucky Derby. In October of that year, history was made in Louisville when The Brown Hotel opened its doors to the public for the first time. Famous throughout the world for its grandiose beauty and its signature Hot Brown dish, The Brown is as celebrated today as it was 85 years ago. To mark this milestone, The Brown is offering a full schedule of special packages and dining events from Wednesday, Oct. 22 through Friday, Oct. 24! For information or reservations, call 502-583-1234.

The English Grill will partner with several local distilleries such as Craig Beam from Heaven Hill, Harlen Wheatley from Buffalo Trace (If you go to this site a buffalo will roar at you. Do buffaloes roar?), Bill Samuels from Maker’s Mark, Jim Rutledge from Four Roses and Jimmy Russell from Wild Turkey to present a spirited five-course dinner prepared by the hotel’s executive chef Laurent Géroli.

The Brown Hotel, located at Fourth and Broadway, has been a Louisville tradition for 85 years. It is home to the four-diamond English Grill and the casual venue, J. Graham’s Café where guests can try the legendary sandwich called “The Hot Brown.” The Brown Hotel is also a member of the Preferred Hotels and Resorts and Historic Hotels of America. For more information on this luxury hotel or a recipe of “The Hot Brown,” visit The Brown’s website at http://www.brownhotel.com or call 502-583-1234.

Last week I made my first visit to St Louis and wanted to make the most of my 40 hours there. Take away sleeping left 24 hours to fill. Round the clock sandwiches.
Planning ahead a bit I turned to my reliable source, the Bottle Rockets message board. They are a St Louis band, you know, and a sandwich thread on the board sparked this cyber lunch encounter. St Louis Bottle Rockets fans would have the goods on Missouri wiches.

With you being such a sandwich aficionada, I think you owe it to yourself to try one of St. Louis’ famous fried brain sandwiches. Used to be several places in South city that served em, but not sure how many there are now. One place I know of that still has them is Ferguson’s Pub.
cur dog

I had a brain sandwich one time. I was drunk. Got it at a bar called “Pat’s”, right across Highway 40 from the zoo. I don’t remember it having much flavor, other than what was on top of it, onions and mayo. Remember it having the same consistency of a McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish. It neither repulsed, or, aroused me. It’s sort of like a St. Paul sandwich, with less flavor.
Brian

Gotta get you some? Ferguson’s got em! Ferguson’s kept hours that worked with the smidgen of time I had to nab a fried brain sandwich. After ordering, a bit of tourist paranoia washed over me as the minutes chugged by in slo-mo. Three Bud Lites later the plastic plates circled on their bottom rims – wa waa waaa – on the table and settled. They split it for us, pile ‘o pickles a piece. Nice. Chewed several bites thoughtfully, then wolfed it and bolted. The next meal was at our heels.

When I used to work near downtown STL, I made a lunch excursion down to Carondelet in far South City to get a brain sandwich. I didn’t get my sandwich, but I did get to hear the waitress say “we’re all outta brains today” with a straight face. Can’t remember what the place was called, though. I’ve still never tried a brain sandwich, but I did have a brain taco several years ago in De Kalb, IL.
decent e

I know this picture is horribly dark but I was handicapped. Did not want to use a flash in a dark, neighborhood bar on a packed Friday night. Nor did I want to take my plate and stroll outside to the pavement where there was still some daylight. Be right ba-a-a-ck.

Further investigation will take you here:

Scott Simon discusses how”…residents of one town in Indiana continue to eat a local delicacy, the fried brain sandwich” in spite of current health concerns. (Psssst, mad cow disease.)

Those who know me, and many who don’t, have probably been unfortunate enough to be bludgeoned with my rant on brains and other offal. The rant goes, if you need me for food, please don’t eat just the parts that our American mores say aren’t icky. Please don’t eat my tenderloin and toss away my liver.

Please don’t bury me down in that cold cold ground
I’d rather have ’em cut me up and pass me all around
Randy Newman

Use my ears for sausage, my bones for nice hot soup
All the tough and chewy parts cook slow and low for stew
Fry my brains for sandwiches, with beer to wash em down
BBQ or smoke the stuff that folks don’t eat uptown.

