A Journey through the Sandwiches—Pambazo (Chapter One)

The roof gave in on Wednesday.

For weeks we had watched helplessly, myself and Fran Javier, as the situation in our trailer by the riverside deteriorated. First it was the rain battering down, not just on our roof but on the heavy branches above, assaulting them until they fell down on our tin ceiling with tremendous weight and clamor. These were tall trees out here on the river, big ones, that had rooted themselves into the banks some hundreds of years ago and never bent nor broke since then. And now this storm was giving their tops a savage trim.

The following day, we did not realize that the drainage pipe that would have otherwise solved the problem had been sheared clean off the side of the building, leaving rainwater in the center of our flat roof that pooled dramatically creating a waterlogged depression in the tin that you could see bending from inside, as the metal creaked and sank lower. And I had a droll thought then that you never realize how much water can weigh until it’s caving your home in.

What was wooden in the roof had been rotting, and you could hear the occasional sharp crack as another little piece of it splintered and gave way. I didn’t know enough about architecture to really understand how close we were getting to the breaking point, but I didn’t have to be an expert to realize the place was in a bad state. So I wasn’t entirely surprised when I woke up to find the roof collapsed, falling into the living area at an incline, safely tenting Fran Javier in the side of the room where he slept and deluging me with stagnant water on the other, full by now with insect eggs and lily pads. I angrily drank the last of the whiskey as I extracted myself, and dried off.

After we’d excavated Fran Javier from his impromptu lean-to, the two of us assessed the damage.

“We’ve gotta get the water out.”

“Towels are still soaked.”

“Ugh, so is my mattress. Soaked through. Okay, use them anyway. I’ll get the buckets and the squeegee.”

Fran Javier looked up. “God, the roof is fucked.”

I looked up into the open sky, through the dark and leafless branches over us at each tree’s highest point. It was gray—not the dark cloud cover of an imminent deluge, but gray enough to tell us that there would be no sun today, and probably for a while.

I had bought the trailer cash for $1400 near the middle of last year, and paid a nominal sum in lot fees each month at a steeply discounted rate. I knew about the landlord, see. I knew he had these secrets. So he let me get away with quite a bit. Being that he lived in an entirely different country at the moment, he didn’t come around often. And why would you? This was a swampy, humid place, difficult to access, unrewarding on arrival. And the people were scarce, the only neighbors I discovered during that first month of residency met by chance. I tried to be pleasant—raised in the Midwest, I’m a fairly pleasant person—but there was such an edge to all these interactions. I met six or seven people, a few who lived alone, and got bad vibes from all of them.

Fran Javier felt much the same way, and we’d spoken about it during our first weeks together here, trying to gauge the social temperature. “I was with these two dudes, y’know?” He’d pointed south, downriver. “They were sitting on the dock with a cooler, fishing, drinking beers. Younger guys, fourteen, fifteen. And they didn’t offer me a beer.”

“Were they cold to you?”

“They were cold to me! I don’t know why. Maybe people just aren’t nice, here. I’m from Guatemala, man. Everybody gets a beer there.”

“Well, have one of mine.” I reached behind my stool for the last two bottles of Stella Artois, dirt-caked at the bottom from being cooled all night inside the river mud.

I thought back on my own interactions, in light of the revelation that Fran Javier was getting the same cold shoulder. “Fuck ’em, anyway,” I said. “What are they, scared of us? That’s the sense I get. They didn’t call me a faggot or anything like that. No one’s been brandishing guns.”

“No, no. But they do have guns.”

“Yeah, that adds an edge to it.” I flipped a silver dollar from knuckle to knuckle, every turn devaluing it a little more. It was minted in 1889, which meant something for some reason. A mint one would get you tens of thousands, but it’d been too far gone when I received it for me to care for it. But even in the state it was in now, I wouldn’t use it as a dollar. It’s worth like thirty bucks. “We should have come more prepared, man. Maybe we should’ve come strapped.”

Fran cocked his head, his lips pursed in an expression of mild amusement as he leaned forward, reached into the back of his Levi’s, and withdrew a silver Smith and Wesson Stealth Hunter, a revolver, model 629. The first thing about it that I noticed was that the embossing was garish, and cheap-looking. The second thing I noticed—”Hey, that’s a .44 magnum, isn’t it.”

He nodded.

“You know, usually…” I started—but I let myself trail off. It didn’t need to be said. I was happy that we had the gun, no matter how much it worried me that having it could lead to us inevitably using it. And I didn’t want to get involved any possible scenario in which we’d need to.

Now I sighed, of fatigue and resignation. It was Wednesday, dusk. Night was coming soon, and I sat on the part of the wooden dock that served as our trailer’s porch and faced inland, at the eerie living tangle of the woods. There were people around here. People who could help, and we’d help them. But for some reason, we’d all developed this distrust. Despite myself, I was scared of them, especially at night, when the mind goes wild. Perhaps they see us as invaders, and they’re uncomfortable with our lifestyle. Maybe they don’t like us being here very much at all.

I went to sleep that night in a trailer on which repair work had only barely started. We’d gotten out the water, and now everything was damp. The roof still touched down into the ground on one side, turning what was once a rectangular trailer into a much smaller, scalene triangle sort of lean-to. Fran Javier and I wedged ourselves in there together with all our clothes on, no sleeping bags or bedding dry enough to use. I managed to mash a torn-up novel ruined by water into the shape of an angular pillow, which we split up and shared. And then we slept, eyes never on each other, but toward the darkness of those woods, and whatever may be in there, waiting for a moment of weakness on our part to pounce.

I’d resigned myself to an entire season of this, with months to go, and in my mind I tried to steel myself for the coming hardships. I didn’t know this at the time, but this ordeal would actually be over in a matter of days. It wouldn’t come from human aggression, not on the part of our neighbors. And we wouldn’t be flooded out into the river, the trailer destroyed and in pieces. Would that it would be so simple, to fall to nature, or our fellow man.

No, the end of our time here in this settlement would be brought down upon us by something unimaginably worse, something which, at the time, I had no reason to expect even existed—the python with arms.


Photo Credit: Chef Roger

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Slider

Let me tell you a story. This is a true story. One night we were dragging Memorial, me and Paul and Jerad, listening to Papa Roach. So this was like 2006. I was, uh, nine.

So we’re just driving back and forth on the street. We might’ve been drinking shitty beer; someone definitely threw a beer at us, and then I made like I was gonna throw a metal pipe at him. This went on for hours. I grew up in the country.

So the midnight hour rises high, and we head over to McDonald’s, for ice cream. I feel like I should tell you that I never liked Papa Roach—I was in the backseat. I had almost nothing to do with any of this. So we pull up to the drive-thru, and what do we hear ahead of us, through the tinny speaker, but “no, the ice cream machine is broken.” And then the engine starts revving. And the tires squeal. And Jerad manipulates the handbrake into a burnout.

“Well, fuck this!” he says, not so much angry as he is resolved. “We’re going to White Castle.” Rrrrrrrrrk!!! And we’re off. Paul and I co-sign w/gusto. We spend most of the drive to St. Louis listening to The Smashing Pumpkins’ Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, which is an album I used to really like a lot before Billy Corgan revealed himself to me, personally, to be a dick.* But that was then. So we were beside all our rage about how we’d never be saved, rat in a caging it all the way northeast. We were seeing that Arch by dawn, yo. Getting on that riverboat, yo. Gambling our way down the Mississippi to our new lives.

So, we get to White Castle. First, we stopped at Wal-Mart for some toothbrushes, which we did manage to keep even as we got kicked out for some, uh, not discrete activity in the liquor aisle. It was like six in the morning at this point. And then boom! We stroll into that White Castle feeling like kings. Forty sliders, mother fuckers. Each. And we went ham. It was my first time in a White Castle. Actually, one of my first forays into seeking out interesting regional foodstuffs. Could this have been a trip that… Yeah, this was a trip that changed my life. We completely forgot to get any ice cream.

