The Lunch Encounter

We were in Pittsburgh this weekend in the Strip District and I had one of the best sandwiches ever. Fresh mozzarella, artichokes and field greens with a vinaigrette douse.

Enrico’s

They sure know what to do with two slices of bread in Pittsburgh. At Enrico’s they seem to know what to do with flour, yeast, water and salt.

This operation is BYOB, something we have a shortage of in DC – our liquor laws are not conducive to that privilege and luxury. Now Philadelphia…there’s a city for BYOBing. Thriving restaurant scene hinging on just that. Lemme surf a bit and see if the same holds true for Pittsburgh. Hmm. Found an impressive list on Citysearch.

(Made the mistake of googling “pairing wine with sandwiches”. Now I am blind from information overload. I will, however, file away these sage bits: No dry wines with peanut butter and jelly. Riesling with a Reuben. Course, none of these sound words apply to Enrico’s. For that joint you need to linger in the Italian aisle.)

We encourage you to bring your own bottle of wine. This sentene, from Enrico’s website, is one of my faves. Right up there with, We’ll just charge this to his credit card.

for a hamburger today.”

Back in the dark ages of American kitchens, otherwise known as the mid-to-late 19th century, the hamburger was nowhere to be found. Sure, we had ground beef, introduced by German immigrants in the early 1800s, but a Hamburg steak is one giant white-bread step away from a hamburger.

Who was the first to slap it on a bun?

Click to read and listen.
NPR’s Present at the Creation

The Hamburger: A History, out recently from Yale University Press by Josh Ozersky examines the iconic sandwich in detail.

Read a review from the Chicago Tribune.

“Obviously, my philosophy on gastronomy can be summed up by saying the fat is the meat and the meat is the vegetable,” says Mr. Ozersky.

And the vegetable is the French fry.

Scroll down a bit and the obvious will smack you in the face like the snap of a genu-iiiine, split-n-grilled, hawt diggity dawwwg – I was impressed with Super Duper Weenie.

Put the pedal to the metal and cruised without incident from DC to Connecticut, not even a hint of a back-up at the George Washington Bridge. Lunchtime on the interstate usually means cutting a fast-food deal (the promise of a plastic toy gets my boy every time) and I go for it too, happily and hungrily absorbed by the brightly approaching promise of vacation. This time I could not wrap my mind’s appetite around MacDonald’s, but Teddy’s focus stayed true, so we pulled in. Teddy came bouncing back, Happy Meal swinging, while I called ahead for directions to Super Duper Weenie.
.

Just a brief piece up 95 and one turn off the ramp, Super Duper came into view and set our hearts a-thump with anticipation.

The dogs are split lengthwise pre-grilling. One of these days someone is going to package pre-split dogs. Super-surface dogs.

Instinct pinched me. “Order The New Englander,” it whispered. Instinct has never betrayed me.

He ate again. What a coup for his knee-jerk-anti-fast food mother. French fries and a chocolate milkshake. Top of the food pyramid, yes?

“Our own” means shop-made. Lots of personality in the fixin’s and NO bottled complacency. These are what I call high-wire hot dogs, where anything could happen. A superlative lunch encounter.

The half smoke is a DC thing – about the only indigenous DC food, far as I can tell.

Folks don’t emerge from airplanes on a half smoke prowl though. Not like lobster roll aficionados traveling to Maine, or pulled pork devotees driving south. Still and all, you gotta wrap your hometown flag in somethin’ and I’ll take the half smoke.

A dirty water dog from a vendor will do, but the Weenie Beenie will do you better by at least half.

Weenie Beenie!! A rare unoccupied moment. The ghosts in the parking lot can still smell the half smokes.

Wiki Weenie here. While my infatuation with the Weenie Beenie is consuming, I cannot mention half smokes without putting in a plug for Ben’s Chili Bowl. Ben’s is beloved here in DC, and rightly so.

(Word on the street is Van Camp’s increased the weenie to beanie ratio. Believe I felt the earth move.)

From Abiding Arlington Correspondent Ellen:

The name of my DC ultimate Frisbee team is Disc Toast, but we go by Toast. Each season we get a t-shirt, sweatshirt or other garment with a toast image on the front. This year our sweatshirts simply say TOAST.

I have a couple pieces of Toast clothing too, but couldn’t find any pictures. The image above is “Angry Toast”, our logo. You can make out the word Toast on the Frisbee he is holding in the air. Clearly he is an ultimate Frisbee player since he is wearing athletic shorts and shoes.

Q: What do you do when you go to the beach and forget your picnic lunch?
A: You eat the sand, which is there.

Humor me.

Q:What did the yogi say to the hotdog vendor?
A: Make me one with everything.

Gimme a B, Gimme an E, Gimme an E, Gimme an R!!

Whattaya Got!

Official pop of the summer season. As they say in Wisconsin, 9 months of winter and 3 months of bad sledding. (Let’s not think about how globe warming is gonna change our vernacular.)

The New York Times is burping Sprecher’s praises.

So luscious with a sandwich.

Dog n Suds was a drive-in I liked when I was a kid. Hot dogs and root beer delivered by a car hop. Does make my tongue feel soapy to think of it, but the name is a good one.

And from a childhood preceding mine, a story from my mother:

Root Beer Blast

Having been born to young, working-class parents two years before the Great Depression descended in 1929, as I grew up I was very familiar with the philosophy of “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, do without”, necessary during that time.

The root beer EXPLODED and coated every surface, including ourselves (and my mother in her good clothes). Boy was my mother mad and I don’t remember if my parents got to church that night.

Pull up a chaise.

The Sublime Miss M turned me on to this story.
Europe’s Best Sandwiches

T+L travels from Berlin to Madrid to deliver the Continent’s quintessential bites.

And while doing so they employ ooh-la-la bons mots comme ça:
cushiony
brittle
rosy
bubbly
springy
fanciful
buttery
airy
brio

Travel! Leisure! Sandwiches! Oooh la la! La sandwich!

Hap Hap Happy Independence Day! 2008 is gonna be spectacular! Come h-e-double-toothpicks or high water, I’m countin’ on it. Celebrate and Commemorate in a Dy-No-Mite Dog Way!!!

I sure do miss Doug Michels‘ mail. Woulda never met him had I not been wearing zebra-striped, hip-hugging, bell-bottomed lycra pants, that I’d made myself. Those things were eye-catching. Where could they be now? All I can find are skull and crossbone tights with fringe running down the sides. They’ll do in a pinch, I spose, although the others were funnier. Ridiculous pants. You haven’t lived until you have spent time in public wearing ridiculous pants.

(Look, it’s film! How retro.)