The Cleveland Sandwich Board

Virtue Feed and Grain

2012-01-26T19:58:00.000-08:00

703-837-9117

106 S Union Street

Alexandria, VA 22314

by Beau Cadiyo

Back in January or February of 2000, I was in a supermarketin Cardiff, Wales. I was studying in Cardiff and a girl in one of my literature classes was shopping in the samemarket – brunette, dark skinned with green eyes, half-Italian, yacht. She came up and we started chatting about books in theaisle, and then paid, and then talked some more outside, and then she invitedme back to her place for tea. Oncein her apartment, she put the kettle on, and then we looked at some picturesfrom her life, and then we were sitting on her bed, and then we had more tea,and then I left. In retrospect allI had to do was make a move. Theproblem wasn’t my not knowing what to do; it was that I didn’t even realizewhat sort of situation I was in. It was like being in front of an apple tree, and starving, but notknowing that apples are edible. Ohman, I could have eaten.

The Indigo Girls have a song called Watershed, with the line,“Every five years or so I look back on my life and I have a good laugh.” For me it is the opposite. Every five years or so I look back onmy life and think of these moments and experience a deep, profoundsadness. It’s usually temporary,but it usually makes me cry. Ifeel – acutely – the lost opportunities, the chances missed, the girls notbedded, the words not said, the papers not written and the books not read. I mourn, more than anything, the factthat I could have done more and that I didn’t. I’m not only getting older, but it’s not going to getbetter; there’s little or nothing for me to live for if I can’t take advantageof the opportunities right in front of my face. Kids – kids are a reason to live, they’re a reason to keepgoing. Kids work.

I don’t have kids.

Not that I want them – I don’t, not right now and probablynot ever. If anything, they mightmake my life more satisfying, but they’d also prevent me from taking advantageof opportunities that are out there. Yes, no kids for me.

Today, though, it is fear of age and extreme mourning ofwhat could be interpreted as a misspent youth. Someone once told me that part of myproblem was that I grew up too early – that I never had time to be youngbecause I was always too busy becoming old. I was 20 going on 60. Now, though, all I want to do is go back twelve years, thirteen years,and live that time over again.

The curse of experience is that you know how badly you screwedup.

This whole line of thinking is, of course, foolish. I can eat apple pie for breakfast if Iwant to because I am an adult, with a job (knock on wood), and I have money tobuy apple pie for breakfast if I want it, and the freedom to eat as much apple pie as I can. There was a stretch of three or four days where every meal I ate involvedrotisserie chicken skin. Try eating rotisserie chicken skin for every meal. You’ll loveit. But now, in my early thirties,I just want to be young again, even if I can't afford apple pie and rotisserie chicken skin – I want to be young and carefree, without realresponsibilities. Greenergrass. Plus, I have this idea thatif I could go back, everything would be halcyon. I wouldn’t feel pain, and I’d take advantage of all of theopportunities thrown at me. I’d beable to woo Annabelle Fryer again. I’d run faster, stretch out my arms farther. . . . And one fine morning

Eventually I get to the point where I see this as apainful opportunity to look at my life, see what paths are open to me, and seewhich are the ones I want to follow or should try to blaze. What could I do now that I’d regret notdoing later? I suppose I shouldfeel fortunate about this as an opportunity, but really, I can’t help butregret what I did not do, the paths I didn’t take.

One path I did take recently was an $18 cheeseburger at VirtueFeed & Grain in Alexandria, Virginia. I wish I could say it wasn’t worth it – that it was mediocre, that thebread wasn’t perfect, the meat wasn’t juicy, the cheese not perfectly matched,the fries were cold and soggy, but none of those things were true. This burger was worth every penny Ispent on it, and I am glad I took that path. Plus, I was with great friends, and now the husband of them is going to start using a straight razor, which is exciting. So that path - the $18 cheeseburger at Virtue - is a good path to take if you can.

But there are still other paths I wish I’d taken. Over the next few days, I’m going tothink about how I want to live my life, and the “Raymond K. Hessel” things Iwant to do. Who knows – you mighthear about some of them.

Grum's

2011-12-21T20:04:00.000-08:00

1776 Coventry Road
Cleveland Heights, OH 44118-5226
(216) 321-4781 ‎

by Fidel Gastro

It is raining. It is raining so much that I don't dare go out. If it were a proper December I suppose it'd be snowing. Pedestrians – we're better suited to snow than rain – I know it's different for drivers but I know that the streets are plowed and the sidewalks are never shoveled so I have anger and class consciousness toward drivers.

So stay home and count your petty ducats! you say, and I respond by telling you angry things that you don't care to hear and soon we're not friends. So let's pretend that instead you said, with concern in your voice - well why do you need to go out so bad?

First. It is Christmastime and this Christmas I have made the acquaintance of the long walk to the long wait at the post office. I'm not the sort to hate. A lot of people will tell you that they have a sick-sick anger for the USPS but I think – someone sent me an important paper from across the world for $.44. I don't mind waiting in a line for a little while to get it. And also, if there was a crowd of people watching you do your job, they'd probably make fun of you too, jerk. Anyway, I'm not going to brave the roads today and suffer the gross indignity of being surfed by cars. It is a bad thing that happens.

Second. I can't go and get a sandwich. It's a rarity and a strange one, where The Sandwich is not preeminent in my world of earthly demands. But that is the nature of Christmas. Gifts first, Sandwiches second. On the matter of sandwiches, and on walking for that matter I have some words.

My love of sandwiches has governed my choices regarding where I will live. Because I prefer the constitutional savor of a brisk walk over the harried disruption of driving I have a smaller scope of available sandwiches. So I made certain to live in the midst of the greatest concentration of sandwich shops that I could find.

A strong man, a man only half as strong as me (and therefore pretty damned strong) could throw a stone and strike no fewer than seven sandwich shops. Eight – if you count the Burrito as a sandwich, which I am told by Mr. Cadiyo, I shall not ever do. Nevertheless even in the narrow confine of sandwich definitions allowed me, I am up against an embarrassment of sandwiches. Now, I may some days savor the soupy vegetable cocktail added to the turkey of Dave's Cosmic, and I may sometimes humble myself before my fellow men and deign to eat a Panini. I might even steel my iron guts yet steelier for a sample of the Winking Lizard's barbecued fare. In desperation I may count pennies to afford the lettuce and mustard melange of the gas-station Subway. But on any day, regardless of circumstances, regardless – really, of consciousness – I find that I crave for the Hot Grumsteer.

Many arguments can be posed and settled only with fistfights over the superior merits of hot or cold sandwiches. I find that circumstances largely dictate my preference – but in general that a sandwich is sometimes aided by a modicum of fire, and sometimes hindered. But given the choice between the hot or the cold Grumsteer – you must choose the hot. All things being equal, the roast beef is made to come alive, is alchemically altered by the application of the 'sandwich herbs' that Grum's applies so judiciously. The cheese and the meat interweave into a massy substance that gives each vigorous bite its own tactile satisfaction, but in the midst of the occassional mushroom, the periodic onion – there is the lingering heavenly potence of the horse's aromatic radish. Like a medical tincture applied to the beast, the large Grumsteer solves your sinus complaints and salves your stomach's recurring wants. There is no sandwich that may better serve the wants and hungers of anyone, of everyone really, than the Hot Grumsteer.

Alas it is raining and I must test my sandwichmaking audacity with the spare contents of my cupboards. Is it a sandwich if you smear canned frosting over graham crackers and liberally apply shredded coconut? What about a congress of Nutella and marmalade between slabs of raisin toast? Will Sandwich Science™ever be granted the opportunity for sleep? For rest? For the fundamental answers to necessary questions?

