The Lunch Encounter

Alright, alright, I’m swearing off blaming for Lent.

See, that was easy.

Well, what to do to replace that gap in my brain??

Oh yeah.  Rather than pointing fingers, a person is supposed to be “solution oriented.” A good person, that is. Oh. Kay. I like a puzzle. Satisfaction in solving.

Also, while we’re at it, this exercise in self-discipline and evolution, let’s increase the levels of ethical and creative expression around this joint, and ramp up the emotional self-sufficiency.

Lord, and I do mean Lord with a capital L, seeing as this is a post about Lent with a capital L, I am starved from all the naval gazing. Got quite a crick in my neck, too. Should have never lent my head down that low for that long. Particularly since we did not even loosen up with the debauchery of Mardi Gras this year. The blizzard of 2010 blew away all sense of time. Whomp, we got bombarded, and when we came to Mardi Gras had come and gone.

If you are lucky enough to be a Lenten observer and to be living in or near Pittsburgh, you can turn to your Pittsburgh Catholic’s Fish Fry Guide, a newspaper supplement that lists five pages of fish fries.

Here in northern Virginia we do not have the culture of fish fries, and I miss that from my days in Wisconsin. Equal parts fried fish, French fries and tartar sauce. Honestly, Lent need not even figure in. Or Catholicism, or even God. We bypassed all that and went straight for the crispy fried stuff that burst steam when stabbed, any Friday, all year round.

They all have fish — sandwiches or “in a dish,” mostly fried but some baked. St. Jon Vianney parish, in the neighborhood known as Hilltop near Mt. Oliver, also has shrimp, crab cakes, even pecan-encrusted tilapia. St. Therese of Lisieux in Munhall offers fish stuffed with crab meat. St. Mary’s in Cecil has a menu touting cod hand-
breaded in panko and wild-caught scallops seared in butter and olive oil — plus beer!

Read all about it here:

Smell the hot oil? Fish fry season is here.

Photo by Heather Mull, who writes,
Spring in Pittsburgh means the return of the ubiquitous Lenten fish fry. The Original Oyster House in Market Square, which will celebrate its 140th anniversary in October 2010, serves an average of 300 pounds of battered cod each Friday during Lent, and twice as much on Ash Wednesday. Mary Colbert, of Brentwood, has been kitchen manager at the Oyster House for 30 years. “It’s a madhouse,” says Colbert. “There are lines out the door and onto the sidewalk and people are jammed inside just waiting for take-out. We get here at 4 a.m. on Ash Wednesday and stay until 10 that night, and the other Fridays we here from 10 a.m. until 10 p.m.”
able Magazine, large and printed on nice-to-thumb heavy paper, is a real beauty coming out of Western Pennsylvania, a gift to me from the Sublime Miss M, who is a regular contributor.

I first read about Musso & Frank Grill in Roadfood, the 1992 edition, and, on my imaginary United States map, there has been a red pushpin on 6667 Hollywood Boulevard ever since. Last October the mighty fine boyfriend and I  stayed for a couple nights at a schwanky LA hotel, the Roosevelt, whose main draw was proximity to Musso & Frank Grill.
We made it. Not a moment too soon. Jonesin’ for a tongue sandwich will leech the stuffin’ out of ya, sooner or later.

Cordial Mr. Manuel seated me in a booth offering “visual command of the room,” and said, “I want to keep my eye on you.”He had my ego’s most basic desires nailed before my eyes had adjusted to the room’s languid dimness.

You don’t see enough Appetizer Franks or Chiffonade Salads on menus these days. And if you did, you might be leery about ordering them. Not here. Everything old is new again. Or new still, perhaps. Even spumoni. I was thrilled to rest my eyes on Smoked Tongue Sandwich 16.50. Yowza. Did not notice the price at the time, all blurry from tears of joy, was I.

I remember Consommé, Welsh Rarebit and the Side Car. I remember my mother in a sheath, spike heels and a brunette Barbie bubble-cut do, too.

A glorious tongue sandwich, as it should be, on toasted rye. No surprises, thankfully. Yes, I ate the pickle. And the parsley.
I recommend that you slide into a cool Musso & Frank booth during one of your day’s cocktail hours. We did not. The waitstaff makes no secret of the pride they take in their spirit service.

Mr. Manuel asked TMFBF to send him a copy of the snapshots.

“Do you have email?”

“No, but my dad does.”

There are many things about which I have a shortage of information and an excess of opinion. On cheesesteaks my jury is still out. Plenty of information, but still hazy in the opinion department. That’s okay, there are more than enough opinions to go around. In the age of instant online proselytizing we are bombarded with jump-to-conclusion remarks based on little or mis information. On cheesesteaks…I need to gather more experience (as in hit more cheesesteak joints), create a spreadsheet (as in put a napkin in my lap), and hone my tastes before holding forth.DC’s got JJ’s now, a new spot on the U Street corridor. My journey continued there last Saturday. Could swear I heard that they were using Amoroso’s rolls from Philadelphia, but could not verify that when I was there with Along-for-the-Ride Heidi. Excellent fries. Hot sauce for giants.Cheez Whiz. Lots of changes breaking through at 14th and U. Truly becoming a renewed city, DC is, some by accident and some by Design.

