The Lunch Encounter

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.

Just as I was warming a bit to these con-carni-struct-vore-cepts, the creatives at the advertorial round table tossed out a curve ball. Curveballs rather. Meatballs. Guiness worthy meatballs. Guargantuan meatballs to tuck into an Italian loaf the size of New Jersey, nap with marinara and christian Das Boot.

We rose to the occasion. The value of rising to the occasion, any and all, was impressed upon me by Kate McConnell. She never does otherwise. Ever, from what I can discern. Separates the men from the boys, donchaknow.

Super(b) Superbowl Sammiches

(*My all time fave Onion headline.)

Well, I have an enduring headache, but gonna talk anyway. Two regular Lunch Encounter patrons remarked recently that the joint has been quite subdued lately. Not your usual rollicking romp. Humph.

I made an ill-guided stab at a linear, coherent post (see, or rather don’t see, It’s a Wonder, February 22, 2009). Such a plodding, flat-footed downer it’s a wonder I did not hang up my sandwich-loving soul for eternity. Back to stream of consciousness. Click click click go my brain electro-nodes. Snappity snap snap. The brain band is telekinetic gits, subsonic bass, sonic booms, and mic wrecks. Ooooh, headache much better.

Back to ridiculousness. Who sez gettin’ outta yer comfort zone is good 4 ya?! Huh?! Unless of course you leave the zone in pursuit of rockin’ ‘n rollin’…kissin’ and tellin’….drivin’ and cryin’….hard breakin’ and heart achin’. We did. We drove for days and days, lots of it in a stiff rain.
On a four day Odyssey to St Louis to see my beloved Bottle Rockets, Heidi and I made our first stop in Hancock, MD at the Park-N-Dine. Park was not much of a draw considering both the desolation and the abundant pavement. Though Dine we did, cozily.
The placemats had bee pollen ads, sez Heidi. Sweet.
The spread of cell phone reception and the chicken caesar have been congruous. From metropolitan veins to micropolitan arteries to ruralipolitan capillaries. Heat seeking. Both can sense a beating heart from a 100 mile+ radius.
A wrap is not a sandwich, is it? Nah. You gotta draw the line somewheres. A wrap must be a “More”. A ha. Have pondered that classification since the unfortunate onset of wraps. Git yerself a wrap means, git yerself a little somethin to warm yer shoulders, darlin. A little sweater, a sweet cardigan, draped just so, perhaps with the top button fastened at your clavicle.
We hung tight to a wrap-free zone. Very comfy. A sandwich from a time before we had minds. Minds that did much more than play, that is. Midwestern childhood style. Ham and cheese. Cheese and ham. An eternally gleaming combination. Not brilliant, not glittering, just a nice steady glow. Settle in, let the butter moisten your winter-worn lips and turn your paper napkin translucent.

We traveled so well, give and take, William Shatner and Cake, up early and up late. The spirit of the freeway rewarded us, speaking through Heidi at the alter of the wall, the wall of vending machines. Spiral drop machines. She dropped in her coins, Reese’s in mind. Waiting, watching, slow turning, harrowing. NoooooooooooO! Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. And then, breath held, ~bewham~, once, twice, thrice. Nice!

And what good is a blog after all if it does not shout, ME, ME, ME??

On newstands now. Let’s keep our fingers crossed (for my sake please and for hardworking writers and stylists everywhere) that this zine takes hold.

That’s ri-iight. Go for serrated on the wiches. My recommendation? The handy dandy, loved by frugal cooks, won’t-bust-yer-knuckles, bang bang bang, F Dick Offset 7-Inch Bread Knife! Still an amazing bargain at pennies less than 25 buX! Goin’ gun-slingin’ kitchen style? You gotta get a Dick.

Toastove.
White enamel combo toaster, hotplate, and warming oven.
Manufacturer: Lasko Metal Products Inc.
Brand Name: Toastove.
Model Number: none on toaster
Keep this in your bedroom and you can have lunch at your fingertips while still prone. Do NOT set your pillow aflame. It will smoke and then smolder for days.

Hand appliance takes on a whole new meaning when you are a food stylist. Did you know you can cook an entire pizza or tuna melt with an electric paint stripper? Or toast tortillas with a jeweler’s torch? An electric charcoal starter wand makes the most beautiful grill or panini marks, baby. While I have never tried it I have heard one can cook a pork chop between two irons. Do you suppose the fat seeps into the steam jets? Press the collars of your dress whites and expect to be nuzzled!