The Winking Lizard

2011-11-26T15:25:00.001-08:00

6111 Quarry Ln

Independence, OH 44131

(216) 524-2226

http://www.winkinglizard.com

by Beau Cadiyo

“I think it’s good for the city,” Frank said.

I let out an incredulous bark.

We were meeting over burgers at the Winking Lizard inIndependence. I’d brought up thenew young adult program being pushed by Fitzgerald. Frank, a famous skepticof county government, had just said he thought the program was a goodidea.

“No,” he corrected me, “I think it is good for the city.”

What’s the difference?

“OK,” he said, gazing up at the ceiling as if figuring outthe best way to explain something to a child. “We are dedicated to Cleveland, believe it is an incrediblecity, and want to make it as good as it can be, right?

Yes.

“We can agree that government in Cuyahoga County isdespicably corrupt and wholeheartedly ineffective, right?”

Yes.

“We agree that if, say, the government was kicked outwholesale, everyone would benefit?”

Yes.

“We can agree that the way they’ve been doing things needsto change?”

“We can agree that the system itself is a corruptinginfluence, and that the people within the system can change but they are notgoing to change the system?”

Well, what’s the point?

“It’s simple,” he said, as if he’d been waiting for me toget annoyed. “This program isgoing to make it easier to identify the enemies of our city. This program is specifically designedto catch the people who are young and to co-opt them into the system that needsto be destroyed. It is going toappeal to people who are ambitious but not smart enough to think about whatthey’re doing, who want to change the system but aren’t smart enough to escapeit. And then we know who the enemyis.

“See, kids are going to apply for the program, and then theyare put through a selection process, which makes them feel special. It is custom-MADEto sound like it is selective, and it is. It is selecting for the most promising leaders that the government canfind. These kids are then broughtinto the system. They meet theso-called leaders of our communities. They are taught who controls the government and how they shouldact. They’re taught where to go tomeals to impress people, how they should look and most importantly what bribes theyshould accept. They’re taught howto bow and how to bend over, and they’re shackled to the old way of doingthings. In ten years, twentyyears, these kids with their fresh-scrubbed faces are, like Orwell’s pigs, going to look exactly like Russo andFitzgerald and all the rest of the politicians ruining this city. I mean, do you think that any of theseyoung “leaders” are going to try to buck the system as soon as they are the system?”

No.

“Exactly. Soit’s good for the city.”

But how, if they’re taking the crème-de-la-crème andco-opting them and preventing them from revolting?

“Ah, but that’s where you again don’t understand me. They’re not the crème-de-la-crème. The people who apply for this program are already going to be the kindsof people who blindly do things for the baubles that result. They’re going to be the kinds of peoplewho pin nametags on their chests and look at the new line on their resumes andsay, ‘I’m somebody. Hey, look atme, I’m important.’ The thing is,the real leaders of tomorrow aren’t going to care about these baubles. They’re going to care about improvingthe city. These young executivesare trying to get into government so they themselves can benefit; the nextgeneration of leaders are going to care about destroying these young executivesand saving our city.”

What do you mean?

“There’s a revolution -”

A black revolution?

He smiled. “ACleveland revolution, afoot. People are disgusted by politics and the politicians. They are not looking for a new voice, anew leader or a new regime. Theyare looking for a new system.” Hepounded the table. “FitzGerald andhis boys and girls know this, and they’re going to fight it. The county executive – I mean, Fitz isthe one who opposed the executive passionately because it went against the oldsystem, and then he’s the one that the system put in place to make sure thatnothing really changed.”

I took a bite of my burger. It was ok.

“But we actually do have a new generation rising, and theycan’t stop it.”

Because they didn’t start it.

“You can feel the anger and the passion in the air. There are social networks formingindependent of the old guard, and it’s making them furious because they can’ttap into these networks as easily as they are used to doing. They’re used to the old ways of doingthings around here. With these newgroups, they realize that they can’t get access. This young executive program is a dying gasp – a fighting gasp,yes, but a dying gasp, and anyone who helps out with this, who applies, isgoing to have a black mark on themselves. We’ll be able to mark them out as functionaries, as servants. Fitzgerald is trying to use them tokeep the others in check, under control, keep them passive, keep them peacefuland nonviolent.”

I heard echoes.

“They’re going to use these young executives as pawns to tryto control us. These kids are thechameleons, the courtiers, who betray our city and each other in order topreserve themselves."

I still didn't get how it was good for the city.

“Well, I think it’s good for the city, because it is going tohelp us identify the people we can’t trust to run this city, this county orthis state. Soon we’ll have mugshots and resumes of the very people who are being willingly put in place toprop up the current regime, the current system. We will, in effect, have a line up of the traitors we can’ttrust. And when the time comes,we’re going to have to deal with these people the same way we’ve always dealtwith traitors.”

He looked at me for a difficult moment.

“Even if they’re trying to run this county like athird-world colony, this is still America, and we’re still Americans. We’re Clevelanders. It’s not easy to live here, and it’snot easy to love this city. It’snot easy to deal with the system, and it’s not going to be easy to overturn thesystem and turn all of these traitors out into the streets. But it’s coming. Yes, it is. It’s coming, and it’s people like us who are going to leadthe charge. We’re going to take awhole generation of these so-called leaders and, when we know who they are, we’re going to make sure thatthey don’t have a place at the table. They play tough, and they’re going to be playing tough in order to stayin power. But when push comes toshove, we’re still willing to create a revolution.” Then his voice lowered, and he got the pace. “‘A revolution is hostile. A revolution knows no compromise. A revolution overturns and destroyseverything that gets in its way.’”

“‘And you, sitting out here like a knot on the wall saying ‘I’mgonna love these folks no matter how much they hate me,’’” I said,laughing.

“No, YOU need a revolution!” he roared, and it felt likeCleveland was looking at us and not just the waitresses and the people at thenext table, and I suddenly had hope again, and the burger tasted just that muchbetter.

Tim Horton's

2011-10-02T13:21:00.001-07:00

2000 Talbot Rd W
Windsor, ON N9A 6S4, Canada
(519) 966-1656
http://www.timhortons.com/

by Beau Cadiyo

Groggy, I walked to the Caesar's lobby in an effort to get my bearings. The man behind the courtesy desk allowed me to ask the question that had been marinating in the back of my mind ever since we’d crossed the border:

"What's that one Canadian fast food place that people love so much?"

He was perplexed. "Arby's?"

The ridiculousness of his statement shocked me so much that I paused. Arby's? Canadian? It's beef, dude. And bread. And corn sugar-based sauce. They have salted, seasoned curly fries and milk shakes. They have coupons that give you five roast beef sandwiches for five dollars. There’s no way it could be anything but American. I knew I could never trust him ever again.

Instead, I said, "No - they send food to the troops in Afghanistan. I heard that they have really good coffee."

"Oh, Tim Horton's!" he exclaimed.

"Yes! Where's the nearest one?"

The woman waiting behind me looked intrigued at this exchange. That didn't surprise me. I'm Beau Cadiyo. I know sandwiches. Maybe she, too, thought Arby's was Canadian, and I blew her mind with truth. Regardless, I ignored her immediate and intense attraction to me. Sandwich Science™ can do that to a girl; you - or, rather, I - get accustomed to it.

He gave me directions, to which I nodded and smiled and didn't pay attention. I walked through sweltering streets, sweat soaking my shirt, skivvies and shorts. The core of downtown Windsor has the distinct feeling of an abandoned tropical tourist town. There are bars and restaurants, weathered facades and a few empty storefronts. Trees line the street, there's not much traffic, and there were far more young, attractive women than there were men of any age. Indeed, the paramedics we saw were women, and the first three cops I saw were women. Very young, very, very attractive women. I stopped to ask for directions from each of them.

