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.

TO BE CONTINUED FRIDAY… AT ONE O’CLOCK

Photo Credit: Chef Roger

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Broodje kroket

George Orwell, known for 1984 (classic) and Animal Farm (overrated), is a fantastic author whose life and work has been thoroughly dwarfed by the titanic nature of his own, most seminal creations. As far as fates go, that’s not a bad one. But it does cause a situation wherein some of the writer’s less-acclaimed works fall by the wayside, my favorite of which I’ll tell you about right now.

Down and Out in Paris and London is the author’s first full-length work, published in 1933 after years of hard toil and work. And I do mean toil and work separately. In his days, he scraped for money, working as a scullion and other low positions in hotels and restaurants in Paris, toiling away for a bit of coin, a spot of bread, and a bug-free place to lay his head. Rarely did he get everything he needed. At the same time, he was working on his writing, chronicling his days, presciently believing that all of the bullshit would be worth it if he only wrote it down. He tried to publish it many times in many versions, unsuccessfully. Orwell was only a man, one man, but imagine how lesser our world would be if he’d ever given up.

Beyond the story of its creation, Down and Out is a delightful read, thoroughly different from the stark prose of Orwell’s more well-known works. He’s like, a funny guy, and you like this guy, this kid, this self-aware bum. And that charm is probably what got the thing published. Over the next seven years, Orwell would produce six books, some fiction, some memoir. And then the war came to Britain.

Orwell and his wife were patriots, and wanted to join the war effort in any way they could. Surprisingly, Orwell had to scrap and claw his way into the action just as hard as he’d had to scrap and claw his way into the writing world, declared by the medical board in June 1940 to be “unfit for any kind of military service” at the age of thirty-seven. So the man wrote, and dug for victory, planting potatoes.  And this aspect of his nature has always made me wonder about that title, Down and Out. Because it seems to me that George was never out. Always doing something, never giving up.

Anyway, all this horseshit obviously reminds me of a sandwich, so let’s get on with it. We’re here to discuss the broodje kroket, a croquette* filled with stew meat wrapped in bread that originated in the Netherlands. It’s a sandwich that grew to popularity in that country at the conclusion of the war. Now, these were hectic and disordered times, the likes of which those of us who are young and alive in the West in the 21st century cannot truly understand. 

So, following the war, Orwell went back to his writing, and the sandwich makers went back to work. In the chaos of the postwar years, supplies were limited—they made sandwiches out of anything! According to one of the world’s premier texts on croquettes, Het Volkomen Krokettenboek , which I haven’t read, because I can’t, the legend was they used to put any old shit inside these things. It was postwar Europe! They probably were putting any old shit inside these things! Unexploded ordinance! Fucking rat feet!

And that, my friends, is part of the charm. The enigma of a good lunch! There could be rat feet in it! And I, Sarah, would enjoy eating it. For the novelty, yes—but to experience the rare taste as well.

Anyway, like I mentioned earlier, the broodje kroket is a croquette filled with stew beef inside a roll of white bread. It’s served hot, with mustard. McDonald’s Netherlands literally sells a McKroket. I just came in my goddamn pants.

*a croquette… is like a mozzarella stick. A croquette is ______, covered in bread crumbs, and then fried. You fill in the blank. Lots of things are croquettes when you think about it. It’s a very nice word for a very nasty snack—nasty for your health, anyway. The term comes from the French language word “croquer”, which I am told by my French emissaries means “to crunch.”

Photo Credit: Smul Wereld

Translation du Sarah: “Small World Crunchy Bread”

What are you doing right now, anyway? I’m watching Furious 7 and drinking Mickey’s at 7:40 in the morning. And I would prefer it if you continued to not ask questions about my incredibly mysterious personal life.

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?”

“What?”

‘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.”

“Sir—“

“Ma’am.”

“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—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!

Gooash!!

Ba-doosh-ka!

BA BA BOOEY!!

Photo Credit: New-Burghers Food Blog

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

Another Fun Thing that We Could Do, IN SPACE

I hope that you’re enjoying the occasional lunchtime sandwich thing. I get fulfillment out of writing them—heck, it’s my pretty earnest hope that we’re all getting something out of it. Hungry, maybe.