The slider is a small sandwich. It’s a smallburger. The conceit is that it slides down your throat, though if that actually happened, you would suffocate, choke, and die with your neck bent completely backward, head parallel to the ground, impotently coughing hunks of phlegmy USDA Select and bread into the air like a clogged-up garbage disposal full of forks. No, the only food that slides down your throat is eel and noodle. Eel, noodle, and some runny-ass egg. Jello, also. And soup. So that’s a slider sandwich. didn’t name them.

I bring up the White Castle example simply because that establishment gave me my first exposure to the style, and also a pretty good day. We had the opportunity to go to Six Flags, but didn’t, because I bitched out and had to go to work that day at a pizza restaurant back in Oklahoma. So this was a pretty solid round trip. We went to the Arch with the time we had. Never have gotten in that elevator, though. I’ve been twice.

I find it amusing that this is what it looks like when you GIS “slider”: 

Anyway, a slider is a small burger. It can be good or shitty. I used to work for a restaurant that had fun with them, different cheeses, meats. You get a lot of room to experiment when you’re dealing with things in miniature, and I don’t know about you, but I’d rather eat seven good smallburgers than one good, uh, Wahlburger. Or Smashburger. Whataburger. This place has charburgers, and I think it’s a front for a drug operation. And then there’s this, which, y’know what? Pretty funny. My sources tell me that for decades White Castle trademarked the spelling “slyder”. That shit is so unforgivably fucked up.

*My response to this has always been a quizzical “wait, what, Billy?”

What are you doing right now, anyway? Drinking a Monster Energy Tea and doing a puzzle. It’s 00:42 on a Thursday. I need to paint my nails.

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Toast

And just like that, life became very difficult.

I had yet to leave Great Britain. And I needed to. It stunk. But I had nary a nickel to my name, so there I remained, stuck for the time being to just maintain, conserving my energy while seeking out an exit.

I was trying to buy passage to Norderney by cleaning pots for the kitchens at the Mablethorpe Resort in Skegness. There is a statue here, the Jolly Fisherman, of which the locals seem to me to be much too fond of. It was a festive place, when the sun was out, festive in a county fair sense, a certain open-air quaintness. The booths hawking whipped ice and crepes alongside roller coasters and riverboat rides.

I stopped in at a charming diner in the center of the street called Fat Mo’s, watching the Ferris wheel slowly rotate through the window. Only one carriage was occupied. I sat long enough to notice the lone rider went through twice.

These were sad days, warm but lonely, and the chill winds of autumn occasionally rose up to send shivers through me as I walked to and fro from work. Scrubbing gigantic cast iron cauldrons, and copper stills for fermenting, never getting answers as to what they were for. I just scrubbed and asked no questions, and took home the British equivalent of three dollars every day. Such was the compromise, me being an undocumented worker in a nation growing increasingly hostile to that sort of thing.

I needed every penny. Recent setbacks had left me without access to any of my stashes of guns and capital around the world, so the only way to get off of this island was the old-fashioned way, through grinding. I briefly teamed up with an aspiring white female rapper named Mei-A-Wana, selling mixtapes out of the back of her beat up Citroën DS 3. And this was going pretty well, until I started to outsell her tips with a shabbily produced chapbook of my poetry, titled How to Fix a Sandwich when Your Heart Was Broken First. She didn’t take kindly to my success, so I was back at the hardscrabble life of scrubbery in a matter of two weeks.

To save money, I ate intelligently, using food as fuel and nothing more. There would be great meals again, one day, but for now, I had a mission. I had focus. I needed to get to Norderney, and the quicker the better. I was beginning to become complacent with the utter averageness of my days.

For couldn’t I eke out an existence here forever? Could this not be what I do, who I decide to be? All it would take is staying. Staying in a peaceful life, with few challenges, no bad surprises.

Unable to afford the alcoholic beverages and other vices I prefer, I have been living spartanly, seeking my calm through meditation. First I approached this development with resignation, but now, I feel a certain contentedness. I live according to meager means, everywhere I lay my head my own Walden.

Which naturally leads me to the sandwich. This, I’m almost nervous to reveal. This, I once would have turned my nose at. Are my tastes devolving? Am I doing more for less? To what end am I eating these? Big questions we’ll ignore for now. First, we dine. My friends, please enjoy with me, on this picnic bench at sunset, our day’s reward, a freshly-made toast sandwich.

The recipe is a simple thing. Take three pieces bread. Toast one. Place the toasted bread between the regular. Augment with butter, pepper, salt—and then nosh. The outer bread is soft and cold; the inner slice, crunchy and warm, slick with melting butter, mildly spiced. It is a comfort. It is inexpensive. At around 300 kcals, it will get us through the night.

Sometimes we find ourselves in spartan times. In these times, we must learn to find happiness in the simple, not the grandiose—to seek satisfaction from the very act of being alive. It’s harder than it seems. In times like these, each toast sandwich is a blessing. It’s a sandwich for when life is trying.

Perhaps it’s because of the situation I am in. Perhaps I’m ripping off the end of Ratatouille. Regardless, I have no rude words to say about this sandwich. As a matter of fact, viewed through a certain philosophical lense, it may perhaps the greatest sandwich of them all—a sandwich for the hard times, egalitarian and true. A sandwich that promises a better tomorrow after the struggles of the day. A sandwich for the Sisyphus in all of us. A sandwich for the dreamers. A sandwich of the mind.

Related article: Bodybuilding.com—The Benefits of Post-Workout Carbohydrates

Photo Credit: FoodsofEngland.co.uk

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Chip Butty

It’s funny to consider that throughout all of this, I’ve never told you the reason behind it all. The inciting event, I guess you’d say. So, I’ll tell you now—I’m chasing down the man who broke my father’s heart.

That man’s name is Gator Colfin, international land shark and cowboy. He’s a cool, calm con man, and thinks himself to be one sexy son of a bitch. My opinion on all that is irrelevant—I’m after the man for one reason alone.

Gator was husband to my dad until he wasn’t, and if you ask me, he didn’t need to be so rude about the exit. He was a son of a bitch before, but after the way he treated my dad, he’s a bastard, rabid dog to me, and he needs to be put down.

I had a tip that Gator was trying to return to Australia by way of England, I guess making his way into the southern hemisphere using a network of old friends and outstanding favors. If my information was right, I’d beaten him there by hours—now all that was left to do was mill about the possible points of ingress, and either catch him, or catch a hint to his next move. I’ve been hunting Gator for a while, see. The bastard is not often subtle. His OPSEC, often wack.

In my wait, I ended up gravitating toward a small sandwich shop on the sidewalk, built into a building where I could order through a brick window, very casually. You already know I’m always on the lookout for unknown sandwiches, but were you aware I also enjoy surprises? I ordered the first thing off the menu that I didn’t recognize, alphabetically down the list. “A chip butty,” I said with an affected accent, very obnoxious, stretching the words up and down like limp elastic, “a CHEE-IP butt-tee for me, bon soir.”

And in that British way of doing things, she stiffened her lip and got on with it, keeping calm and carrying me the sandwich on a darling red plastic tray, while I sat on the stone benches nearby, admiring pigeon formations in the clouds. I took a bite without looking—a blind taste test—and immediately, I spat it out. Directly on the tray, which the waitress was still holding. I looked up into her shocked expression.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” I bellowed. “Are we in austerity times here? Is this because of Brexit?”


‘Wot?’ Lady, this is a fistful of soggy French fries squirted with ketchup on bread. You said this was a sandwich—I should end your shit for this.”



“Whatever. I’d be happy to refund to you the price of the meal, friend, if you’d just toss what’s left of it in the bin.”