Upon walking in, Tim Horton’s seems to be a mix between Dunkin' Donuts and McDonald's. There were several people there even though it was mid-afternoon, and three staff members seemed busy, although I was the only one in line. I was told that four Canadian dollars and ninety-seven Canadian cents would get me a chicken salad sandwich, a donut and a drink. That’s what I got. I’m a sandwich man; I’m not an economist.

The first difference I noticed was that Tim Horton’s used real flatware and silverware – a beautiful sight in a fast food joint. Second, Tim Horton’s is quality. The toasted bread was hearty, the chicken salad was excellent, the lettuce was crispy and the tomato tasted both fresh and ripe. My donut was unlike any I’d ever had before; it was chewy and dense and had an aroma that indicated they used real, fresh blueberries in it. It was solid, offered resistance to my teeth, and was still warm from being cooked.

I thought of California when I was driving back across the border into Detroit. I heard once that there is nowhere in the world where the difference between a developed and developing nation is so starkly laid out as the border between San Diego and Tijuana. I think that the border between Detroit and Windsor is the fast food equivalent: on the Windsor side is high-quality food, with reusable utensils and real fruit, represented by Tim Horton’s, and on the Detroit side is crap that makes people obese, represented by Arby’s, which is American, by the way, and maybe I shouldn't be proud of that fact but I am.

Num Pang

2011-10-02T13:05:00.000-07:00

21 East 12th Street Map
New York, NY 10003
212-255-3271
numpangnyc.com

by Beau Cadiyo

Walking through crowds is an art. Some people approach CrowdWalking™ as an opportunity to join the masses, just going along with what everyone else is doing, moving at the crowd pace. Some people bumble along even more slowly, disrupting and inconveniencing everyone else. Others successfully move through the crowd at a faster or slower speed at will, cutting through an otherwise solid mass swiftly and easily, without interrupting other peoples’ courses; they react to the movements of others and respond accordingly in order to maximize their own speed and avoid collisions. When they do get in the way of other people, the others may feel momentary annoyance, but then they realize that they’re in the presence of a Super Walker™ and don’t fault them for this transgression.

I am a Super Walker™. I’m really fucking good at walking.

It took these skills to get from Union Station to Num Pang Sandwich Shop. Union Square was packed on a Saturday morning; artists set up their tables everywhere with farmers, a sexual harassment exhibit staffed by nubile college-aged coeds was attracting half-shaved middle-aged men, and people lounged around on stairs, benches and fences, blocking everything up in a sea of humanity.

I meandered through the streets; for a city, New York feels safe and, as a tourist, it’s hard to imagine that these streets are considered “hard.” Suddenly, I passed a sign advertising Bahn Mis. I started, immediately flipped through my New York Moleskine and located the shop on my list of potential places to try. The window was open, as was the door, and I walked in only to be told that it would be another 15 minutes until they actually opened. Dejected, I went to buy fruit at a grocery store, then returned. I ordered a peppercorn catfish sandwich for $7.50 – a very good price – and rubbed my hands in anticipation.

They handed me a bag, and I brought it back to Union Square. I was salivating, the heat was permeating the bag in a teasing way. Sitting on a somehow-vacant bench, I pulled it out of the bag and popped open the cardboard container expectantly.

I was again dejected.

The bahn mi was actually pretty good – delicious, really. The chewy bread had a nice crust and the filling was delectable – simultaneously sweet and salty and spicy, all of the elements mixing in perfect balance of tastes and textures. The problem, of course, was that the price may have been low for a bahn mi in New York, but was nevertheless exceptionally high for the amount of food I actually got. It was barely bigger than a dinner roll, and, while the filling was good, there was not much of it. My paradigm may have made an adopted New Yorker blush, and a native New Yorker scream, but if I’m going to pay that much for a sandwich, it better be big enough to satisfy me. This was barely a cocktail appetizer, much less a $7.50 sandwich.

I’d feel bad about these expectations, or at the very least embarrassed in front of my New York readers, except that these sandwiches are a ripoff. If people want to tell me that I’m a backwoods hick, well, that’s fine. As a New Yorker at Time once wrote, “There is no provincialism so blatant as the metropolitan who lacks urbanity.”

Port Deli

2011-09-23T12:52:00.000-07:00

681 8th Avenue
New York, NY 10036
(212) 245-2362
by Beau Cadiyo

So there have been a few more shootings in Cleveland recently. As with all of the shootings in this city, there was an initial flurry of political attention and television coverage after each incident, followed the next day by radio silence.

Whenever something like this happens it reminds me of a debate I had with Frank Ciepiel over whether it was a more pressing priority to fund education or security; he argued the former, I the latter. It was during a discussion with a few friends over the weekend that I realized again that Frank is completely wrong and I am completely right. Two important points came up in that discussion, and the subsequent ruminations that such discussions always provoke: Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and the living example of New York City.

A while ago, a psychologist named Maslow formed a theory about how we progress as human beings. It said that we all have basic needs, and only after basic needs are met can we move on to secondary needs that are less important to survival but are important to our happiness and sense of self-worth. Among these basic needs: food, water, shelter and security. If we don’t get these, we will be so preoccupied with getting them that we won’t begin to think about whether we are truly happy, or what our purpose in life might be. Education? Seriously? It’s not even on the radar. Security, however, is very important; if we don’t feel secure, we will put up with threats without realizing our full potential, fight for our security until we ARE secure or flee to a place where we are secure.

Here’s the thought that Andrew Samtoy, our media representative and bon vivant, had: just as there is a personal hierarchy of needs, there is a societal hierarchy of needs that is necessary for a society, on any level, to function properly. At its most basic level, before anything else, a city must provide citizens with security.
This played out in New York City over the last twenty years, and shows us a clear path to where we must put our energy, attention, time and money. New York City was a dangerous place twenty years ago. It was so dangerous that people living there were leaving and people not living there were staying away. The critical need of safety wasn’t being provided, and New York City was falling apart.

So what did they do?

The police stepped up their game and the citizens got themselves some security.

The cops started to work better and smarter. They secured the streets and the subways. They fixed broken windows, and then they went neighborhood by neighborhood to stop crime. The result? Murder rates fell. Violent crime rates fell. Actually, all crime rates fell, and they continue to fall http://www.wbng.com/news/state/Crime-Rate-on-the-Decline-in-New-York-130116908.html . People felt safer because people were safer, and soon they were able to think about other things besides their personal safety. They were able to do more, to think creatively, to achieve, and to invest their time in things like education without worrying so much about their safety. The most important thing is that they stopped moving out and others started moving in.
Frank Todoroff and I saw this first-hand last week. We took the train into Penn Station and walked up toward Central Park, through sidewalks absolutely packed with New Yorkers and tourists. We saw a sign for the Port Deli and I went in and ordered a corned beef sandwich. The man behind the counter carefully prepared it – rye bread, heated corned beef, Swiss cheese, mustard, lettuce, tomato. He wrapped it carefully and handed the package over. It was medium sized, and warm, with well-marbled beef, perfectly melted cheese and good rye; it wasn’t Slyman’s, but then, you can only hope for so much. Back outside, we joined thousands of people rushing around, New Yorkers and tourists alike, flooding the restaurants, bars, cafes, shops, parks, subways, and pounding every inch of concrete, overflowing into the streets.

