The Lunch Encounter

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?

From Itinerant Toronto Correspondent Nick:

There are few sandwiches that inspire me to engage in a negotiation with time and space involving a 200 km inter-provincial drive, followed by an inescapable lengthy wait in a queue before finally coming into physical contact with the object of desire.  The smoked meat sandwiches at Schwartz’s Deli in Montreal, Quebec inspire such loyalty and devotion.  I speak as someone who has not only negotiated this relationship on numerous occasions, but who has also encouraged others to do the same on their own volition.

The Schwartz smoked meat sandwich seems to be basic on first sight: a heaping stack of sliced smoked meat barely contained between two pieces of rye bread that are lathered with plain yellow mustard. But the sandwich’s humble appearance is as deceptive as the deli that houses it.  Take a closer look and one will notice the fine distinctions that make this sandwich the crucial centerpiece of a larger dining experience.

When ordering a sandwich, diners have the option of three cuts of smoked meat: lean, regular, and fat.  True gourmands know that there really is no choice – the fat cut offers generous portions of gelatinous trimmings that explode on contact with your canines, offering the unique Schwartz flavor that mixes the saltiness of its herbs and spices with the smokiness of the meat juices.  The regular and lean cuts progressively subtract this layer of flavor from the meat, leaving a denser though somewhat drier texture to chew on.  Though there are clear health advantages to these latter cuts with respect to the clogging of one’s arteries, the reduction of the full impact of the taste explosion that is associated with the fat cut negates any of those hygienic concerns. (For the truly brave, there is an “extra-fat” cut that is off the menu but can be ordered. It is a natural extension of its fraternal cut, and the taste is literally heart-stopping.)

The crust of the rye bread gives shape to the sandwich, which is as big as the palm of one’s hand.  The sandwich comes served bisected in two, and it is clear that the sweet spot lies in the mid-section of each half, where the meat glistens brightest in its thick juiciness.  Biting into that sweet spot is a sacred event, usually delayed by connoisseurs in time for the moment juste when there are no more edges to nibble.  After the teeth sink into the smoked meat, the mouth chews for several cycles to break down the flesh before letting out a pleasurable and affirmative sigh of contentment just as the precious pepper-corned juices of the meat infiltrate the taste glands.  This sigh is echoed throughout the deli at different intervals by complete strangers who are forced to sit next to each other as they ultimately unite in a chorus of approval for this shared experience.

A Schwartz smoked meat sandwich is typically complemented with a big sour pickle, French fries, and a carbonated drink (Coke and Black Cherry Cott are stocked in abundance).  It is a fine meal at any time of the day, and one that is totally unique. I’ve eaten at other establishments that claim to offer smoked meat (or even worse, Montreal Smoked Meat) and I’ve been consistently disappointed at the pastrami and corned beef that ends up on my plate.  If I want smoked meat, I go to Schwartz’s.  Anything else just doesn’t make the (fat) cut.  

Schwartz’s Hebrew Delicatessen: The Story
By Bill Brownstein

“When you’re in Montreal, you must go to Schwartz’s”–New York Times

“The best place in the Milky Way to sample smoked meat sandwiches!”–Time Magazine

“A Beef on Rye to Freeze to Death for”–Financial Times of London

Patron Saint of Sandwiches*, he is.

Warren Zevon is not quite six degrees away, more like five. I can imagine him in my living room, enjoying a something or ruther.

The Late Show With David Letterman
Don’t miss The Late Show with David Letterman on CBS tonight, Friday, September 5 at 11:30 pm ET/PT when Dave welcomes Steve Earle as his featured musical guest. On this broadcast Steve will pay tribute to Warren Zevon with a performance of “Reconsider Me”, a song by the musical legend, who passed away almost exactly five years ago to the day.

Yesterday is history.
Tomorrow is a mystery.
Today is a gift.
That’s why it’s called the PRESENT.

Forgive me Warren, for I have cliched.

*Enjoy Every Sandwich: Songs of Warren Zevon is a tribute released in 2004 to the late Warren Zevon.

The album’s title comes from an interview Zevon did on The Late Show with David Letterman following Zevon’s having been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Letterman asked Zevon if there was anything he understood now, facing his own mortality, that he didn’t before. Zevon replied, “Just how much you’re supposed to enjoy every sandwich.”

(Forgive me readers for I have borrowed from an unconfirmed source.)

This just in from Dry-Witted Correspondent John in Green Bay:

(Dry wit is one thing, dry cilantro, ick. I don’t think any self-respecting cowpoke would touch cilantro dry or otherwise. Don’t cowpokes roam? Wouldn’t cilantro be for an agrarian?)