“Gladly.” I chucked the wet and filthy roll into a garbage can, and scrubbed my fingers with napkin. I’d hardly even gotten a good look at it—my first impression was the portion I spat up, half-chewed French fries and white bread in a small mound, soggy with saliva and ketchup. “What the fuck.”

“Unfortunately,” the vendor continued, “while I would be perfectly happy to refund you your money, I’m afraid I am unable to. It’s a new policy. Because of Brexit.”

“I hope this island gets bombed.”

“Ma’am, please.”

“Or sinks into the ocean, more like. Subsumed in the salty depths. Hey, don’t look at me like that. Yeah, call the police. Bitch, I am an American. I’ll enter a kumite with your harmless-ass police force. Giving me a sandwich like that.”

It took me some days to negotiate my way out of the British court system, which is, as all systems are, susceptible to brute force attacks of unbearable annoyance. They could’ve ordered me deported, and matter of fact, I wish they had. It’s not like Gator Colfin would still be here. 

I took a big piss at the base of Big Ben while I pondered Gator’s widening lead. He’d felt close, days ago. I wasn’t just on his tail, I was ahead of him, damn it! Now he could be anywhere. And I was hungry as the dickens, but every sandwich felt a risk. I could not take a chance on being jailed again.

I was sitting on a bench in the London fog some hours later, smoking shisha out of a small hookah I sometimes carry around with me, holstered at my belt like a sword, and pondering the comical turns my story had taken—I was now a known British criminal, a fully-fledged hooligan, I believe they called them, outsmarted by my rival. And it had only taken one day to make that turn. The circumstances demanded a reset button. I set out for the nearest neighborhood where a fresh meal could be procured.

I found a mini-mart with a lunch counter and scanned the menu, looking for something, anything. But then I realized a way that I could perhaps salvage this horrid misadventure with a bit of casual grace. My eyes went to the special items, and their pictures, and there it was: the chip butty, second chance edition. Clearly, there were things about this nation and its people that I needed to understand, if I was going to get anywhere in my endeavor. May as well dance with the one that brought me to my knees.

“One chip butty,” I ordered, chest bowed out to feel confident. I dropped an indeterminate amount of colorful British currency onto the counter, and ordered a drink—a large one. And then I retired to an alleyway, my sandwich wrapped in hand, Diet Coke cup cradled in my elbow, condensation dripping down onto the cobblestones as I settled myself, and sat.

Okay, I said to myself. Time to reckon with this thing.

The chip butty is a sandwich a four-year-old could make, enjoyed by millions of Britons daily for some reason. The sandwich contains one technical vegetable, the potato, and one technical fruit, the ketchup. It is godawful unhealthy. It is grease, and grime, and grodyness. The sort of sandwich you could only stomach when well and truly drunk.

And that’s when it hit me. Of course! I scrabbled my way out of the alley and towards the nearest pub, the Long Cock, and I shoved my way through the small crowd in attendance, shouting to all and sundry, “I need to be extremely intoxicated immediately! And then I need a plane ticket out of the country! And do any of you know a man by the name of Gator Colfin?”

The drinks came easily. Some were bought for me, by new friends I met with understanding nods. “I’m on a quest for vengeance,” I told them, quaffing whiskey.

“Against whom?”

I opened my mouth to speak, to unspool the tale of Gator Colfin. But then it occurred to me—I had a much more immediate grudge to take care of, and it was growing colder in my coat pocket with every passing moment.

“Ah!” I shouted, reaching boldly for the Jameson to refill my shot glass on the sly. “It’s this!” I said, holding the wax-paper-wrapped package aloft for all the Long Cock faithful. To my surprise, my exclamation merited attention. The bar quieted, and I unwrapped my sandwich. The thick soft white bread slightly smooshed, it was still warm between my hands.

And so I looked down into the awkward maw, a carbohydrate atom bomb that I was about to deliver unto myself. I’m not as scared of carbs as I used to be—where once I starved myself in a single-minded pursuit of the slimmest possible physique, now I work out, and have depression. But still, this was a gnarly thing to look at. But looks aren’t everything—they’re barely half the battle. So I took a breath, and took a bite.

There was the playful texture—soft bread over crispy potato. It crunches, it flakes. And even before the catsup hits your tongue, it’s a surprisingly juicy sandie. Of course, one tries not to think about what sort of juice this is as the answer is almost definitely going to come back as heart-stopping liquid grease. But one ignores these things in the moment. Everything in moderation. It’s like that weekly cigarette—go ahead, inhale. After all, you’re only having one.

I finished it in four breathless bites, the catsup smeared across my lips and nose in an unappealing manner by the time that I was through with it. I’d inhaled the thing. I’d… loved it.

“In my country,” I stammered, from the floor, ringed by thirty-odd half-drunken Britons who had formed a standing circle around my crouching body, “They would give that sandwich to a homeless person. And feel bad about it.”

There was a general grunting of vague agreement.

“I don’t know what this means.” I looked up, and the Queen of England was on the television, drawing my attention. But then I realized that it was not the queen, but an actress in a commercial, playing the queen—a television ad for a sandwich chain. A television ad for chip butty.

There is so much, I realized then. So much in this world I do not know. So many sandwiches… So many miles left to walk… So many sandwiches… the mysteries of the world.

Photo Credit: Food Network .co.uk

A Journey through the Sandwiches—Manwich

For nine years I did toil over nights on phosphorescent beaches trawling in through sand so lonely never seeing that what comes to greet the world after the moonlight. Was I alone? No, not alone. But no sunshine on a smiling face I ever saw.

On phosphorescent beaches the light below the clear water shines a blue within the blackness, eerie and alien. It’s the algae, it’s the weeds. They call it bioluminescence. It’s alive. Electric blue cords wind around my rubber boots, for nine years, a-glowing. We were here to preserve the ocean at night. We come to keep the lights alive. With our hooks we remove the detritus, the trash and plastic, wilted paper, sharkbitten synthetics, sneakers far from any home.

The job was necessary. The job, mechanically, was easy. The sights were at times beautiful, the sorts of nights that made you realize up til then you’d never truly seen the sky. But everyone I met was angry. Everyone was tired, up and down the beach at our own outposts, a mile or more in between. We worked from dusk to dawn, separated, and for years I grew more quiet til there were days I never spoke at all.

And there were days I found no beauty in the luminescence, glowing blue, and green, and sometimes red. Then I would catch the colors occasionally mingling into breathtaking shades of rare violet, giving me pause amidst the softly lapping waves. There were days I looked out over this limitless expanse, the ocean around my feet with its living ribbons of light, the space above a piercing mist of far off radiant forms, and felt nothing. Other times I knew my privilege. Sometimes I felt I saw it all. I felt everything, at peace.

But sometimes…

Sometimes I cast down my hooks, and set myself adrift at sea, without an oar, drifting until looking back the shore was all but gone. And I would spin in the directions that the wind and waves would take me, toward ports and places I could not possibly know. I accepted fate as random chance. I turned away from everyone. For so long up and down that cobalt beach, I did not love or hold an other, I found contentment only down a bottle or in pills, for pain, in my neck and back from working, pain behind my eyes from sitting still and dreaming, eyes half-lidded thinking of another life I’d like to have so like this but just… better. In the sun, the light, with songs I’ve long forgotten in my heart filling my ears again, letting my mind wander into sleep at night for once, quiet as the sun makes its way around the world and wakes us up again. The sight of it is so beautiful, if I could still understand.