Many years ago, when we came together to create the modern form of social groups, we delegated certain tasks to society in order to focus on doing other things well, things that we found more interesting and rewarding. The most basic need we delegated was safety; we set up a societal security system where we created a police system and, in exchange, we rewarded the people who served. As a society, we can’t and shouldn’t feed and clothe all of our citizens; history shows that that’s a fool’s errand https://secure.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/wiki/Soviet_Union . We can and should, however, create a system where people can do this for themselves, and this can only be accomplished by making sure they are safe to pursue their chosen vocations. I am not arguing that Cleveland should be like New York; I am arguing that if we want the vitality of a city, we’re going to have to change a few things to make Cleveland better for Clevelanders.

Right now, our citizens aren’t being provided with enough security - the recent shootings are proof of that. If we do not meet this need, we, as a city, will continue to lose our citizens to cities that provide security, and we won’t attract replacements for them.

Searching

2011-08-26T10:17:00.000-07:00

Someone in Russia just visited us, leaving the following on our Feedjit:

Posad, Novgorod arrived from google.ru on "The Cleveland Sandwich Board: Freddie’s Southern Style Rib House" by searching for restroom ratings blog "walking into a cave".

Sir or Madam: I don't know what you're looking for, but I hope you find it.

Best,
Beau

Freddie's Rib House

2011-08-25T17:29:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Freddie's Rib House
5361 Mayfield Rd
Lyndhurst, OH 44124
(440) 449-9400
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Freddies-Rib-House/210918355586102
by Beau Cadiyo

Trust.

Since picking up the Fukuyama book of the same name, I’ve been consumed by the idea of how important trust is in our society. Fukuyama makes the compelling argument that the degree of trust that exists between people and people, or people and institutions, determines the economic position and power that the society as a whole can hold, and the economic output that that society can produce. On the surface, it is a deceptively simple argument, but I’m surprised that nobody has apparently made it so eloquently before – and seemingly few people have paid attention to it since it was first published in 1995.

Trust, Fukuyama argues, determines the size of companies in an economy. Why? Because without some level of trust between strangers, companies cannot grow larger than one’s family and immediate associates, which automatically limits the ability of each entity to grow. Take the example of a family business in Italy, for example. Father starts the business. The children grow up in the business and, later, are expected to work in the business. When they want to expand their production, they turn to their family members first, because they can trust them. Then, they might incorporate their friends into the business, and then maybe their friends’ family members. Trust between strangers there is low, for a variety of reasons. The consequences, though, are staggering: very few businesses in a low-trust society will grow into world-changing behemoths.

There are more dire consequences as well. For example, if the family decides not to participate in the business, it will eventually die because there won’t be any workers. If the family is small, it can’t do more business than its individual members can do. If these individuals are lazy, stupid or incompetent, or simply ignore the business for their own personal pursuits – prostitutes, strip clubs, drinking – then the business will rest on the shoulders of others, or go down with the scions, taking advantage of the unearned, undeserved support of the kin. Similarly, if a generation leaves the business, or the old guard dies out, then the knowledge of how to run that business leaves or dies with them; anyone who purchases a business in these circumstances must know about it, because they can’t trust that the old guard will stay on to help teach them how to work.

Compare this to how most of America works. Frank has a business. He wants to expand it. What does he do? He puts out a job posting. People send in their resumes; the company trusts that these people are truthful and can do the work. They interview and hire the best candidate or candidates for the position and, if the work is done well, they prosper. Then, they hire more people. And more. And more.
Most of America.

The place where this doesn’t seem to work, strangely enough, is in government, and there are predictably dire consequences. Think about the disgusting things that Republicans have done over the last few years. Strike that – think of the things that the Republicans have done for much of their party’s history, but lets focus on the last ten years. They started unnecessary, unjust wars based on fabricated evidence (remember Colin Powell’s nice drawings in front of the UN?) and then hand juicy, no-bid contracts to their Halliburton and Blackwater, reaping millions while the country sunk deeper into debt. Here in Ohio, right now, Kasich is trying to figure out a way to give state assets like the toll roads to his business buddies, who will re-vamp the labor contracts and reap billions for taking these out of state hands.
What happens when this occurs? People naturally turn against politicians and political institutions. They accuse them of corruption, and this all leads to a breakdown of – you got it – trust. They don’t put any faith in the government because they know it can be – and constantly is – corrupted; the government of laws, not of men, is actually a government of men making up laws.

So, really, what record to the Democrats have in Cuyahoga County, and do they deserve to be voted in again, time after time?

Cleveland’s Democratic party seems to have some sort of party policy that it’s OK for people to hire their family members and friends; nepotism is smiled upon, because people have to look out for their own. They seem to feel that it’s OK for political figures to hand out juicy government contracts to their friends while denouncing the hypocrisy of Republicans (the hypocrisy that Albert Pike described long ago). Democratic party leaders and politicians look the other way when there is rampant corruption and systemic abuse; then they feign surprise and incredulity when their closest friends and workmates are hauled away, say a quick prayer that the bleeding stops there, and then continue on with business as usual. Again, this destroys peoples’ trust in local government. Citizens and voters don’t trust government because government has done everything to destroy that trust; politicians are viewed as being out for each other and themselves. In the instances – perhaps not rare – when politicians are on the square, they are also not whistleblowers to the misdeeds of their peers, doing nothing to divest people of the notion that they are all complicit in corruption. Why did it take the FBI to come in and arrest Dimora, et al? Why didn’t their peers stand up to question their behavior?

Why should we trust them?

What is needed, always, is transparency and accountability. Short-term, there must be rules against hiring kin; a mayor’s parents should not be on the mayor’s payroll, and neither party – nay, no party – should tolerate nepotism of any kind. Long-term, our political culture must fundamentally change; government must be run so that it avoids even the appearance of impropriety. Any hint of corruption or unfair dealing must be dealt with swiftly, harshly and publicly. It is like a garden with weeds; if you want to grow vegetables, fruit and pretty flowers, you absolutely must destroy the weeds as soon as they appear.

You must also keep them from popping up again.

I was checking on some fruit trees on my estate when I spotted some trash caught among the hostas. I became annoyed as soon as I recognized it as a flier – “these people, leaving trash in my yard just to try to sell something,” I thought. A phrase caught my eye just as I was about to crush it. That flier had been dropped, as if by the will of God, on my doorstep, and only a handful of others in the area would have recognized its significance.

Freddie’s was back.

Also, it was less than a mile away.

The next day, Frank Brown and I played nine holes at Manakiki and then drove over in a two-car caravan. We walked in to a small space with four tables and, in the back, a massive kitchen – easily five times as large as the dining area. A girl walked to the counter to greet us.

“Is this the same Freddie’s that was downtown?”

“Yep – the very same exact one,” she said.

Frank looked at the menu; I didn’t have to.

The assembly took a long time. When they did come out, I started getting nervous again. She could have been lying and just said that it was the same restaurant without expecting us to know. Maybe they just stole the name. Maybe the recipe changed. A million things could have happened. Now it was like meeting up with the good ex after twenty years, not having seen them in that time, with the express purpose of getting back together again - but not knowing how that might play out.

There wasn't any problem - they were still the same. And they were amazing.

The sausage was what set them apart. First, it’s huge – the “large” is twice the size of the regular, and $1 more. It is still almost black on the outside and, 1/3 of a millimeter under the skin, it’s a bright, uniform sausage-red. Frank thought that the sauce was the best of any Polish Boy he’d ever had. The coleslaw was fresh, crispy and creamy and the fries were soft and a little limp, but still good. The bun was perfect; it soaked up juices and its sponginess contrasted perfectly with the solidity of the sausage. I started matching each bite of sausage with some bread or a French fry just to make sure there was a contrast. It made me remember the first time I’d had a Polish Boy, and something inside of me – a memory of my youth, perhaps – was rekindled. Maybe it was simply love that worked out after all. I thought that, perhaps, I might not be able to go back to any of the other places I'd tried out since that first (and last) fateful day.

