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Eye Heart Pittsburgh

With my eyes: Andy Warhol.
With my ears: August Wilson.
With my tongue: Primantis.

Ardent disbelief was the typical response to “Pittsburgh is on the way to Buffalo.”

Well, it is.
Is not.
Is so.
Is not.
Is so.
Well it is. From here.

On the way enough for me. Enough to warrant a ~ screeeeech ~ hard left off the freeway and into the Strip District where Primantis is king of the sandwich. (Didya know that Jake’s in Milwaukee is on the way to Dallas?!?)


In the words of Mr. Dan Whipps, “Looking for that sandwich love?” Enter here, darlin!


The thing about Primantis, the source of it’s notoriety – in my little black book of sandwiches – is their practice of piling the sides inside. I’ve been told, and I’ve heard an account on the radio – yes indeed, I heard a sandwich being built and eaten on the radio – and I’ve been weighted with desire for years, actual years. I expected a mess. A mess of “devil’s mess” scale.


The loaves cool their heels under the counter. So prettily stacked.


She smiled all the while she whipped those wiches into wedges.
International symbol for sandwich artistry – flying fingers.


Et voila!
Uber wich.
No devil in these details, atall.


What I’d heard? Word.
Mot. Palabra. Wort. Parola.

Added July 21, 2008. See the story in the Pittsburgh Gazette about a street name change in honor of Primanti Bros. The restaurant is now on ‘Primanti Way’.

It Takes an Island



Sandwiches of the Times

Work is gangbusters. My bank account is grinning from Lincoln’s to Jackson’s ear. Lord please Grant me the time to read this story in the Times and to enter these joints in the directory. Oh, and a little sleep would be heaven.

Toast Poast XII

 


As the last thread tore free, a thought formed…maybe I should not be ripping the cover off this highly collectible toasterzine! It’s a Special Issue. Focusing on Non-Electric Toasters! The words that gave me pause were “Published This Time.” Ya know what, I don’t believe I have received an issue since. V.3, No.2 in 3 beauteous hues was delivered in ’00.

I know for a hard fact that The Toaster Museum Foundation is as vital as ever. Cyberally anyhoo. If you take a look, which you should, you may think I have been pirating Toast Poasts from this generous Charlottesville, VA outfit, but I have not, cross my heart. Once my personal collection is depleted (nevah!!) their riches could be pillaged, but nah. That’d be dull and dishonorable.

Several years ago, on a sheen of an autumn day I tenderly packed my 30 vintage toasters into the hatch and, lightfooted on the hammer, tooled to Charlottesville for a pre-arranged handoff. Now I’m down to, or up to, depending on how you look at it, 100+ tiny toasters, all 6 inches or under.

My dream for the big toasters was a breakfast/lunch spot with a toaster on every table. Custom toast all around. Done to your liking, hot and crisp. Set that dream down a while back and Cyber Lunch Encounter stepped up. You can’t see my apron, but it’s butter yellow with a sweet ruffle on the pocket. When the door swings open, I’m always glad to see you stride in.

White, wheat or rye, honey?
Buttered or dry?
Coffee in your cup, dear?
Sunny side up?

Turn Off. Turn In. Turn On.

Turn off the Turnpike.

Escape. To New Jersey? Yes. To.

The United Plates of Jersey

Excerpts from Betsy Andrews’ March 28 NY Time Escapes piece:


Exit 13: Jersey Dogs

Tommy’s Italian Sausages and Hot Dogs is hard to find, tucked away off Elizabeth Avenue, but it is worth the effort. Since 1969, the cute street stand has been the pride of three generations of Tommy Parrinellos, the latest one an enthusiastic maker of coarse pork-and-anise sausage; sweet, spicy stewed-onion chili that dresses a superlative chili dog; and a mind-boggling Jersey creation called the Italian hot dog. Deep-fried franks, onions, peppers and potatoes are stuffed into an enormous roll made from pizza dough.

“The old Italian people, when they used to play cards, they made a vegetable-and-potato sandwich because it was cheap — they were growing the vegetables in their backyard,” Mr. Parrinello explained. “Years later, someone put a hot dog on it.”

Tommy’s Italian Sausage and Hot Dogs, 900 Second Avenue, Elizabeth; (908) 351-9831.