After all these years I no longer see its light as greeting; I see it as goodbye. And though I set myself adrift at sea without an oar intending on nowhere, anywhere but where I left, always I arrived back on the beach beneath the creeping dawn, not so far from home as I had hoped. And I would drag the boat back to my outpost, drawing off my boots and shirt, following my tired feet back to my soothing corner and the mattress where I sleep, on the ground in this small living space, this lean-to of a hostel, built of tin and stone and shared at times by as many as four other men, all austere and spartan, so used to the way of things, each of them stronger than me. And alone or at each other’s sides we’d stoke the fire, heating cans, warming up our bellies and our homes, up and down the cobalt beach, sleeping til the next night, when the sea begins to glow.

Photo Credit: Nicole Schultz (Pro-click to vibe with me)

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Chipped Beef on Toast

Hell; I’d eat that.

Feast your famished eyes on this pile of slop and say “Hail!”, friends, for we have finally on this journey come to encounter, at last, chipped beef on toast.

I hear this is a common military meal, but I don’t know, because I’ve not served. The stories are innumerable, though; one does hear these things. Kathleen Purvis, for instance, posits in her Charlotte Observer column that “most men who came back from military service have stories about being fed creamed beef three times a day, week after week.” Which, okay. That’ll ruin anything for you. But some find its, as she calls it, “gloppy familiarity” to be not a burden, but a boon.

Really, I hear a lot about chipped beef, but the amount of actual stick time I see people having with it remains low. Out in the wild, out in the kitchens. You see my meaning; the civilians are not eating this, I think. None of them I’ve seen except for me, because that’s right, I do eat that. I eat all of these amazing ass sandwiches, friends. I eat them, and I eat them well. They’re the only things that make me happy in the world. Selah.

Chipped beef on toast is a breakfast, lunch, or dinner item, called by some by the name “SOS”, a code word for “Help Me!” and also an acronym for “Shit on a Shingle”. Which, whatever. Clever, but this strikes me as complaining. “Shit”? Chipped beef on toast is good. It’s warm and hearty. It’s a campfire meal, it gets the heat down in your bones, lets you shake off that shivery sleep from last night in a cold pup tent. It’s hearty, it’s creamy, it has crunch and is chewable. You know what isn’t enjoyable to eat in those sorts of environments? Sorghum. Teff. Oatmeal. A delicious salad. Think about the context, friends. Think about cold feet on the kitchen tile on a frigid winter’s morn. Think about that pup tent. This dish has beef, and gravy.

Recipes are myriad and simple and very difficult, in my estimation as a chef of some renown, to screw up. I had one with sausage gravy on wheat toast. It made me feel like a Navy SEAL. The dish is fucking decent. It’s easy to make and I enjoy it. Hell—if our armed forces truly are serving this up for chow at anytime snacktime, then I fully endorse that. Just have an apple on the side, maybe. Shit on a shingle and an apple on the side. With black coffee. Yes… yesssssss

















Photo Credit: Oanabay04 at English Wikipedia

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Roujiamo

I’m showing you a black and white photo of a Chinese boy in a fitted tuxedo. The boy is squat, slightly pudgy and unsmiling. This is Zhang. Zhang is a musical prodigy in every intended sense of the term, an utter genius, unmatched in ability by most people alive. Even in the ranks of the child prodigies, the high echelon of savants, he gets his numbers up there.  He was conducting orchestras by age 9. At 11, he was, through an interpreter, speaking in halls around the world that routinely seated ten thousand, delivering outstandingly insightful lectures on masters-level music theory. They say there’s not an instrument in this world, string, brass, woodwind or drum, that he couldn’t create a performance-quality composition for, and it would only take him, like, five minutes. Most of that was just the time it took to write it down.

This all came about through massively criminal child abuse, by the way. It’s well known. His parents are in the government, and they’re complete taskmasters who never taught him the Chinese word for “I’m tired.” By the time he got emancipated, he was twelve years old, performing routinely and making six figures each time. His parents still get a cut of the money, is the messed up thing. They show up to his performances without saying a word, and on the nights they’re there, Zhang plays the most beautiful music you’ve ever heard.

Zhang was fifteen now, and so was I, and years had past since I last saw him. His musical skills had developed astronomically. He was always amazing, but now, watching him, it was enough to give a committed atheist the sort of flutters in the heart and mind that can only ever be described as “a religious ecstasy”. The fuckin’ sounds this kid could make on those keys. Something about his touch, how he made each song or movement sound the way your mother’s voice did as she sang to you a lullaby, made all the more impressive due to that being a formative experience that Zhang most definitely never had.

I made myself leave the concert hall where I’d been looming in the back about two-thirds of the way through his performance. When I saw him, after the show, I wanted to talk to him like a man, not laud him. I needed a minute to shake off how impressive that was. Trust me, he’d appreciate it.

I wasn’t planning on meeting Zhang outside the concert hall—the demands on his attention would fence him in for a little while well before I could get a word in. So I figured instead I would meet him down at our old stomping grounds in the Jing’an District, where I grew up and, for a time and in a sort of way, we grew up together.

It wasn’t called the Jing’an District then, when I was here. It was Zhabei. Poor people lived here, poor people like my family. It was hard. Two fathers, seemingly trading jobs, and me, their adopted daughter, not even particularly wanting to work, preferring, at that most imaginative age of seven, the life of the scoundrel.

Zhang, like I said, had government parents. They lived farther east in Shanghai, in the Haungpu District , closer to his parents’ work, and the brutal schools that helped train Zhang to become the musical superhero that he is today. We met when we were both seven years old, when by coincidence our parents sent us both to the same swim camp for the summer. Neither Zhang nor I had had much interest in it, so we spent our weeks in the verdant country scheming, stealing, getting in trouble, and in our bunks at night we would talk about our lives, share openly those precious childhood thoughts about your feelings in the world and life that adulthood finds you, more often than not, never talking about, whittling them down instead into an impenetrable walnut of secrecy. We bonded over his overbearing parents, and I fretted over the economic hardships on my dads. They were starting to get mad at each other. Zhang and I agreed that they should probably spare their anger for the state, standing together in solidarity against the forces that were pushing them down. Oh, we were naive then. To think that just wanting the world to be a way meant that there must be a way for you, specifically you, to get it done in an afternoon.

Following those days at swim camp, I would remain in Zhabei-now-Jing’an, and my friend would take the bus from Haungpu during his precious spare time so we could meet, and talk, and compliment each others’ big dreams. He was as good a friend to me then as I’ll ever have, and when our friendship was cut short by my fleeing the country—which is an entirely different story, that we simply don’t have time for—I knew that he would be there for me on the occasion of my return.

Anyway. I was back in my stomping grounds in the Jing’an District—funny how fast you get used to these things—waiting at a picnic table between a mechanic’s shop and a street food vendor. One-man operations, both of them, their workplaces made up of patchwork buildings, caulk and sheet metal, calico staging areas for them to ply their trades, hone their craft. The aroma of the slow-cooking pork to the right of me was making me salivate in a most major way, and I ordered a Tsingtao from the man just to have something other than the flavor of anticipation wafting down my sinuses and throat.

“How long until the roujiamo?” I asked the vendor, whose name was Skeeter Li.

“How long til your friend get here?” responded Skeeter. “You know I’ve got a bunch of different pots cooking up something good in here. You say the word. When your boy Zhang gets here, I’ll set you up. You feast.” He plinked the top of another bottle of Tsingtao off and cheersed to me, clinking bottles.

“Been awhile since you’ve been around here,” he said, switching the subject to my homecoming. “You and Zhang haven’t seen each other in some time, I’d imagine.”

I nod in affirmation.

“You think anything’s changed between you two?”

I shrug. I legitimately don’t know. Maybe it’s the jet lag, maybe it’s the Xanax, or actually, maybe it’s the combination of the Xanax and the Tsingtao, slowly potentiating my airborne anti-anxiety medications to the point that they were adopting slightly dissociative, out-of-body properties. Perhaps it was the fifty-one hours without sleep on the series of boats and pond-jumpers that got me here.