The old Freddie’s was dirty. I think that it was the dirtiest restaurant I’ve ever been in. The new one is clean and sparkling, and the food is the same. I was back in there two days later, and I'll be back again tomorrow. Politics, though, is, and always will be, a filthy, disgusting game; no matter who the Executive is, no matter who the Legislators are, and no matter where you're talking about, it'll always be the same, and the few good people who participate in it – well, they’re touching pitch.

Caddilac Challenge

2011-08-07T13:39:00.000-07:00

Cadillac contacted me to see if I would be willing to judge an upcoming food competition between Chef Kaplan of Dragonfly and some celebrity chef I have never heard of (eschewing television sometimes means I'm not up on celebrity culture). It is part of a tour they're running of the country, pitting celebrity chefs against local heroes, and they wisely asked us to participate as judges. Unfortunately, I will be in Cinque Terre with a couple of accommodating, adventurous Austrians and tragically won't be able to be attend. Luckily for them a number of our writers will be there as judges. Here are two videos that Cadillac suggested we show to our readers; neither involve sandwiches, but they are instructive.

Best,
Beau

Sixth City Diner

2011-08-02T20:11:00.000-07:00

1265 West 9th Street
Cleveland, OH 44113
(216) 619-1600
www.sixthcitydiner.com

by Beau Cadiyo

When I was young in Cleveland a girl invited me to a salsa dancing class. I remember nothing about the girl, or the class, but every time I walked through the alleyway past that bar I would look through the windows and stare. Those windows were huge, it seemed, and inside the bar it was inevitably dark and romantic, like a 1930s gangster haunt, and couples always seemed to be in the middle of dance lessons of their own - young men and women dressed more formally and beautifully than the West Sixth crowd. There was music in the air through the summer nights, horn-heavy music, and the awkward movements that come with amateurs taking tentative steps forward and back, back and forth, adding affected flairs and garnishes which made them as ridiculous and attractive as three-year-old girls trying on their mother's makeup.

Tonight, I returned to the Waterstreet Grill - for it was the Waterstreet - and found it different inside. Someone had widened it and modernized it and taken out the old, elegant fixtures and replaced them with modern pieces. Gone was the dark, mysterious, danger-charged atmosphere; an airy lightness had descended, a little less threatening and a little more sterile. Gone were the dancing couples, or future couples; besides the one occupied table I sat at, three guys and one girl were clustered close to the bar and it was otherwise empty.

I don't remember the old menu, or if there even was an old menu. Maybe it was just a bar, a legendary, gangster-looking bar. This time, we were there to eat, and there was only one thing on the menu I could consider: the Peanut Butter and Bacon Burger.

It should be a rule that if you are in a restaurant you should eat something you've never had before or something you wouldn't or couldn't make yourself. Me, I would have never thought of mixing a burger with PB and bacon. I mean, Peanut Butter and Meat? Bacon? Why settle for so much saltiness; why not add some brie and strawberry jam, or, better yet, aged cheddar and apple butter to make it more like an Apple Pie burger? (SOMEONE STEAL THAT IDEA, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.) But just as we fight the war with the military we have, we order our burgers from the sandwich menu we are given.

To be totally honest, it was pretty good. The Peanut Butter they used melted all over the burger as oily condiments are wont to do, but rather than be annoying the combination surprisingly worked - it wasn't too thick or too oily. The bacon was at just the right point where it was crisp yet retained a satisfying, fatty chewiness. The lettuce and tomato were slightly wilted and dry, respectively, and the bun was made for a burger twice as large in circumference. Even these failings sufficed, though, and besides, nobody would order such an improbable creation for roughage or carbs. The sweet potato fries on the side were among the best I've ever had, and I hate sweet potato fries; they were a bit salty, but well-cooked. Everything on the plate benefited by generous dollops of ketchup and mayonnaise. The service, too, was excellent - over the course of the meal no fewer than five people came to check on us, one guy stopping by three times.

I never stepped foot in the Waterstreet after the first salsa lesson; perhaps it reflects more on my dancing or the girl than on the bar itself. I will certainly be stopping by Sixth City again, though. If they could come up with a PB and Bacon Burger, I'm very interested in finding out what else they have that I'd neither think of or make myself.

Is the Polish Boy a perfect food?

2011-07-22T09:03:00.000-07:00

I am currently sitting in my office eating a Polish Boy from R. Ribs that I got last night as part of their "buy one, get second for 99 cents" Thursday deal. In my office is a bottle of Sriracha which goes on virtually everything I eat - pizza, chicken, vegetables, breakfast sandwiches, salads, yogurt, apples, bananas. I sometimes even squirt it in my mouth to get a taste, I love it so much. A long time ago, after I got my first bottle, I remember eating something - an omelette, perhaps - and thinking, "this could go on any food and improve it."

Until today, that was true.

The most recent bottle was sitting on my desk next to my coffee, and when I reached over to take a sip I saw it. A few fries had fallen out of the Polish Boy and were lying forlornly on the plate. I reached out and, as an experiment, I squirted a bit of Sriracha on them, scooped them up with my fork, and chewed.

Sriracha can go with fries, of course, and with virtually any other potato product - Spanish omelettes, mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, microwaved potatoes, potato salad, etc. But when I put these into my mouth, I knew I had made a mistake. The Sriracha was there, and had the same old familiar bite, but instead of improving the taste it somehow clashed in a way it has never clashed with any other food before. My face scrunched up and I immediately separated the now-contaminated fries from the rest of the Polish Boy and ate them quickly, then moved on to the deliciousness that is R. Ribs' sausage/coleslaw/fry/sauce/bun combination.

My mind couldn't process it immediately, but about three minutes later I had the thought: if, as is indisputable, Sriracha can improve anything, and that perfect things cannot be improved, and that Sriracha does not improve a Polish Boy, does it not follow that the Polish Boy is a complete and perfect sandwich? Is that not logic, complete and unbreakable and pure?

I submit to you that it is, and I suggest to you that you find yourself a Polish Boy this weekend, cut two small portions off of it, eat one small portion, eat the other with Sriracha, and then eat the rest of the Polish Boy understanding far more about logic, balance, perfection and indisputable facts than you ever did previously.

Have a lovely weekend, my friend.

Best,
Beau

The Sadness

2011-07-14T11:37:00.000-07:00

To be frank, one of the best things about the Cleveland Sandwich Board is the opportunity we have, each and every day, to provide immense and increasingly important aid to people around the world. Occasionally we receive emails from visitors, like the one below, and we respond directly to them, respecting their privacy and maintaining our own integrity. However, this writer asks us to address a subject of such seriousness, a source of such sadness, that we decided to make our response public - for the greater good.

Beau,
We will be in Cleveland next week and wanted to make sure we tried several Polish boys. I saw a comment someone recently made on yelp or chowhound that said Freddie's was closed. Do you know if they are still in business? Any one else you would recommend? Thanks.
Frank

Frank -

Thank you for writing, and for recognizing that we are the single most important sandwich reviewing organization in the general vicinity.

Sadly, Freddie's closed; they appear to be putting in some sort of bar now. For alternatives, I'd suggest the following:

- Battiste & Dupree
- R. Ribs
- Just Like Mom's
- Hot Sauce Williams
- B&M Barbecue
- Seti's

Enjoy your stay, and your food!