If anyone gets up close and personal to my brain I would like the lights to be dimmed, corner bar style. A tall cold one on a cardboard coaster, too please, and make it the third round by the time you get to inspecting my brain. It’s madness in there, alright.

Who needs to blog?
I’ll just let my friends do the thinking and typing. What the heck? I did all the legwork anyway. Now I can coast, eat a few sandwiches…

This just in from my main sandwich man in NYC, JAF:

Hey Lisa,

JAF

And why did the chewing gum cross the road? Cause it was stuck to the cingale’s foot!

From that tall, handsome sandwich man in Ohio:

In Columbus, those who seek sandwich nirvana may find their enlightenment at Katzinger’s Delicatessen in ye olde German Village, right at the edge of downtown.

Consistently rated the best sandwich shop in the city, it does not disappoint. Entering the establishment, one is greeted by a vast array of accoutrements. Cases full of fish salads made from scratch, various pastas of all varieties, none-more-kosher meats, salamis from destinations far and wide (and the taste is worth the carbon footprint), cheeses to enchant the patate. But that is not all. Oh no. That is not all.

There is also… the sandwich menu. Can one have too much of a good thing? Is such a thing possible? To enjoy every sandwich here would take you a month. A well-fed month.


Where to begin? Well, in this political season of treachery, one’s heart may long for a reminder of a simpler, more prosperous time. In 1994, then-president Bill Clinton entered this fabled room… and designed his own sandwich. #59 on the Menu = President Bill’s Day At the Deli.

A very simple yet elegant ‘wich with all the elements in place. Corned beef, a generous but not too-ample serving. Swiss cheese, in a similar fashion. Spicy mustard. Just the right spice. On pumpernickle (edited). Of course. Digging in, all is right with the world. Ever so briefly.

Coffee, tea or Suuuuperrrrr Daaaaawwwwg???? I’ll take the dawg, thankyouverymuch. Midway airport is anything but. It is not mid anything, it is in the dawg-loving heart of Chicago.

Saw the box on the marquee. Please, please, please pack my dawg in a cute box, I chanted in my heart.

And the reveal.

With Sarah Palin sharing a podium with Amy Poehler, and my dad’s Cadillac sprouting  yellow-dog dem bumper stickers, politics are on my mind. I’m lazy about politics and leave it to my family to follow closely. They will and they do. Baaaa, I follow along. Don’t tell anybody. This year I’m a bit gripped by the suspense. Solid As Barack? Could it be true?

When I was a kid, a real little kid, free all day every day, we lived in Appleton, Wisconsin, about 100 miles north of Madison, the capital. Twice a week my mother drove down there in her red VW bug, to “headquarters”, a storefront office, smelling of typewriter ribbon and filled with bustling, rumpled Democrats. Since I was free and all, and loved to type, I got to go along. Once a man gave me a rabbit. Mostly I typed and pulled stuck keys apart.

My mother was vice-chair of the party. Don’t know when exactly, or for how long, but I do know she was a delegate in ’64 cause the family went to the convention in Atlantic City. As an important person she needed to be at headquarters. And we needed to go out (out!) to lunch. At home we ate lunch at home. Strictly.

Across the street from headquarters was a restaurant with a name I would love to use on an establishment of my own (and pretend I made it up). The Soupçon. Spelled like that. Course it could be Soup’s On in plain old American English. What they had, well, what they had was so perfect. A plain cafeteria line with very few choices. Like, you know, from the olden days. Sandwiches. Sold by the half. By the half! And then soup. That’s all. Half a sandwich and soup. Ideal for a child. Or a former child.

Daily specials, all made up, not wrapped, half sandwiches, triangular. Broth and cream soups. Nice solid, old-fashioned fair. The scent fell centrally on the continuum between home kitchen and canned goods. The exotic world of dining out. Two politicos, taller and not so tall.

Driving home after dark my mother snapped gum to stay awake. I stood on the floor behind the driver’s seat, rubbing her shoulders, inhaling the plastic VW smell.

Just heard from Dry-Witted Correspondent John in Green Bay (a Madisonian by birth). Our mothers knew each other through politics way back when.

I’ve got talk soup on the brain. He’s got soup on the brain. Sorta soup – Booyah, a Green Bay thing.