“But no,” I say, “To answer your question, it’s really hard to say right now if it’s going to feel the same to talk to him. You know how that happens with friends. You go through fewer experiences together. You start to lose that bond, that time investment that lets you open up to someone, knowing they care about you.”

Skeeter was stirring an assortment of spices into a large black cauldron of lamb stew that looked as though it must have weighed fifteen hundred pounds, at least. His forearms had become huge from years of stirring long spoons the circumference of that thing. But man, if it wasn’t worth it. The smells were only getting better, and I was so excited.

Hell, by the time Zhang finally arrived, my lusty animal mind had gotten itself to the point where his presence felt more like a little bonus to the meal, and not the main event. Not that I treated him this way directly. We embraced, and spun around like girls, so be it. I loved the man. He was my friend, and he was so, so, so good at piano. Like, Jesus Christ I’m not even kidding. He was so good, and did so much good for me with his music, that I’d never fully admit how much I loved the way he played, lest he be then burdened with some sort of sense of responsibility for my well-being.

“Good show,” I told him, glibly.

“Thanks,” he said. His bowtie was undone; pieces of his tuxedo started coming off until he started to look like a relatively dressed-down dude. He even mussed up his hair. And now I really noticed he was taller, a little leaner than he used to be—relative to that old black and white picture, I was regarding one grown-up, sexy man.

“You don’t get people following you?” I ask him, casting my eyes back and forth down the street he just arrived by. “Paparazzos, and all that?”

“Oh, in some places. Really, really, specific places, and only for like an hour each time. But come on, man. Who would recognize me when I’m not on stage, in context? Plus, millions of people live here. I’m impressive at doing one thing. Lots of other people in Shanghai doing exciting work.”

“There you go again,” I say, a smile spreading across my face. “Going in on your futility of accomplishment tip again.” I started a quote he was fond of. “Because it all ends—”

“—in the heat death of the universe,” we finished together. Somewhere in the laughter that followed, I turned to Skeeter and ordered two sandwiches, and more beers.

The roujiamo is a type of sandwich that tastes like your face is getting its ass kicked by a gang of rowdy spices wielding a gatling gun of slow-cooked meat. The shit is absolutely delicious, and if it ever gets to America, it’s going into Taco Bell. They won’t even care about the ethnic lack of accuracy, here. When America gets these, they’re going in the Bell. Look, just trust me.

A roujiamo is a Chinese food item, the name of which translates roughly to “meat sandwich”, which should make all of us Anglicans feel a lot more comfortable about the ground we’re standing on. It consists of slow-cooked meat, most often pork, cooking low and slow for hours in its own juices, and in most cases, in the company of over twenty different distinct spices and seasonings. When ready, the meat is minced or chopped up and served with coriander and sliced peppers in a soft wheat flour flatbread called a “mo”.

Some people say that this concoction is basically the Chinese analogue for the hamburger, but I’ve got some problems with that kind of easy tit-for-tat categorization technique. Point number one: the bread for making roujiamo dates back not to the day they broke ground on the first McDonald’s, but to the fucking Qin Dynasty. That’s a difference of millennia. That’s millennial heritage. I’m not looking the specifics of this up for you, but let’s just put it this way—suck it, Ray Kroc. Get on this pork bun. Fuck it, lay on beef or lamb.

The heat from the clay oven inside Skeeter’s place radiated out over one side of me, not uncomfortably, as Zhang and I sat at our picnic table, catching up, and shooting the shit. I asked about his parents, and he deferred. He asked about my parents, and so did I. We were dealing with some deeper things, things we hadn’t sorted out well enough on our own to bring to a friend while breaking bread with them.

We didn’t talk about piano, we didn’t talk about work, and if we talked about music at all, it was The Offspring. I mean, I don’t know what to tell you, friends. Maybe this story peters out. We didn’t do much after this. What we talked about was funny only to us, and nothing that was said could change the world one bit. It was simply pleasant to see my friend again, after all these years.

Because that’s the way it works, you know. Friendships are lasting things, like family, if you forge them right. And there are family members you don’t see for years, never speak to—but yet you remain connected. Years pass and you chance upon each other again, prepared or unprepared. And no one dwells on the reasons why we’ve been apart—it’s obvious—it’s life. The fact that we’ve separated should not bring us sadness. We should find happiness in those moments of reconnection, when we realize that for all that’s different, nothing important has changed.

I could not stay too long that night in Shanghai. Our meal completed, Zhang offered to hook me up with what he could—first class airfare, a private plane if I’d prefer it. A generous offer, but I demurred. I didn’t want any trace of Zhang where I was headed next. It was for his own good, and when I said so, he understood it. He understood a lot about me, really.

Clapping me on the shoulder as we were preparing to depart, Zhang looked me in the eyes and said, “Anything you ever need, you call.”

And we both nodded, knowing it was true both ways. As I began my journey out of the city, and subsequently Mainland China, the essence of the roujiamo went with me, warming my stomach, its spices still stinging the corners of my tongue. just like Zhang’s words of kindness blanketed my heart, making me feel more of a person, for having once had the good fortune to meet such a true and lifelong friend as he.

Photo Credit: Delish Home Cook

A Journey Through The Sandwiches—Grilled Chicken

On stage in a darkened theater, the audience a fair bit shy of halfway full, a dark-skinned dancer bathed in blue light gyrates silently inside a silver ring suspended in midair, her eyes obscured by a mask made of golden leaf. The play, in which she appears so far to be the only cast member, is called What if Nothing We Can Say Will Save Us. The program is a sheet of paper, cobalt black, with no text. Meant to be enigmatic, to me it mostly inspires curiosity over how much it cost to buy the ink to print all of the copies, considering that by its weight, printer ink is worth more than oil, gold, and human viscera. The show so far is not inspiring, but I maintain an open mind. Something compelled me here tonight, after all.

When the dancer crashes sickeningly to the floor, there are gasps throughout the audience, muted screams, and some even take hurried steps toward the stage with an aim on rendering some sort of assistance—but the eerie absence of a back of house response is suspicious enough to stay our urgency. Moments pass by agonizingly before the dancer is inevitably raised up, suspended in the air by a previously unseen cord, her body hanging limply but apparently unharmed. The tension dissipates, to the relief of many. Everyone reclines back in their seats. There is some grumbling, at least from me, at the amount of aggression toward the audience the play has demonstrated so far. A half-hour so far without dialogue, the movements of the actress barely motivated, no meaning to be divined in them at all, at least not without deploying the most tormented logic. I unfold the program again, reassuring myself that there’s really nothing there, at least nothing that I’m clever enough to get. I decide I’ve given enough of a chance to the production. No one protests when I leave.

I exit the theater and emerge onto an empty street, the rain-slick asphalt reflecting streetlamps and neon signs, their brightest points of light diffusing in the mist. Across the street, beneath the dark sky, the luminous sign of SONIC DRIVE-IN beckons like warm fire in the mist. I cross the road, avoiding puddles. It’s one of the ones with the rubber tables outside, where you can sit and enjoy your meal in the open air. The fluorescent light is not what you would call transgender friendly, but so be it. Through the speaker, I order a crispy Asiago Caesar chicken club sandwich, and cold water. The red wine from the theater bar I ordered for myself was cheap, bitter, and by now was giving me a headache—that, or the dreadful show.

My sandwich arrives and I consume it at the table, in small bites. It’s very dry. Asiago is a type of cheese, reminiscent of Parmesan, and if present within the sandwich is only so at levels undetectable. This is not a good version of the grilled chicken sandwich, but my body says that it will do. Too late to do anything about it, anyway. Everything is oversalted, covering a lack of flavor and finesse. I consider what it means that I’ve spent my whole night making bad decisions. At some point, one of the high schoolers sitting at the table across from me calls me a slur word for a gay man. I’m not sure exactly what I did to deserve that.