Best,
Beau

Philadelphia - Pat's, Tony Luke's, Campo's

2011-07-02T14:01:00.001-07:00

From Abroad

Where 9th street crosses Wharton and Passyunk Ave.
Philadelphia, PA 19147
215-468-1546
www.patskingofsteaks.com

39 East Oregon Avenue
Philadelphia, PA 19148
(215) 551-5725
www.tonylukes.com

214 Market St
Philadelphia, PA 19106
(215) 923-1000
www.camposdeli.com

by Beau Cadiyo

Bite: two of America's great sandwiches in one of America's great cities. Oh, and Campo's is kind of ok.

It should be obvious to anyone who visits Chicago that a city can thrive despite bitterly cold weather in the winter and rampant and odious corruption year-round; visiting Philadelphia, it’s evident a city can still have a strong heartbeat with widespread poverty and record levels of crime just over the border. Cleveland bears both of these curses, and could thrive, but for how it is planned. What I don’t get is why the city planners don’t follow Jane Jacobs’ lead and actually look to see what in a city will help it succeed.

Unlike Cleveland, Philadelphia has lots of mixed-use buildings and row houses and bars and restaurants. In many ways, it’s like East Fourth, but a whole city of East Fourths, open late and packed together. People want to be on top of each other – not just in the reproductive sense but in the no-man-is-an-island sense. We want to be around other people; we crave it; we are secretly most comfortable when we are crammed together in an apartment and we can hear our neighbors breathing.

So it was no wonder to me that Frank Kojouri wanted to move back to her hometown after law school. I hadn’t seen her in a couple of years, but she was still the same – just more energetic and adult. She picked us up outside of the 30th Street Station and we zipped around while she showed us sights – alleys, famous punk venues, historical buildings. At one point, I saw a lot that was about eight feet wide and thought, “They could put a house there.” That’s what it’s like.

As she drove, she prepped us: there is a traditional divide between Geno’s and Pat’s for cheesesteaks. Geno’s is all glitz and glamour, Pat’s is where locals actually eat. Verily, they were right across the street from each other, and it was true: Geno’s was covered in fluorescent lights, flashing bulbs and bright colors, and was virtually empty; Pat’s hadn’t been painted since 1978 and was surrounded, the way that a bee hive buzzes with activity, little drones dancing and wiggling and moving. We queued up to the window and Frank ordered; as soon as she said we wanted Cheez Whiz, they were served, and I had to pay. It took less time to get the food and pay than it took you to read that sentence. I’ve never seen service that fast, and it wasn’t a fluke – they turn over huge amounts of food very, very quickly, and it was a miracle that we walked right into an open table, considering how many other patrons were trying to sit down.

According to Frank, what makes Philly cheesesteaks special in Philadelphia is the bread; it is baked by a local baker, and is uniform throughout the more famous and popular places. The cheeze whiz is standardized, too, so restaurants can’t differentiate much on that critical ingredient. What they CAN differentiate themselves on is the steak; also, each restaurant had a big vat of pickled peppers, and Pat’s also had some dried, smoked ones that made my ears ache when I ate one plain (not recommended). We tore ours apart, literally, so we could share them, and I tried mine plain. Then I did what Frank recommended and put some ketchup on. The difference was incredible: plain, they were good, but a tiny bit dry. With the ketchup, though, there was suddenly a sweet saltiness that complimented everything else well.

At the rate that we paid for our food, or $20 in about ten seconds, they would be making $7,200 per hour at peak times. When we drove out, we passed Geno’s. It was empty despite its lights; esse quam videri.

Frank drove us past some developing areas, past an abandoned cruise ship, past an Ikea and on to Tony Luke’s. Again, Cheesesteak, Cheez Whiz, and pickled peppers, but this time we weren’t hungry and there was a much longer wait. I grabbed a table while the girls ordered, and took the time to look at the other patrons. Many of them were fat. Not curvaceous, not thick, not heavy, not big-boned – they were fat. Fat fat. Cheesesteak fat. They didn’t look like locals; many seemed to be tourists, just like us, ill-clad for the weather and waiting around for the famous food.

I kept waiting, drawing post cards to my family, fending off other patrons trying to sit down, and then waited some more. Finally, Frank was called and the girls brought the food over. If the bread was the same, I wouldn’t have known it; this time it was far more crusty, as if they had scooped out the soft middle, all the better with which to hold the meat. It was greasier, too, which I liked; there wasn’t as much of a need for ketchup, although I did put some on. The meat was more tender, too, although I’m not sure it was worth the drive or the wait.

We had some grinders at Campo’s that don’t bear mention other than that they didn’t include oil on it at first, then got salty when we requested some. Then we walked the streets, dodging people and dogs, passing rooms where famous events occurred and the liberty bell. We played craps on Ben Franklin’s grave and left the dice there; we went into a Quaker meeting house which also hosted Franklin’s freemason meetings and talked to a period actor for an hour. It struck me that the buildings were just buildings; they didn’t have any special qualities, any special wood or floorboards or paint or roofs or windows that differentiated them from other buildings. Instead, they were distinguished by people who did great things in them. They saw things that were wrong, or that could be improved, and they worked to fix them. Nothing more, nothing less.

We’d run around the city that morning – from our hotel around City Hall, then to Chinatown, past the market, then up to the art museum. I thought of my mother. When I first saw Saturday Night Fever, she explained to me the significance at the end: Travolta’s character crosses THE bridge, which to people from New York was some big deal. “People spend their entire lives in four blocks of New York, and they never get out; when he crossed the bridge, it was like. . .woah.”

The first time she saw it, she cried – not the little tears that well up when the old lady suddenly recognizes her husband in The Notebook, or when the young lady decides to tell her parents to sod off, again in The Notebook, or when you think she's going to get married to the rich asshole, again in The Notebook, but giant sobs, the kind that might be even more embarrassing except she was in a theater in New York and everyone was sobbing. I imagined what it must be like to be from Philadelphia, knowing what it meant for Rocky to run from his neighborhood all the way up to the art museum, then to stand at the top and look down at the city and think about conquering it.

Ontario Street Cafe

2011-06-27T18:56:00.000-07:00

2053 Ontario St
Cleveland, OH 44115
(216) 861-6446

by Beau Cadiyo

The TSA recently revised its methods of patting down children at airports. The practice has lots of critics; after all, how many five-year-olds are going to kick down the door of a cockpit, fire bullets into the heads of the pilots and commandeer the plane for terrorist activity? The answer: very, very few (I've learned recently that anything, really, is possible, and not to underestimate children.)

This video starts out with John Pistole, the head of the TSA, proving that he deserves to spend eternity in a special hell of being molested by TSA agents armed with metal-detecting tridents and rubber gloves slathered in hot sauce. Then Rand Paul, Ron Paul's son and current US Senator from Kentucky, has a nice little monologue where he accuses the TSA chief of "not getting it" and "missing the boat" in targeting TSA searches.

For the most part he's right, but his justifications are absurd. He indicates that the children aren't going to be the terrorists and, of course, he's right. What he somehow misses altogether, and what Pistole corrects him on, is that these children can make effective weapons when deployed by adults. In addition, they are usually traveling with adults, all of whom might be capable of carrying out a terrorist attack as ably as the Saudis of 9/11 and can use the children as mules for everything from weapons to drugs; the adults traveling with those children might be the ones that the TSA actually has their eyes on.

Then he goes on to say, "I think you ought to get rid of the random patdowns. The American public is unhappy with 'em; they're unhappy with the invasiveness of 'em; the internet is full of jokes about the invasiveness of your patdown searches; and we ought to just consider is this what we're willing to do." I guess this goes to the heart of democracy; what is the role of the government? Is it to do what is right or to perform the will of the people? If it was to do the will of the people, some might say that government should stop whatever it is doing and serve ice cream to everyone if the temperature hits 90 degrees. If it is to do what is right, though, then the justification of "people are joking about this on the internet; get rid of it" is ludicrous. I suppose it must be somewhere in between, where politicians perform the will of the people to the extent that they feel it is beneficial.