I just bought $15.00 worth of Booyah (1/2 gallon) at the high school. It is a fund raiser for the dance team. Booyah is a Green Bay original. It is a chicken vegetable soup or stew cooked in big caudrons outside over a wood or gas fire. It has been around forever and is probably Belgian in origin but I am not certain. There are different secret recipes all over town so sometimes the organization selling it will call theirs “Herman’s Booyah” or “Larry’s Recipe Booyah”.This booyah was generic but very good. Even Karin ate it and raved about it. I like it when the soup does not have skin, bones or feathers in it.

Rubbing my temples over Booyah last night, trying to get a mental handle on my recollections, and sent this response:

I think soup without skin, bones or feathers is a good thing too, although I am willing to suffer through small bits of skin if the soup is cooked over live fire. Booyah must come from bouillir, like in bouillabaise, from “to boil”, doncha think? Belgian or French or French Canadian I would venture.

Although I may sit corrected. Yannick Bauthière of Gembloux, Belgium, has this to say about it:

In history, Walloons spoke Walloon. Only the most educated people (counts, dukes, scholars, monks, etc.) spoke French as a second language. Our people started to learn French when Belgium was created, in 1830. And even then, Walloon remained our main language until World War II. My grand father spoke Walloon much better than French. So, most settlers coming from Wallonia hardly spoke much French. That’s why, in my humble opinion, “booyah” doesn’t come from French “bouillon” or “bouillir” but from Walloon “bouyon” or “bouyu”. But that’s just my opinion !!!!

As the days get shorter and cooler, moving towards the solstice in December, the election will pass, the talk soup will wane, and the steam rising over our bowls will wax. I do like a soup and sandwich supper, with the shades up and the kitchen windows damp against the black night.

Need I say more?

A Few Tips on Tasty Tomato Sandwiches By cookbook author, editor and gardener Miriam Rubin

Boneville

Tiptoed down early on a Sunday morning. Brewed a cup, grabbed the radio and newspaper, snuck toward the screen porch. “M-o-m-m-m, can we have quiche?” Quiche?!? Oh drat-a-tat-tat, he was up, lurking, ready to pounce with his breakfast order. Quiche?!?

Quiche we had. Handmade dough and all. He picked around the crust. Kids will break your over-achieving heart. Perhaps, perhaps, he is absorbing my efforts, my willingness to rise to an occasion, to seize upon a tasty opportunity, to pursue and ensnare – to the best of my abilities – anything fun. Those things within my grasp. A loose grasp, that is. Not trying to strongarm this life of ours.

What I had in mind was more along the lines of a blank sandwich. You know, blank lines. Imaginary. Or, if your imagination gets carried away, loses its mind, a do-it-yourself sandwich. I know he is capable.

Twice there has been a clarifying, and eye-opening demonstration. Eye-peeling demonstration number one followed the “That’s fine. You can eat yogurt for dinner for the rest of your life, as far as I am concerned.” He rose to the occasion. Levitated to the kitchen in a I’ll-show-you huff and fixed himself a …. sandwich. Hot ‘n all.

Second eye-opening, and heart-heating, demonstration followed the “Oh, I’m hungry and I’m too pooped to make myself anything.” It was late-ish and I would have staggered off to bed not too long thereafter with breakfast on my mind. “I’ll make you something, mom.” What?! WHAT?! WHAT?! He did. Fixed me a sandwich. A hot sandwich.

Perhaps, perhaps, before too long, I will be able to leave work in anticipation of a dinner-smelling house. I can’t really remember that. Forgot about such a thing, in fact, till I heard mention of it in a radio story. Coming home to a delicious dinner. How essential, how elusive.

I’ll take a sandwich. It need not be hot. With soup.

Photo by Robbie McClaran
Bon Apetit’s Hot 10 Sandwich Shops

Including the All-Star Sandwich Bar in Cambridge, MA, owned by an old friend Chris Schlesinger, who I believe has his hat and coat on and is headed for the door. Although I could be wrong about that. Hearsay. Chris’ Sandwich Hall of Fame honors these mega-wiches:

Editor’s note: The MEAT sandwich hall of fame. Not that I have a problem with meat. Heavens no. What in the name of heaven is a Rachel?