Sandwich news from MMSMINY* …

Danny Meyer’s Union Square Hospitality Group (USHG) and the Whitney are pleased to introduce Sandwiched, a new “pop-up” cafe at the Museum featuring sandwich creations from USHG’s celebrated chefs. Set to open in tandem with 2010, the Whitney Biennial, on Thursday, February 25th, Sandwiched is a temporary cafe serving visitors while the permanent dining space on the lower level of the museum is being renovated. As part of the Biennial, the Whitney commissioned Jeffrey Inaba’s architecture collective INABA and C-Lab to design the space.

*My main sandwich man in New York has my perpetual admiration and envy in his pocket. He had the brains way back when to take his talent and head for the center of the universe. Out here on a satellite, I read about the firey core and feel gravity pulling hard from the north.

Looking out to blowing, blizzarding, white-till-eternity, oh-no-snow, snomaggeddon, so-white-the-house looks grubby, SNOW, I see that the wind’s bending the icicles horizontal.

Peeling off the mental sweaters, hat, mittens, parka, boots and muffler to find a glimpse of gorgeous Wisconsin summer. Summer! Teddy and Along-for-the-Ride Heidi and I were there in August. We picked sour cherries in Door County and then made a Green Bay stop on our way back south to the Madison airport. John and Karin live in Green Bay, their welcoming door is always open, or at least unlocked, and they always know what to do and say with a boy. John likes to cook stuff.

Back from that morning’s farmer’s market, John had made, serendipitously, cherry soup. Zzzzrrrraaarrrrrzzzz, all our antennae were lifted and bent towards each others. The brainlovefood waves grasped, gained purchase, and sonared, etwined, merged, into lunch.

I don’t think the word “tablescape” has hit Green Bay yet. Perhaps that staunch and sturdy city in the crook of Wisconsin’s thumb will duck- ha, ha, you missed me! – and tablescaping will fly on by to North Dakota. Although, I sincerely doubt it will stick there either. See, the table scapes itself in places that know better than to assume pretense. Check out this 11 minute lunch we put together last August. Is it not beautiful? Was it not serendipitous? Did the clock read 10:43? A bit early for lunch. They are wild out there! Wild. And they don’t need no dang art director, catering guru, or party manager to scape it!

A sandwich script of Renard’s cheese, (they had it), nice white, firm, but not factory-firm, sliced bread (indigenous or carried in with the wayfarers? can’t remember), butter (we all had a stick in our pocketbooks),and the seasonal-only, do-not-travel-well, one-of-my-all-time-favorite-things, cherries. Wisconsin summer is the sound of a typewriter’s clacking drifting out of a window over silent, heat-glowering pavement. Wisconsin winter is the glare of sun off a snowdrift, the sound of car tires tearing into bulky clusters of snow. Nostalgia for either season is brought on in heavy waves by the smell of hot butter in a Revere Ware skillet.

The cherries were meant as a gift but, as luck would have it, they were what you call a “Judd Apatow” in the trade. In the words of Mr. Apatow’s wife, “A trip is something we do together. It is something we would do whether or not it was a present for me. You get to go, so it is for you also. That means it is not a present. It is an activity that would happen anyway.” Change the words ” a trip” to “cherries” and you get my drift. Cherries are most definitely an activity. An activity you would want to happen anyway, any way.

Holy linoleum, what a delicious combination! Before we got to the table, I wanted to shout, hit me again! Hit me with your grilled cheese and cherry stick!

Thank you, Karin and John. Got you on my mind in this Wisconsin-style blizzard. Style with substance, four white feet of it.

Of all the sandwiches in the world, the sub has, by far, the most sobriquets. Nothing like this particular shape to stir one’s imagination.

Spuckie, Grinder, Hero, Wedge, Hoagie, Torpedo, Sub.

We have been down this road before at the Lunch Encounter, with zest, while keeping our eyes to the skies for Zeppelins, as well.

My mom – a culinary historian who sticks to a lead like warm mozzarella to fat-flecked mortadella – put me on the spuckie trail. Not that I needed any pushing. Been sprinkling conversations with the word since I read it. You’d be surprised, or perhaps not, at how apropos a spuckie interjection is to daily interaction. Particularly on slow news days. And during blizzards. One can only discuss snow removal so much.

A letter to my mom from Kathleen Wall, the Colonial Foodways Culinarian for Plimoth Plantation in Plymouth, Massuchesetts:

Soooo…. I was at a museum conference at Mystic Seaport Museum, eating Indian Pudding and someone asked if anything out of the ordinary came up this week, and I mentioned spuckies. A table full of blank (yet polite) stares EXCEPT from Paulette, who is from Rhode Island. I told her I hadn’t thought of spuckies as a little Rhody thing, and she said she learned about them from her husband who is from South Boston. This is what he has to share:

“Re: spuckies

Hey, what a blast from the past! I’ve never heard anyone call them “spuckies” outside of Southie (South Boston)! I don’t really have any stories, they were just what you called those types of sandwiches. I never heard of grinders, subs or any other names for these until I went to junior high in the city. Of course most of the kids didn’t call them spuckies, but at least knew what they were. When I came to Rhode Island no one had a clue what I was talking about.