These things need to be discussed and hashed out every few years by the new generation of leaders, preferably in dingy bars with intimate booths that lend themselves to conversation, random friendly strangers stopping by to contribute to the conversation and, most important of all, good food and cheap drinks to stimulate and lubricate the flow of ideas. The Ontario Street Cafe fits that bill perfectly. When I first walked in it was loud - VERY loud. Beyonce was on the jukebox and all of the ten or fifteen women sitting around the bar or shuffling drinks to patrons was singing and dancing; the men were sitting back laughing. Frank Meuti and I - wide-eyed and somewhat disoriented by the onslaught of visual and auditory information - found a booth in the back corner and sat down; the music was loud, but they had somehow found the volume level that matched Jordan Baker's requirements for parties: it was loud enough that you could have a private conversation.

The Dos Equis lagers we ordered were brought within thirty seconds; the hot corned beef sandwich was brought within three minutes. I am usually not impressed by quality when I am impressed by speed, so it was with some amount of trepidation that I bit into the first half of my sandwich. It was, like Slyman's, packed high; unlike Slyman's, they gave me the choice of various sauces, of which I chose the mayo/horseradish.

If there is any sauce that should be consumed with a corned beef sandwich, this is the sauce. It was creamy and moist and spicy, adding to what was already incredibly tender corned beef that I suspected one might be able to gum to edibility. The bread was standard white bread; some Swiss cheese was melted perfectly on top. I forced Frank to eat some, at which he took half of the other half, devouring it in between observations on developments in Cleveland he either was a wholehearted supporter of or was deeply skeptical about. We were approached, at various times, by people who were very sorry to interrupt our conversation but wanted our opinions on something; rather than get annoyed, the fact that we were fish out of water made us open and accepting, which made them the same way. Then, we went back to discussing the role of creativity in economic development, intelligent city planning versus unintelligent city planning, the Medical Mart and the Cuyahoga County Democrats. A few Dos Equis bottles later, we got up from the table and headed out the door. Frank pointed out the price chart on the wall: $3.25 for top shelf drinks, and much less for well. I scanned the shelves; Dewar's, Black Velvet and Jack all had representative bottles, and I made a mental note that I'd be getting those next time instead of the flash $3 bottles.

The key statement that Senator Paul makes toward the end of his monologue is that "no one's thinking." With the TSA and the state of government in our city, county, state and nation, he hits the hammer right on the head; with the future of our democracy, though, I think there's a younger class rising up who will prove him wrong.

Searching

2011-06-27T09:52:00.000-07:00

Sometimes we get interesting search alerts via Feedjit. I just noticed this one:

18:07:44
Birmingham, Alabama arrived from google.com on "The Cleveland Sandwich Board" by searching for: sex "j steward johnson".

Birmingham, Alabama - I am not sure what you're looking for, but I sincerely hope you find it.

Best,
Beau

Deagan's Kitchen & Bar

2011-06-27T07:50:00.001-07:00

14810 Detroit Ave
Lakewood, OH 44107
(216) 767-5775
www.deagans.com

by Beau Cadiyo

Des Ayuno brought up a good point in her criticism of Just Like Mom's: why is Florida only proposing to test welfare recipients for drugs and not other recipients of government largesse - bankers, say, or farmers, or anyone whose lifestyle has been partially or wholly subsidized by taxpayers - i.e., politicians themselves? The logic follows the same patterns as it would for welfare recipients:

Bankers

1) Drug use is illegal.
2) Because it is illegal, people should not be using drugs.
3) Unlike many illegal activities, drug use leaves some of its evidence in a person’s body, meaning that we can test for past crimes by testing the person’s body.
4) Drugs cost money.
5) Bailout money was money given to banks approaching bankruptcy so that they could afford to stay open, not only supporting the economy but also providing necessities to millions of Americans.
6) If bankers people did not have the bailouts, they would not be able to afford food.
7) If banks had money, they would not need bailouts.
8) If banks had money, they should spend it supporting the economy and the government which saved them and not on salaries which would go to drugs (an illegal luxury).
9) If banks had money, then the bailouts freed up money for them to spend on drugs.
10) If banks had money, spending it on drugs means that they are not spending it on the economy/government, so that’s money they should be spending on the economy/government and the government is supplementing the bankers' drug use/illegal activity.
11) The government should not supplement illegal activity – here or abroad.
12) Thus, to the extent possible, the government should be doing everything in its power to avoid supplementing activity that violates its own laws.

Farmers
1) Drug use is illegal.
2) Because it is illegal, people should not be using drugs.
3) Unlike many illegal activities, drug use leaves some of its evidence in a person’s body, meaning that we can test for past crimes by testing the person’s body.
4) Drugs cost money.
5) Farm subsidy money is money that is given to farmers people so that they can afford to run their farms "profitably."
6) If farmers did not have subsidies, they would not be able to afford food or other necessities.
7) If farmers had money, they would not need subsidies.
8) If farmers had money, they should spend it on food and other necessities and not on drugs (an illegal luxury).
9) If farmers had money, then subsidies free up money for them to spend on drugs.
10) If farmers had money, spending it on drugs means that they are not spending it on necessities, so that’s money they should be spending on food and the government is supplementing their drug use/illegal activity.
11) The government should not supplement illegal activity – here or abroad.
12) Thus, to the extent possible, the government should be doing everything in its power to avoid supplementing activity that violates its own laws.

Politicians
1) Drug use is illegal.
2) Because it is illegal, people should not be using drugs.
3) Unlike many illegal activities, drug use leaves some of its evidence in a person’s body, meaning that we can test for past crimes by testing the person’s body.
4) Drugs cost money.
5) Political salaries are moneys given to politicians so that they can afford food.
6) If politicians did not have salaries, they might not be able to afford food.
7) If politicians had money, they would not need salaries.
8) If politicians had money, they should spend it on necessities and not on drugs (an illegal luxury).
9) If politicians had money, then salaries free up money for them to spend on drugs.
10) If politicians have money, spending it on drugs means that they are not spending it on necessities or their public service, so it is money they should be spending on necessities and the government is supplementing their drug use/illegal activity.
11) The government should not supplement illegal activity – here or abroad.
12) Thus, to the extent possible, the government should be doing everything in its power to avoid supplementing activity that violates its own laws.

Indeed, if anyone should be tested for drugs it should be politicians, who propose to set the laws of the land that the rest of us are supposed to follow. The voters of Florida should be amending the statutes so that politicians are held to higher standards than anyone else as regards drug use and policy and obeying the laws.

Having said that, if I was a politician, farmer or banker, I would take my government funds and go to Deagan's. We had a table for ten on Sunday afternoon and hit their brunch menu; three of us ordered burgers and the rest ordered a variety of breakfasty or healthy items. Frank Todoroff got the chicken salad plate, an amalgam of chicken salad (light on the mayo and heavy on flavor), fruit (berries, grapes and melon slices) and crackers (the wheat kind). My Ohio Beef Burger was barely overcooked and thoroughly juicy; the bacon maintained an incredible level of crispiness throughout, and the fries, while warm and soggy rather than hot and crisp, were ok with the ketchup served in a little tin cup. Babies were held aloft around many of the tables; one little kid had learned to flip his shirt up in order to get beaded necklaces, and he tried to get the others at his table to join in. We sucked down mimosas and coffees and food and left full and content for Sunday evening shenanigans. All in all, it wasn't the best burger in Cleveland - as some amateurs have alleged - but it was reasonably good, and came with a great atmosphere. Bravo, Deagan's - you deserve our welfare, bailout, subsidy and salary cash more than most of the actual recipients.