Cowpoke Sandwich
1 large onion, sliced thick
Dried cilantro
Dried oregano
Water
Vinegar
Bread
Butter

Put onion slices in a bowl. Coat with spices and then cover with water and vinegar mixture. Refrigerate for 8 to 10 hours. Place onion slices between pieces of buttered bread.

Probably the onion would wilt. I take that back. The onion would wilt. And the herbs would plump. The juice would soak into the bread (so it don’t drip on yer saddle). I could eat one. Or two. Particularly with horse in smell-o-rama.

 
First you take an onion. Add bread and butter. If that looks like a sandwich to you, you must be wearin’ spurs. And chaps.

Want to know why half sours have never been so sweet?!
With valet bike parking no less. (Get yer hands OFF my bike!)

The pickle people want to know, just what IS your relationship to the pickling industry? The statutes of sandwich set industry standards for pickle appropriate accompaniment. My relationship is driven purely by instinct. There is Twangfest and there is Twang fest. Forever the two shall/should meet. Put them together and get me in a pickle. Pickled. Then please, I beg you, put me in a jar with a tight-fitting lid.

Giving your heart away is good. No matter how big it is and how much you give, or for how little, you get to keep it, too. Hold tight to your presence of mind. Only then can you have your heart and give it away too.

I put my whole heart into everything with you, but what you’re doing next, I do not have a clue.
The Bottle Rockets, “Mountain to Climb”

(More very, very hip shots here from Bob at Undertow.)

The Bottle Rockets have recorded a new record (!) in Brooklyn with Eric “Roscoe” Ambel, producing and “enabling the Bottle Rockets in their pursuit of the rock and roll.”

Here are lots of pictures of the Bottle Rockets in Brooklyn ostensibly absorbed in the creating of a new record (a new record!), but more likely thinking, “What’s for lunch?” Lunch is paramount. It’s why I work all morning. Am I alone in that?

In case you don’t know, I have Bottle Rockets Fever, with the mercury bursting out of the top of the thermometer. The cure, I imagine, is far worse than the disease. The Bottle Rockets, at least some of them, have Bacon Fever, for which there is no cure. An elixir was developed but it did very poorly at the pharmacy. Who in their right mind would want to recover from Bacon Fever?

Bacon is a sandwich cornerstone and Brooklyn does right by a sandwich. I asked Brian Henneman what they had to eat while in the studio for a week.

Me: What I want to know is…. Did yall encounter any noteworthy sandwiches while in NY?

Brian: The Torta El Diablo, from the Buffalo Cantina was a recurring favorite. Found a gourmet Cuban Sandwich by Mark Spencer’s place. Had that more than once. Anything from the Hope Deli, with “fancy lettuce” was quite popular too. The Polish girls made a nice sandwich-ah…

Me: Good to know you were properly sustained.

Brian: I sustained 10 pounds of extra weight, from all the friggin’ excellent sandwiches.

Me: That’s whatcha call “eating your sandwich and having it too.”

While I’m thinking about giving it away and keeping it too, my mind wends to DOGS.

I can’t love you enough. You soak up all of my stuff.
You’re just a sponge to my mush. I can’t love you enough.
“It’s The Way You Smell”

From my mouth to my dog’s ear. The more you give to them, the more you get. Too much sometimes. It will take you over, overwhelm your heart.

The thing about a dog is, the thing, the thing is, you can love them as much as you want, pour it on thick like refrigerated Aunt Jemima. All that love, it will not overflow into the gutter and stream down past your neighbor’s place. The dog will absorb it. And your heart aches pleasurably as it turns dog-nectar into love-syrup.

I cook for my dog now. If I don’t, she won’t eat, and I can’t bear it. She does like a sandwich – linear, rather than vertical. First some toast, then some chicken. Condiments are beneath her. She is not supposed to have butter, but at 105 what’s the harm in a little butter? Nicely melting into the crumb.

Fifteen and then some is old for a dog, judging from my vast knowledge of these things. She’s my first dog and so I have not experienced accelerating age before. A dog, if you are not too terribly old yourself, will pass you by. First she was my baby and now she is my grandma. It’s a time/heart warp. I carry her sometimes, on stairs, and easier and easier that has become as she goes from lean, to slim, to thin, to frail. If it’s the last thing I do for her, I will plump her up. 

Oh to be covered in fur. Fur carries beauty until you are as old as the hills, and beyond.