Anyway, that’ll continue. But I’ve been brainstorming this evening, yes I have… some tornadic inspiration! This most blustery eve. We’ve figured out how to make the site a lunchtime hotspot. But what about the nighttime? What about… Twitter After Dark…?

I propose we do a nocturne journey through the art of space music. I don’t know shit about it. Neither do you. Let’s discover it together…

All… freaky-like…

…In the Dark…?

Youtube Rabbit Hole (Tell Me You’re Not Down With This): And the Stars Go With You

Photo credit: pics-about-space.com

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—The Elvis

This is a heartbreakingly good-tasting sandwich. I mean that literally—this sandwich does arterial damage. If ever there was a sandwich with a body count—a confirmed kill—it’s this one. So it’s also an emotional wallop, should you happen to have a certain affection for the King.

My grandmother’s name was Shigeno Nango Morrow. Born in Japan, she married my grandpa, Jim, while he was stationed o’er there, in yon land of the rising sun, during the Korean War. She came back with him to Oklahoma, where she learned to eat with a fork and knife, instead of chopsticks, after wedding him. My mother was among their four children, raised in Tulsa, Collinsville, and thereabouts, living—I would hope—modestly.

The likely truth is that they lived in poverty. My mother bears the scars, but rarely talks about it, so I don’t know. But she hates looking cheap. Cheap reminds her of her childhood. I buy generic because I grew up cozy—she shuns generic because she was raised on it. People have their reasons, one learns, growing up.

My grandma, her mother, died before I ever got to meet her. My heart breaks every time I think about it. I grew up feeling robbed of her—here is this great lacuna, this missing link, the living symbol of my heritage. I love her with my entire heart—her round face, her olive-shaped eyes, her inexplicably curly black hair. I see my face in her face—I see my humor in her smile. I feel like she would like me. I know I would adore her.

I have heard, perhaps apocryphally, that her favorite song was an Elvis song, a beautiful song called “Can’t Help Falling In Love“, which is worth a listen if you haven’t heard it. My mother says my grandpa used to sing this song to her; when I hear it, I imagine it in his baritone, a younger, taller, slimmer man, so much more severe in mien than the jolly G-Pa I grew up with. I’ve never heard him sing it in my life, but I imagine it. Singing to my mother as a baby, singing to his bride when she fell ill. Sometimes I cry.

I don’t know how much this song meant to my grandmother, but I know it means a lot to me. It reminds me of my family—it reminds me of her, and connects us through time and space, in its tiny way.

Anyway. The Elvis sandwich is fuckoff delicious. It’s just a master class in sweet/savory harmony. Peanut butter, bacon, and banana, that’s it, fried altogether or served up plain on toasted bread. The flavor combination is decadent. Despite how filling it is, it’s also compulsively edible. My advice is make two—because if you can eat one, you’ll want another.

Make it if you’ve got the makings. It’s good for you, soul-wise. Trust me on this one, dammit; why you actin’ so suspicious?

Photo credit: Butter Than Toast

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Beef on weck

In order to get to the Wikipedia page for List_of_sandwiches, you have to either go directly to the page, search for it within Wikipedia, or Google it. This, I don’t recommend, because up until the final lap, Google tends to think you’re looking for a List of Sandy Hook victims, and that’s devastating. I didn’t need that. I still cry. No one needs to be dwelling on that sort of senseless carnage when it comes time to think of sandwiches, so please, bookmark the sandwich page. Save it to your home screen. It’s very convenient.

Image-1

 

Anyway—today our attention turns to an obscure tradition of the east coast, the sandwich known as beef on weck, an example of which you can see up top. I’ve never had it, but I would.

Here we have what appears to be a relatively, if you’ll excuse the parlance of a gourmand, “normal-ass” roast beef sandwich, which would put it in a pretty high tier regardless of the specific alchemy it takes to turn a beef on bread to beef on weck. So what are the distinguishing features here?

