Oh! Chicago

CLICK CLICK CLICK the links. I mean it!!!

I’ve been put on the trail of Mother-In-Law Sandwiches by The Sublime Miss M. She held out a tamale for sniffing and turned me loose.

The Mississippi Delta Hot Tamale Trail

The Yayhoos said it and they meant it, 07-oh-chicago(pssst….click and lissstennnn)

Southern Foodways Alliance Camp Chicago
Did somebody say “camp”?! I want to go to camp.

I can barely wrap my mind around all these connections. Oh the synapses!
Chicago, Tamales, Sandwiches, The Yayhoos, Mississippi, Mothers-in-Law (you can’t have too many!)

The second, the absolute nanosecond, I read about Mother-In-Law Sandwiches, curiosity was KILLING ME. What is it? What is it? What is it? Think tamales in a hot dog bun. Fas-cin-ATE-ing! Hott! Hott! Hott!

Toast Poast XIII

 

MR TOAST*

Beginning to think I need a blog subset: Soally Toast or Oanly Toast or Toast Aloan.

*Thank you, Ellen, founding member of Knit Witz and amazing toast sleuth.

A Handheld Device


Countdown to Hog Doug’s! In just 12 days I will be rounding that Chicago corner for a meatish marvel, a sausage sensation, a two-handed tubular tastetreat. Anticipating a delicious appetite-quenching, hot-doug device.

I may call ahead on my handheld device to make sure they are open, but once there I will not have any hands free for snapshots. I will be eating. Two handedly.

Alacritous Chicago correspondent Bottle Rocket(s) fan Linda has been fanning the flames and whipping the Hot-Doug’s-seeking-brush-fire that is me into a full blown inferno:

finally got mom over to hot doug’s for her bday.
score! she’s already talking about coming back.

i had the smoked crayfish and pork sausage with the
superfantastic goat cheese and impeccable goat butter
creation [see photo] and it was SUBLIME. it was worth
forgoing the bacon
sausage for that.

still drooling just THINKING about it,
linda


She could not stop. Can ya blame her?!?!? so she HAD to add this:

For those who wish to learn some useful german
phrases, there is an excellent primer on a tableside
wall at Hot Doug’s. “My Favorite German Sausage
Expressions” helpfully translates german into the
literal and figurative meanings. Don’t let anyone
tell you encased meat isn’t good for you. This gratis
mealtime education is just one benefit of fine sausage
dining.

Spiel nicht die beleidigte Leberwurst!

Game plan: Lighten up (spiel nicht die beleidigte Leberwurst) for, oh say about 12 days, and then then then “heavy-down”. When I exit Hot Doug’s gravity will absolutely, positively, definitely have the upper hand. It is, after all, the law.

(when you come, allow for at least a half hour wait at
the door, and that goes double if it’s good weather!
just sayin’. come prepared to sidle up for a while
with other tube dog lovin’ folk),
she cautions, sagely.

Oscar IV – Now We’re Talkin’

Baconlicious.

Can I fix you a coupla slices of buttered toast pressed around bacon and a fried egg, honey? Love those browny, burny bits of egg scrap left in the frypan.


Watching the sun go down over Green Bay one summer night – it’s beautiful up there in Fish Creek at the tip of Wisconsin’s thumb – with one of my all time favorite people, Bob Swanson, of the braided white beard and unquenchable urge to cook and bake. He would fill his kitchen with lingonberry giftas, mandelbrot, limpa bread, sour cream donuts, Swedish potato sausage…. Whether there were adequate appetites around or not.

So… we were sitting on the stone wall, bumping the backs of our heels on the stones and watching rock-skipping kids turn to silhouettes, and naming the tree-black islands in the bay. Just as the sun touched down on that cold, clear water Bob said. “See the steam?”

I heard the hiss, too.

Primanti Amendment

This just in:

What kind of sandwich did you get? It looked like pastrami. Was it good and could you finish it?

Whoopsie. Oversights abound in my Primanti post. Forgive me. I was discombobulated.

It was good, yes. Finishing it was not a problem. More a comment on my appetite and capacity than on the size of the sandwich. The former, huge, the latter, huge. Asked the waitress about what was most popular, for perspective, and she was vague, non-committal. Corned beef seemed like the thing, to my addled mind, and I believe it was, although, who knows, it coulda been the knockwurst that delivers the KO.

Fries inside pose a ketchup dilemma. Ketchup on corned beef?!? You don’t know how bad I want to delete those words. Can’t look at them together, let alone eat them – the words OR the foods. Ack no. But the fries. The fries. The fries. Vigorous shaking of the hot sauce and pepper. Oh! On to something here. On!

A friend from Pittsburgh asked me later, “Did you put hot sauce and pepper on it?” I’m psychic, doncha know?!

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.