Photo Credit: Dairy Queen

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Club Sandwich

They unclip the velvet rope as you swagger in, entering a smoky anteroom beneath a purple awning that reads, in cursive, Herve’s. A song is playing with a beat that throbs, the melismatic voice of a female singer stretching out over an ethereal soundscape, like waves crashing on the shore of a cosmic beach. The bouncer looks past you, unsmiling, the knot of his tie at the height of your head, gold rings with diamond inlay on his fingers suggesting a sort of aristocratic menace. Those diamonds have had blood cleaned off of them before. So has the floor, come to think of it, invisible though it is in the dim light. You’re all but ignored on entry, but this just means that you’re welcome—the fact you haven’t already been tossed out to the curb means you are, indeed, a valued member of the club. The ease of entry is a perk. To a certain set of the elite, Herve’s is meant to feel like home.

The elevator has no buttons—it goes down if you’re allowed, a kind of second barrier to keep out the occasional fraud. Either the elevator is slow, or the club is unfathomably deep—nobody knows. Even in public records, Herve’s is an utter mystery—no blueprints, no paperwork. Officially, it doesn’t exist. Do you know the sort of price it takes to make a place like this so invisible?

At the bottom, security steps up again—three bouncers, this time, men with the stature of gorillas in custom Valentino suits. These gentlemen are more congenial—if you’ve gotten this far, the last checkpoint is a formality.

“Miss Szabo.”

You raise your Oscar de la Renta sunglasses—the ones that you found at a Florida bus stop. You tip up your chin to the trio. “What’s good?”

You are guided down a spiral staircase, ever deeper into the belly of the city, down beneath even the sewers, where the core of the earth is more deeply felt than the warmth of the sunny sky. Now the music is a flouncy thing, a throwback track, live from the main stage, now visible over the silver banister. You pause for a moment to take a pull off of your vaporizer, your prized Cloud EVO with the ruby inlay, and personalized embossing in gold ink—я не буду целовать тебя до утра; to my princess of the West.—TimurBelow, a youthful singer with a radiant glow is swinging his way across an opulent stage, bordered by a proscenium that would not look out of place in ancient Rome at its most decadent height. He is singing a brassy version of a classic tune, hypnotic to your ears, uplifting to your soul, as though it were all just for you.

Life’s a bitch, and then you die / That’s a-why we get high / ‘Cause you just never know / When you’re going to go…

She calls your name from the middle of the floor, your usual table, with an unusual crowd—save for her. It’s a typical weekday evening at Herve’s, not full, not raucous, but still with a sense of constrained menace, as though the club were really a ballroom on a supersized palatial ship, traversing dangerous seas. You recognize her by the glint of her emerald necklace, a twenty-stone antique rumored to be worth upwards of thirty million dollars—it’s Mana Hitomi, pride of Tokyo, dancer, billionaire, lover, poet.

Down on the club floor, you feel at home—through a trick of the lighting, the walls seem to stretch upwards endlessly into a starless sky. Every table is a legendary tale all to itself—some of these people are supposed to be dead. Where they go in the daytime, no one knows, or at least you don’t—there are avenues the rich may walk that most don’t know exist, even those who would like to think they’re of the flock. Many of these people have unfamiliar names—it’s been quite the challenge, they would tell you, to keep it that way. You pass by one table, recognizing a face, and simply can’t resist making a comment, starstruck and bashful. You lean in close to his ear, hoping that your intrusion will be forgiven. “I loved your last album,” you whisper, placing a delicate hand upon the artist’s shoulder. He touches his fingers to yours. “In case you haven’t heard,” you continue, “everybody else did too.”

“What did Pitchfork say?” he asks.

You wince a little, inflate the number. “You got a nine. Nine point zero. Best New Music.”

The artist winces, turns away. At least you had that fleeting exchange—even if you were to now be banished for a perceived indiscretion, that alone would have been worth it, to your beloved niece and nephew, Roya and Jim. “You’re the coolest aunt,” they tell you, in your dreams.

Mana greets you with two kisses on the cheeks, which you return, with compliments. “You smell fantastic.” She does.

Bashful, a little drunk, she lowers her head. “Aw, thanks.” She leans in close. “Sorry about last night.”

The sensuality of the moment is suddenly thick as the ocean is deep. “Don’t apologize to me,” you whisper. “Apologize to the state of Virginia.”

You both blush—Lord willing, you’re going to marry that girl someday. She introduces you around the table.

“This is Rocky Cabot, first astronaut to walk the moons of Saturn.”

You shake his hand. “I hadn’t realized we’d done that yet.”

He winks, and smiles with a set of perfect teeth. Truly, out of this world. To call him soap-star beautiful would be maybe getting at only half the truth of it. “I’ll have to take you sometime.”

Mana continues, clockwise. “Jennifer Mezzaluno—her family invented handwriting.”

You extend your arm across the table, but she only deeply nods. It’s not rude. “Is there a lot of money in that?” you ask. “Handwriting?”

The table laughs, as though the answer is obvious. You smile, proud of your accidental humor.

“And this is Malia Obama.”


“Oh, I know you,” you say, shaking her hand. “You’re extremely tall.”

Music fills the awkward silence.

Pack a four-matic that / Crack your whole cabbage!

“Anyway.” You take a seat at Mana’s side. “What it do, boo?”

“We’re drinking whiskey recovered from the wreck of the Titanic,” she says. “It’s on special.”

“Cool, cool,” you remark, as she provides you a liberal pour from a crystal decanter. “But, c’mon. You know what I’m really talking about.”

She leans in again, her lips brushing against the very outer skin of your ear, tickling irresistibly. If you don’t get to do some fucked-up shit with her in the club bathroom tonight, you’ll just feel borderline betrayed.

“The waiter will bring it by shortly,” she whispers. It makes your body shiver—you’re embarrassed to be so obviously smitten in open company.

This was all you needed to hear. The stars have aligned for a perfect night. Whatever you did to deserve this is a mystery to you more than anyone else.

The singer finishes to applause, bowing deeply, and withdrawing backstage as the lights go up in deep blue tones on a silhouetted harpist, singing “Hallelujah”.

And then you catch it on the air. The smell, the synergy, the sizzle.

The sandwich.

A waiter drops it off like a silent specter, plated just so on flatware that costs more than a human life. The Herve’s Club Sandwich, described in song and story—and on the menu—as “the pinnacle of all creation.”

Nothing differentiates the Herve’s Club from the typical style, at least in regards to the ingredient selection—the simplicity is a part of its charm. Herve’s is a classy place—they know some things don’t need fixing.

Baby, I’ve been here, before / I’ve seen this room, and walked this floor / I used to live alone, before I / Knew you…

Toasted wheat, charred and blackened just to the moment before burning in the center, encasing the treasure within—chicken breast, juicy and tender, its texture contrasting with bacon just crisp enough to crunch, and break at a modest bite. Lettuce as green as Mana’s brilliant necklace, snapping between your teeth with a sound like twigs breaking underfoot in a tranquil forest. Tomatoes of the perfect thickness, uniform, sliced with atomic-level accuracy as though with a knife guided by laser beams.

“And this mayonnaise,” you say, an ecstatic, unmannered moan around a mouthful.

Mana puts a finger to your lips. “It’s vegenaise, love. With a little honey mustard in a squiggle on the top. For you.” She brushes a crumb from the edge of your mouth, where it is promptly swept up from the floor by a waiting attendant.

As fantastic as the sandwich is, you all but drop it on the plate in your haste to stand. This has become too much to bear. You take Mana by the hand. “If anyone wants this pickle,” you say as you retreat with her, “Tough shit, billionaires. Get your own.”

You sprint off to the restrooms with your paramour, and by the dictates of decorum, we politely exit here.