  1. The bread. Take a closer look at that roll—they call that a kummelweck roll, from the Austrian kummelweckerl, which is a good name for a bread. This roll is made special not by sesame seeds, but fruits of caraway, products of the carum carvi plant. Small and similar-looking to sesame seeds, but a few shades darker, they are abundant in healthy natural minerals, such as calcium. They taste of anise.
  2. Another important part of the bread is that there is salt on it. You forget these kinds of things sometimes, but most breads, as served generally, do not come with extra salt. Interesting.
  3. The beef is rare, thin, and served in its own juices. That’s right mother fucker, take a dip of au jus. Auuuh JUS! JUS JUS JUS! Fun as hell to say that. Fun as hell to translate it. “Oy, gimme a beef on weck in its own juice, love, eh? Own juice, pour it in its own juice.” There’s a lot of iron in roast juice, which helps if you’re anemic. I am, slightly, and once when I was nineteen I stood up, and got so dizzy that I passed out for five seconds. You know what would’ve happened had there been a good guy there with a beef on weck for me before I dared to rise? That’s right, I would’ve married that fool.
  4. On top of the whole shebang is a load of horseradish, which is just my favorite little “fuck you” flavor. I love what the taste of horseradish does to the inside of my nose—it’s like you stuck a hair dryer in there. Did you know that most prepared wasabi is made from horseradish, because the real thing is so scarce? It sort of reminds me of how so many fish that are sold are mislabeled. Mislabeled in massive numbers, with reckless abandon. I’m serious, look it up. Matter of fact, I’m starting to get a little bit suspicious of the entire sushi industry. I’m seeing a lot of artifice, the more I think about it. I probably couldn’t take another lie.

Anyway, this fuckin’ sandwich looks good. They’re most common in western New York, in the vicinity of Buffalo, and for that, I’m proud. I have nothing to do with the city of Buffalo, but I have always admired the spirited nature of its people. Videos like this start to make sense, when you think about the beef on weck. This is a proud people, a proud tradition, and a kickass corner of the lower 48. Salut.

Photo: A beef on weck from TC Wheelers Bar & Pizzeria, Tonawanda NY.

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—the Po’boy

Po’boys are decadence. The goal is to mash as much meal into your maw as can be managed, jowls drippy with a creamy, hot, succulent sauce, tang of the lemon juice everywhere, and eyes, eyes teary with the pleasure.

Po’boys are a sort of ecstasy, existing not for any other reason than the number one imperative of any rational brain, which is, at any cost, keep this body alive. Your original, side of the gas station, bottom of the barrel, garden-variety perfunctory po’boy? That buys you about eight hours. A real fat one buys you a day. I’ve heard of one that lets you float for three days, impervious to any mortal interference, lil flecks of fried shrimp skin crinkling in your teeth, endowing you with power, and the greatest breath.

A good po’boy does something to you, where by the time he’s in your belly, you’re treating him like your own son. Thank you, son.

A real N’awlins émigré relayed to me one evening a simpler construction, that po’boys are love—and I agree with him, that’s what they are. A po’boy is greater than the sum of its parts in a visceral, nigh-religious way—indeed, a kind of magic.

Locally, I like LaSalle’s. 6th and Boston or some shit. They do these big monsters, man, comes wrapped in wax paper slung over the shoulder like a rolled-up rug; lettuce, tomato, onion, hot sauce, pile of shrimp in there. Or a pile of roast beef! I saw crayfish once. Pile of errything.

With this said, welcome to my new project: a journey through the sandwiches, in which every day, except on weekends, I will take an entry from my favorite website, List_of_sandwiches, and write about the sandwich in that entry—how it inspires me, and heck, how it makes me feel.

Sometimes I might eat one, and take a pic of it. I might fly to far-flung Belgium for a gen-u-ine demi-baguette mitraillette. Which is what…? Who knows! It’s got some sauces, and meats, and stringy things from the ground, all pulverized onto a toasty roll probably, so what the fuck? Are you in or are you out? What other way are we going to experience these sandwiches but the right way… my way?

Anyway, here you go. From Crabby Jack’s, New Orleans.