The place we got them was near the corner of L Street and Broadway. I have no idea what the name was as everyone just called it the spuckie shop. This was around the mid 60’s to early 70’s. Not sure when the place went out of business as it was a long time after I went to college before I revisited Southie. It was a big treat to go to the spuckie shop!

Steve “

BTW – I’m loving that I can work the word ‘spuckie’ into my daily conversation. (See, I am not the only one.)

Kathleen

Got a teensy bit sidetracked by the Zeppelin.

Men Will Like This Sandwich
June 4, 1959, Idaho State Journal

A sandwich inspired by the Graf Zeppelin has won recognition for a Norristown, Pa., restaurant man, Joseph Barone.

His hearty concoction vied against over 800 entries in the National Sandwich Idea Contest to place among the 20 Best Sandwiches of 1959.

Three variations of the “Zep Sanndwich” are featured on the menu of Barone’s Gate Canteen in Norristown. The original large “Zep” with its filling of salami, cheese, onion and tomato is served on a 10-inch loaf of hearth-baked Italian bread.

In Barone’s words, “It’s large enough to satisfy the entire family, or party guests.”

He sells half-sizes of the large “Zeps” to hungry construction workers and employees of two textile plants near his restaurant. The small “Zep on a Bun” proves popular with feminine customers.

Snap!

When did we start saying working “from” home and why? I work “at” home. Is it to differentiate between actual housework and actual billable-hour work?

As I was saying, my assistant is generous, thoughtful, hilarious AND, she makes lunch. A lunch that will grease your lips and make you squeal. Alls I hafta do is say,  “Make me us a sandwich, wouldya?” Oh my, I could get used to this.

Being the youngest, I never had a brother or sister to order about. From what I hear, bad siblingship in your youth can bite you back or, at the very least, be punctured, popped, burst, when age levels us all into adults. Barbara knows. I heard the story. Her younger brother, now an adult for countless years,  confessed, with great pleasure, that when 12-year-old Barb commanded, “PEEL ME A CARROT”, he did. Alone in the kitchen, he stuffed all the pieces in his mouth, swished them around, then passed them on to his dear, darling sister. She ate them while he smirked.

There is nothing that makes me quite as happy as having an assistant. Better than a little brother any day.

My sister Mara sent me sleuthing on a chipped chopped. I am intrigued.

Her informant, Ginger, provided these details:

• A restaurant (or was it a grocery?) invented chipped chopped.
• Super-thin-cut spicy ham meant as a sandwich filling. Cut so thin that it’s practically transparent
• Normally sold plain (no barbeque sauce).
• Available everywhere now in Pittsburgh, like in grocery stores and delis – and church lunches.
• Cheese and lettuce optional

A bit of sniffing around turned up this claim:

• Isaly’s invented the chipped chopped. (Inventor stories almost always seem apocryphal to me, but you never know.)

All info still in raw form. No agent sources or facts have been checked. MUST go out into the field for confirmation.

What to look for in the wild:

The Hot Brown entices me too. For that I have plans. The dashboard crystal ball shows the Brown Hotel in my near future. Sandwich Safari to Louisville. Gonna put that wich on my life list.

How did I live so long without a cleaver? More versatile than a Swiss army knife, more thrilling than a pocket fisherman. Whoop, zoop, swish ~~~ bread sliced, meat and cheese slivered, mustard smeared ~~~ smoosh, saw, sandwich!

My generous, thoughtful, hilarious assistant gave me this bad, bad tool for Christmas, and I can’t put it down. Get back!

I was hap-hap-happy with this slicing, dicing, chopping, whopping, cutting machine and then she said, “I didn’t just get you a dangerous Christmas gift (cleaver).” There was more. Hotcha! Was it a toque-tiara? Boss-of-the-year certificate? Nope and nope. Buttons and buckle (ho hum, I know, but not to me).

At any rate – a rate beyond the speed of light mayonnaise with this cleaver in my clutch – I am reborn. Kitchen crêche. The thing really does spread mustard like nobody’s bizness.

Happily glowing like a newly forged blade, I told my assistant about my cleaver crush and she grinned, “My father used to dip his 15-inch french knife into the mustard jar. That used to really piss my mother off.”

Has she got that knife? “Yep, I have the knife and it is a monster.” See exhibit ONION above.

Super-stringer Seemeenowich stopped by The Lunch Encounter today with these under her arm.

So glad leisure time was invented. Were we all still slaving away twenty-four-seven we’d have no time for mini-golf, bubble drinks, mani/pedis or Tom.

If you, like me, cannot get enough of this stuff, turn to SELLECK WATERFALL SANDWICH.