Exit 10: Maximum Load

Harold Jaffee cut his teeth as general manager at the Carnegie Deli in Manhattan, where the sandwiches are big enough. But there’s something about New Jersey that made him want to do things bigger.

At Harold’s New York Deli, in a Holiday Inn just a kreplach’s toss from Exit 10, Mr. Jaffee serves a 26-ounce pastrami sandwich, two little triangles of bread teetering like a farce atop twin peaks of meat. The house-cured pastrami is soft, warm and mildly spiced. You can feed a carload on it, supplemented by slices of rye and half sours from the “world’s largest pickle bar.”

Titanic-size matzo balls, foot-tall layer cakes and knishes as big as a raccoon’s head: fuel up there, and you’ll make it all the way to Deepwater without putting a dent in your tank.

Harold’s New York Deli, 3050 Woodbridge Avenue, Edison; (732) 661-9100.


Exit 7: Central Jersey Diner

In Bordentown, the Mastoris diner sits fronted by a bakeshop in a parking lot filled with cars. Everyone in Central Jersey seems to eat there — some every day.

“I’ll see ya tomorrow, I’m sure,” said the waitress to the old guy beside me as I sat down at a counter full of old guys. Given a voluminous menu of massive, Mastoris-only creations, it’s no wonder Central Jersey’s retirees retire there for lunch. As they dig into their Let’s Talk Turkey sandwiches (roast breast, bacon, slaw, Russian dressing, melted Swiss), they take notes on what to order tomorrow.

“What are you having, hon?” one of the old guys asked me. I was having Mastoris’s crab bread: a crabmeat, vegetable and cream cheese concoction piled on a house-baked hero roll and slathered with melted mozzarella.

“They won’t tell you exactly what’s in it,” said a waitress, “but it’s worth every calorie and every fat gram. That’s the God’s honest truth.”

Mastoris, 144 Route 130, Bordentown; (609) 298-4650


Exit 4: Drive-In

If you have taken Exit 4 toward Philadelphia, you will pass right by Weber’s Famous Root Beer in Pennsauken, where you can gobble up an authentic New Jersey experience without even leaving your car.

Park in the lot by the sign with the bouncing orange balls and turn on your headlights for service. The gals will bring you Taylor Pork Roll sandwiches and root beer, brewed fresh every morning and available, if you like, by the gallon jugful. The drive-in’s season “runs the same as baseball,” said the owner, Michael Mascarelli, roughly March to October.

If you are there on a Sunday, you will be serenaded by a curbside Elvis impersonator. “He just shows up,” Mr. Mascarelli said. “We feed him, but he’s not on the payroll. He does it for the love of Elvis. Then again, he eats 15 hot dogs.”

Weber’s Famous Root Beer, 6019 Lexington Avenue at Route 38; (856) 662-6632

Sweetbite


“What will they think of next?” she thinks while sitting around in her skort eating ice cream cake with a spork.

English:                       Unique Crust and Sandwich Cutter

French translation:       Crust Cutter and Unique Sandwich

You don’t say.
*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*
Sweetbite is a great name and I prefer it the old-fashioned, uncomputered way. i-wise that is. There’s an adorable dessert cafe in Negril, Jamaica. Outdoor seating for 7 behind a tall green hedge – tiny, bloomlike, lights twinkling amongst the leaves. An adyllic perch for end of evening, the place to eat a little cake, then tuck your head under your wing, sigh and sleep. 

I dreamed of opening a nook of my own back home and borrowing the name.  Sweetbite. Like the back of my son’s neck when he is sleeping. 

The other handpainted marquee in Negril that struck a chord with me – Chicken Lavish. The word lavish is so velvety on the tongue, and fills my thought bubble with ermine and periwinkle kid leather.

Well, I’ll Be Dipped

“Sheep Dip” conjures up beauty parlor images for me. Thinking swanky, shiny curls amassed around a lipsticked face.

Dip is such a cute word.

Been thinking dips due to Dan and his post Dip It Good.

It’s about time Philippe’s was acknowledged at the Lunch Encounter. Genuflection.

Photo courtesy The Gingerbread Girl

Made one foray, nearly two decades behind me now, to Philippe the Original with my bike boxed and train-bound. The original home of the French Dip is across from the gorgeous Union Station in LA. If you are gonna ride, carve out an hour avant departure for a sandwich. Philippe’s held us for day one of a three-day railride.