Youtube Rabbit Hole: Jeff Buckley—Lover, You Should’ve Come Over

Photo Credit: Delicious TV


A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Grilled Cheese

So you take your Kraft single. Peel away the plastic shell and slap that square between two sides of soft white bread, and balance the whole construction atop Uncle Tony’s Ford 300 inline six, hot to the touch, currently running.

“Hey Tony,” you ask. “Is this gonna make the sandwich taste like motor oil?”

Uncle Tony’s unconcerned. “That truck ain’t had oil in it for the last four, five months. Flip it after ten minutes. Shut the hood, meantime. Watch for flies.”

Crazy Aunt Sarah, meanwhile, is over by the cooler, fretting, talking about did you butter both sides of the bread? I keep my butter on the kitchen counter—it’s the French way.

Ignore all that. Sink your attentions in your cell phone. The Met is looking up, it seems—you love Hellenistic kingdoms of the ancient world.

Ten minutes pass—pop that hood. Oh yeah, you’re making progress. Flip the sandwich over—it’s half-done. Starting to look a little gooey. Starting to see a little sear.

“Hey, Sarah—your sandwich is about half done.”

She sits up, about choking on a quaff of cold Corona Light. Way too enthusiastic. “Cool!!!”

Cheese is a little crispy on the edges. Sort of sticking. Maybe you should’ve Pam’d the engine. Whatever, shut the hood. Too late. Pass the time with conversation. “Hey, Aunt Sarah.”

“Yes, beloved?”

“Are you really going all around the nation, getting people to cook sandwiches for you? Is it for like a book or something?”

“It’s much more freeform and loose than that, but yeah. Generally, that’s true.”

“And then you eat the sandwiches.”

“Sometimes! I mean, I would like to.”

Uncle Tony’s on the porch now, howling. No reason in particular—years of enthusiastic drug abuse will do this to you. It’s just something that he does. He appears to be in the process of adopting another stray dog.

You lift the hood and poke the sandwich a little as it’s toasting up. Smoke wells up into your nostrils, not unpleasant. “So it’s sort of like Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives?”

“No, just sandwiches.”

“You’re the Anthony Bourdain of sandwiches.”


When you take the sandwich off the engine, your largest worry is consistency. Some grilling methods don’t disperse heat evenly. “Watch out,” you say. “There might be hot spots.”

You slide it on a paper plate, and to be honest with you, it smells pretty good. It’s sort of hard to fuck this up. You leave the engine running, because it’s powering the radio, and the song is good. It’s not your favorite song, but it’s good for a day like this—lazy, humid, grilling.

“You’re good,” you say. “Dig in.”

“Thanks!” She takes a bite. The cheese trails off her mouth in a melted tendril.  “Hey, you ever made a grilled cheese with, say, caved-age Gruyère? I’m a journalist, you know. Very curious.”

The slam of the hood closing mutes out your first “nope”, so you say it again, with emphasis. With more passion than intended. You roll your eyes, perhaps. “Nope.” Not at all. And then you keep repeating it. “Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.” Walking away from her, back up toward the trailer, shaking your head side to side—now you can’t stop mumbling it. “Nope, nope, nope nope nope, hell no, hell nope, no sir, no ma’am, no.”

And you keep on walking, past the trailer, out to pasture, leaving Uncle Tony with the sandwich woman, Sandwich Bourdain, whom when you met gave you a business card, unprompted, which read “Crazy Aunt Sarah”—beneath it, “OG Oddball of the West.” You walk in circuit for an hour. When you return, the sandwich girl is gone. Uncle Tony is asleep, and the truck is nowhere to be found.

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Primanti

Look at that plating, man. Fries on the sandwich. This is always controversial, to me—I like to separate my carbohydrates. Imagine a sandwich simply made of sliced potato. Something doesn’t work, there. Or like, a pile of rotini, drenched with oil, served on rye. Eesh. Heavy.

Of course, sometimes this is necessary. Sometimes the goal is just to get it in you. I can accept that shoving the French fries into the sandwich is a way of signaling a sea change—an all-hands-on-deck, damn-the-torpedoes measure. Grab us a fresh white napkin, fellas, because this one’s about to face a ketchup deluge.

One of the few ways that a human being can truly attain immortality in this life is to get something named after them—multiple things, as many things as possible, no matter what the cost. A doctor’s discoveries in the field of disease can lead to his name living on as a scourge against earthly existence—”Acquired Sarah Syndrome”. A disease which slowly makes the skin translucent; the eyes harden into diamonds; the torso narrows to the width of a straw.

The Primanti brothers of Pennsylvania, Joe, Stanley, and Dick, secured infamy enough to share. Their eponymous restaurant was founded by Joe in the city of Pittsburgh in 1933; this sandwich was invented during the Depression. Oh shit yes, motherfucker—that’s how you know this’ll be good. No one was sitting around inventing bullshit during the Great Depression. You feel me? This was a time when the joy of invention was being thoroughly subsumed by the overarching need to survive on the day-to-day, and time spent tinkering on your “projects” was time wasted. So if you had an idea, and committed to an idea, and brought that idea to fruition during the Great Depression, then it was almost certainly a wonderful idea—otherwise you wouldn’t have stuck with it. It must’ve felt so good. I imagine this line of thinking is where the fry-in-the-sandwich convention comes from. Carbs-on-carbs, in this context, make sense.

In addition to the French fries, the Primanti is a hearty deli sandwich, composed of grilled meat, tomato slices, and a slaw of some sort, preferably with Italian dressing. Wedge it all between Italian bread. Say “bada-bing”—boooaash! ‘Ey, I’m walkin’ heah! Ya dum sonuvabitch! 

Get a load of this sandwich! Eyyy!




Photo Credit: New-Burghers Food Blog

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Tongue

When it comes to the canon of Weird Meats, beef tongue is pretty low on the proverbial scale of exoticism. It could be fairly argued that it’s not that weird a part of an animal to eat at all; we’re not exactly talking about chowing down on a cereal bowl full of eyeballs, here. But the limitations of the imagination that an underdeveloped diet incubates cannot be overstated—I know people who prefer their steaks well done. There are people who have only ever known the stale-air taste of Pizza Hut. For plenty of people, for all sorts of reasons, tongue is very weird indeed. If it’s a niche meat for any reason, it’s because the aesthetics simply aren’t for everybody. DSC04360_1523x1012

I think it’s fair to not be able to get around this. Personally, I enjoy it. Eating a tongue makes the delightful savagery of consuming meat particularly real—it’s one of the only organs in the body you can see. And when you eat it, you will gain the powers of the animal whose soul you’ve taken. MOO.

A common myth goes to the effect that relative to its size, the tongue is the strongest muscle in a body, or at least the human body. It’s not true, but still, the tongue impresses. Under normal circumstances, it doesn’t fatigue. You can flap and flip it hither and thither all day (and ~all night~) without ever experiencing anything that you would fairly term as soreness.

Anyway, your strongest muscles tend to be your quadriceps, and also your glutes. Yer ass! Personally, I think that’s a heck of a lot cooler.

Beef tongue, a fatty meat, is often paired with onions during seasoning. When well-prepared, it can rather fairly be said to have a texture that melts in your mouth. Dressed up as a delicious sandwich, served with diced vegetables, vinegar, and oil, between two hearty slices of seared bread, it’s an absolute barnburner. Just thinking about it makes me look longingly out the window, as though I were a schoolgirl, head full of dreams, eyes alight reflecting all the beauty in the world.

There’s also a breakfast variant: an open-faced sandwich that they call tongue toast.


Oh, we’re getting f-a-n-c-y now.  Look at that soft bagel. Damn. My, that dish is playful and appealing to me. Maybe I’m unsophisticated. Maybe I’m wrong. Shit. Who cares. That looks like the kind of meal that could compel a girl to wolf it down in thirty seconds, and then lick the plate. I’m whipping myself into a frenzy, over here. God, it’s made me high as fucking balls.

Photo Credits: Star Chefs; The Curious Coconut

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Chickpea Salad

I tend to vacillate, in my day-to-day life, between trying as hard as I can to regard my body as a holy temple—suited for only the richest greens, organic-est meats, nuttiest milks, the purest and most carbonated mineral waters—and another state, wherein I adopt a diet most suited to the task of taking your average human body and, within two days, killing it.

It is in this latter state that I tend to do things like, say, drink fifty beers, hollow out lightbulbs to smoke crack in, enjoy in one sitting what I like to call a “personal pound” of ballpark French fries, and try to sleep around 165 hours a week.

But I ask you, who among us would say they haven’t in their own way done something like the same? Truly. Because we are all magnificent fuckups—such is my particular brand of humanism. The people who run the hundred-mile borderline-unwinnable Barkley race, you think they’re paragons of all-around health? People only run like that when they’re running away from something—like their baser, lesser, natures, and usually also a heroin addiction.

Which brings me back to something that I reference often in my casual life, that ancient Greek principle of sophrosyne—everything in moderation. Are there any better maxims for human living than that little nugget of wisdom, and the classic “Do unto others” formulation of the Golden Rule? (Pecunia non olet, some could argue.)

So what we have here is the kind of sandwich that seems to me to be perfect for those spirited sprees of healthy-living we all get up to from time to time. I’m probably gonna make one later. You should come over! I live downtown, by the highway. My apartment is really super-cool.

Anyway. This is basically a thickened-out hummus spread, so this sandwich, in that light, is almost self-explanatory. Hummus is freaking delicious. But you have to make your own. My god, my god, it’s so simple, and so worth it, and so cheap and economical. I’ve already linked a sandwich-specific recipe, but for real basic hummus, you basically just need to throw a can of mostly-drained chickpeas, some tahini, a few cloves of garlic, lemon juice, some salt and pepper, whatever else you want, and some olive oil in a blender, blend it smooth, and then serve. It tastes so dang good. Serve with who gives a shit, and ravenously consume.

Anyway, that’s hummus. This spread, if we’re going full-vegan (which we are), requires vegenaise, and also onions or scallions (or carrots or green onions or seriously, whatever) chopped up and mixed in, to provide necessary crunch. Maybe raisins. Is anyone else feeling raisins?

Look at that frickin’ healthful monster. So good. So good for you. Enjoy with La Croix coconut sparkling water, red drink, Diet Coke, or whiskey. Like it’s said—everything in moderation.

May this sandwich help you on your way. I pray it serves you well and leaves you better for encountering it. Life’s journeys pose challenges to us all. Chickpea Salad Sandwich: Sticks to your ribs, not to your heart.

Photo Credit: Simple Veganista

A Journey Through The Sandwiches—Patty Melt

Once when I was younger, I asked my younger brother to take out me and my father to—and this is a rough quotation—”a nice local place” for dinner. We were going, two kids and papa, to see an Oklahoma City Thunder game, which is a thing we do, naturally, of course. (You may have heard that we are the best fans in the world, which is always awkward to mention alongside the shared and truly heartfelt sentiment, “condolences, Seattle.”)

So I ask my brother to take me and our dad to a good place. Not a chain—no Outback Steakhouse, right? Let’s get adventurous. My family is very midwestern—I’m always trying to push them into some sort of realm of adventurousness, culinary or otherwise.

One would think, my brother, two years younger than me—his name is Nicholas—would share a similar sort of sentiment—some high-minded pretentiousness—some shit that’s on my level. And indeed, he was, on some level, on my level. But it was the most jarring, shocking thing.

So there we were, me and my dad, driving into the twilight dusk of Oklahoma City, down the 35 Interstate into the fucking Industrial District, where my brother, a mad trickster of some sort, meets us in the parking lot of a gas station, inside of which is a buffet, the name of which is illuminated on a sign just beneath the sign of the gas station itself, which is called the Pesco Stopping Center. The name of the local restaurant that this stopping center houses is the Iron Skillet. There are also showers, for truck drivers. Adjacent to the station is a sprawling abandoned hotel. This is a place where one dumps bodies. No light shines there after dark.

So this was all extremely funny. He admitted under protest that, when he was drunk once, this spot had been a fantastic out-of-the-way place to get a bite to eat. A real gem, as it were.

Anyway, the patty melt is a sandwich you should think of as like a hamburger, but cozier. Everything is given room to stretch out and be its sloppiest self, here. We’re talking chewy, toasty, sourdough bread, thick of crust and soft inside, housing an American-made hamburger patty, and some Americanized sliced cheese. Cheddar, Swiss, Kraft single? Blend them all. Melt them all. Make a stacker. Lace with lettuce. Caramelize onions in hot oil, and layer them liberally inside. Moisten juicily with Thousand Island dressing—the crown jewel of it all, the flavor synthesizer, a close, close cousin, not so secretly, to that savory-sweet national treasure, Big Mac sauce.

Motherfucker, check your pretensions at the gate. Sandwiches are meant to be enjoyed. Life is meant to be enjoyed. Showers are meant to be enjoyed, at a truck stop, next to a restaurant where I eat with my family. Life is stupid. Serve with fries

Photo Credit: Serious Eats

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Toast Hawaii

Hawaiian cuisine is so lovable. It’s a whole kit and kaboodle of a culinary culture, built up from, it seems, two pillars: the stuff that grows and lives and swims around there, and everything that colonial people just had in their pockets when they showed up and moved in on the natives. None of it should work together, but it does. There’s a charming harmony to it. I bet syncing up went down like this.

Stacy from the Big Island: “Hey, my folks are Polynesian, want some poi? We have poi. It’s sweet, sort of a paste, like pudding.”

Johnnie from the 48: “Word, I love pudding. And I’m from America. Y’all eat ham?”

Stacy: “We’re down with ham.”

Johnnie: “Dope. I got this fake stuff in a metal box; the army gets it for me. You can’t even taste the difference, it’s the greatest thing in the world.”

Stacy: “Word.”

*they fistbump as a flag unfurls. There is applause, songs, mass flash photography. The date: August 21, 1959.*

I mean, seriously. Those kids down there eat Spam. Like, they’re down with it, it’s not a shame thing. They eat Spam in crazy ways. You couldn’t carry a bag of these around without breaking some hearts in my town. They’d treat you like they saw you eating dog food. The mere thought of a guy squatting in an alley eating tinned Spam with a plastic spoon, hands shivering from cold, and strokes? Good god. That’s dire.

Me, personally? On Spam? Hell, I’m for it. Anyway, there isn’t any Spam on this sandwich. Matter of fact, it’s not Hawaiian either.

The Toast Hawaii is a German thing, if you can wrap your head around it. It may have taken its inspiration from the flavors of the Hawaiian islands, but all signs indicate this simple little slice of Heaven was cooked up by the German Gordon Ramsey, Clemens Wilmenrod himself. You may have not have heard of him, memorialized forever in song and story, so famed in his homeland and abroad for his improvisation in the kitchen during times of austerity. like a regular Clara Cannucciari.

And really, I feel like no one needed me to tell them all of this. You can tell at a glance that this is a simple sandwich, of the rare one-bread variety. Open-face, they call them. It’s a simple construction, and also a simple pleasure, most common in west Germany during very trying times. All you need to make it is the fixins and a flame—toast, ham, cheese, pineapple ring, and a maraschino cherry. Hell. I dunno about you, but I could go for one of those.

I wonder if they’re any good with Spam?

Photo Credit: Vagabond Summer

Youtube Rabbit Hole: Great Depression Cooking