In Milwaukee recently, I found a certified Dip. Sanctioned. By me. I followed in the meaty footsteps of hoards. At Benji’s. It’s the old Meat-N-Three, French-Dip-mathwise. Beef + Bread, Horseradish and Jeu.

Tubular Foods II

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It’s something alright!!
Just what exactly I cannot say….

What’s up with all the meat disguised as anything but meat?

A hotdog with a bit of meatsauce can be a lovely thing. Witness New York Systems in Providence, RI, hashslinging alma mater to David Byrne. They serve not only hot wieners (!) but coffeemilk too, part of the Rhode Island culinary microclimate.

Oscar III

yayhoos.png

The Yayhoos (see the oos part on my shirt to the right?) are my second favorite band. And that was before I knew about their attachment to the Wienermobile.

e-w-weinermobile_img.jpg

The wienermobile fueling up was posted and ~bing~ this image came through on my Blackberry. Synchron-oscar-icity! Eric “Roscoe” Ambel looks proud of his midwestern heritage. Uff-dah!

yayhoos-w-weiner_img.jpg

My Plimptonesque dream is to drive a series of novelty vehicles: 

•Wienermobile
•Zamboni
•Popemobile (they’ll never let me drive that)
•Staircar
•Phantom Dreamcar*

Spotted the Wienermobile parked in front of the White House about 10 years ago and strolled up to take a closer look. Heavens, what a mess! Looked like a bunch of 19-year-old guys had been riding around for weeks and weeks. Dash all strewn with sun-faded wrappers, torn maps and sticky bits. Cassettes with ribbons of tape pulled free, “Wiener Jingle” chicken-scratched on one label. 

*
More on the Phantom Dream Car (driven by my friend Doug Michels) later… True brilliance.

 

Toast Poast XI

Bewitched and Bewecked

Beautiful, exuberant and feral. A living, breathing satyr, Jim Rapp gleamed, glowed and grinned in his 20 year prime. He was and is without fear. Perhaps a bit of fear would have tempered his recklessness. Who will ever know?

He’s up in Buffalo now, under the gloomy skies, ziggety-zaggety diced-and-sliced by tip-toed electric power paraphenalia.  Jim is…Jim and not Jim. Reduced and concentrated. 

Had I not known him, I would not recognize my life as my own, although the admission price should have caused a person with their wits about them to scream “Uncle”. Jim has been to the well and back and I toted the bucket for a time, walking with one arm outstretched to prevent spills.

My sister was kind enough to go with me to Buffalo for the weekend. Man alive, did I need her company. 

Buffalo shoulda, coulda, woulda been a grander, wealthier, more highly polished city had things been managed better from the get go. Instead, it slumps a little and delapidation seems to lurk at corners. Still and all, there are miles of tidy neighborhoods, aswag with window boxes and trimmed shrubbery.

And they have BEEF ON WECK

At Schwabl’s

We had schemed with beef on weck radared.

Gentile, sturdy, a proverbial step-back, at Schwabl’s you are greeted by a front-of-the-house professional, a gentleman of a certain age in a pristine butcher-style coat. Coated and goateed, the night we were there.

At Schwable’s medium-rare means bloody. We went round and round with our waitress until we had her worked into a bit of a snit. Or a schnit. A nice, friendly schnit. 

Niceness rules in Buffalo and we were glad for it. Me in particular, as I was worn to a  frayed thread from my DC week.

Our dinner was delicious by light years beyond our expectations. And our expectations were high. We did talk during our meal, but not much. Only for pacing. 

Hurt-your-teeth-crunchy salt on top of the kimmelwecks, and caraway seeds aplenty. Never liked them as a kid. Now they taste complex and make me feel comfortably ma-ture, more finished. That stuff, the stuff that doesn’t look so pretty…deluxe stuff. Vinegary, bacony German potato salad. That ain’t no salad, nosirree. Pickled beets and itty bitty pickle straddle the salad fence. Close enough for me. Love em both.

Add horseradish galore, put your head down and get serious.
Miss Bev Nap looks lovely, does she not? Who could set a sweaty beer glass on her ruffles?

“There’s a world you’re living in No one else has your part.” N Young