5 Star Subs

2011-06-27T07:32:00.000-07:00

27575 Euclid Ave
Euclid, OH 44132
(216) 732-7750

by Kingtycoon Methuslah

So yesterday I didn't want to wake up. Man I didn't. I came to just up on five and discovered that my head and shoulders had found the sweet spot in the bed after probably all night of searching and they did not want to surrender. I did though because I'm fairly responsible, eventually. This did mean though that I missed out on having enough coffee. Having enough coffee is a real concern for me in the mornings because I'm out too early to stop and get some anyplace and on the two hours of bus I take every morning - there's not a lot of useful stops anyway - so it's on me to be properly supplied for my odyssey.

Which got me to seriously thinking. What if I was my grandfather? There's a story in our family. Long ago, when the British still ruled Egypt my Great Grandfather Methuselah would go to the city to work on the docks for ten piasters a day. Then when my grandfather was big enough - like ten? He came too. He unloaded a boat for his ten piasters and then went and bought fruit with it - the next day he sold the fruit to all the longshoremen and came away with twenty piasters and on and on. In this story I guess it's important to remember that the piaster is some fraction of a penny.

But I was standing around at the stop on 276th and Tungsten thinking about it - I could, when I get a paycheck - I could just go and buy a jug of coffee... I could buy a carton of self-made cigarettes and box them up - I could take donuts - I could merchant it up - be a merchant - maybe after a while work my way up to getting a food truck - like the roach-coach... Go from bus stop to bus stop in the early hours? I was thinking and imagining this. And counting up the people at each stop. Could I get a dollar out of each? Average a dollar? How much money do they have anyway? Taking the bus? Is this a sensible business?

I finally figured it's probably not as much as I make doing my data entry job. I don't know - maybe I'll still buy a jug of coffee one morning and some cups - give it a shot. It's not like I can't just drink all the excess.

On the second leg of my three legged trip I just read my book about the Crimean War - which is very, very good. It was an alright trip I guess? The driver looks at me with some kind of wary suspicion - she wanted everyone to fill out a survey about her the day before but I declined because I'd never ridden with her before - so who knows what I think - I believe she lost her competition about this survey because she seems ill - well not ill - because she's plenty friendly - but I guess indifferently disposed toward those of us who thwarted her efforts.

On the one hand I'm not protestant enough to respect people who value their work performance. Mainly because - you're still working for someone else - for crumbs from the big table. On the other hand - I can see that there's a lot of functioning that happens in the world based on that dynamic so I guess I value it, as a consumer. Could I keep the coffee warm enough? Would people care if I mentioned in passing about General Raglan's performance at the battle of the Alma? Could I, would I sell people the donuts?

Leg three - the kids everyone knows by name don't ride today which means - silence - relatively anyhow. Sometimes there's singing. Nobody remembers any part of "Three Blind Mice" besides those three words - so those three words are chanted forever in a way that loses its endearment quickly. So in silence. I have a good idea and am writing and scribbling, fast as I can, racing the bus to get it all down, or most of it - I'm writing a book you know - on the bus - it's alright - 10,000 words in week #1 - which is an alright pace.

Work is... work. I like it fine - there are many malingerers, malcontents and I'd say - Malefactors. Really this is a job I could do from home - I could do it as a contractor - say. In week #1 I've knocked out a thousand records - the old man who sits dexter is up to 200, the young man who sits sinister is up to 400. We all started on the same day. I'm thinking - I don't have to be here to do this - I should do it at home, heck, I should get another job and just do this on the side - at night when I'm bored anyway and just watch old tv shows - that's how it should be. They could make a deal with me to do a certain amount in exchange for a certain amount that's how it should be.

Talking to the man in charge afterward while waiting on my bus he says that in the spring that was sort of how it was - but that these complaining malefactors - they'd abused the system to the point that exists now - where breaktimes are enforced with draconian alacrity, and clocking in and out and mandatory hours of operation are strictly enforced. That's the way of things you know. This is the pattern of complaint: "We aren't treated in the way that we want to be treated humbug!" And to me... Waiting on the bus I decide that this is the x-y axis. You have dignity and you have comfort - you sacrifice one to have the other. I ride the bus because I think asking for rides and looking for assistance is undermining of dignity. I think getting in a car and paying all kinds of money and having that kind of responsibility etc... is a big trade up in exchange for comfort that comes at the expense of having some dignity and self determination. "Man, I gotta sell my blood, my car payment is due." That kind of thing. So I have no expectation of comfort at work and certainly don't complain about being asked to take out the trash because... Because it's just pathetic and shitty to complain about that - while it's virtuous and correct to do what is needed without comment.

Complaining - fie.

Going home I get to a neat stretch of the war in the Crimea and am engrossed. On leg #1 Wayne comes on the bus.

The day before I'd made his acquaintance - a nice enough guy - Wayne. He's a displaced person, crippled by a life of hard work and recent family deaths. He tells me stories about the people at the hobo jungle at 185th - naming names and gossiping lightly and good naturedly about who's a grouch and who's friendly. Mentions how the fishing is good but hard in the runoff stream.

This boy gets dropped off at the stop while we're sitting around and I'm sharing my cigarettes. He's one of the... I dunno - aggressively hillbilly-gay boys that you see a lot around the area? Very WT and super aggressive with the staring and gross attempts to flirt. "You're really tall!" He shouts at me from across the parking lot. Approaches and insinuates himself into me and Wayne's conversation. "I sure am." I reply.

True story - I hate flirting and really don't like it when a dude gets the predatory smile on me. Anyhow kid wants to now dominate the conversation and starts going on about how he's a karate badass and then calls attention to a big scar on his eye - "My ex did this to me."

Wayne is supportive. "Well why'd that happen buddy?"

"He was drunk."

Wayne: "He?!"

Boy: "Is that a problem?"

Wayne: "Looks like it was for you." Which raises a laugh - because it's a nice day and smiles all around.

Bus is caught and on to the penultimate stop. Waiting at Tungsten and 276th again. It's a long dull wait, and people there - they're all grouches - we all say to each other: "RTA runs when she wants to." - Except I say "... runs when he wants to..." Because I think buses are boys.

But tired and hungry I run to the sandwich shop on the block and the Palestinian(?) guy there sells me a sandwich with a long sales-pitch. "Hey bro - it's better than Subway - you get a lettuce and tomato sandwich at Subway bro - I got the real thing - one pound of meat on each one. I know. I used to work there. You tell your friends bro, you come back every day okay. Hey bro - I take food stamps for these sandwiches - you remember - hey! Hey, Schaadi! Get him a menu. You don't forget right bro?"

I realize - you understand - that this is what my grandfather would do. He would figure out this sandwich shop.

So I get a sandwich and finally get up on the 28 and head back home- past the apocalyptic windmill at Lincoln Electric - there's always gossip about it - is it really the biggest one in the country? For all I know - I only know what I overhear on the bus. I have an all day pass but don't want to go anywhere else so I hand it over to a kid who wants one - the first person to look up when I offer it. I have a pang - I mean, is it virtuous to give it away? Isn't the RTA in some kind of trouble- should I make everyone pay their share? Or is it benevolent to share what I have? Realizing that my grandfather would have sold it and not given it away.

I go home and eat what turns out to be a great sandwich - a pound of roast beef - which was the ration of beef given the British at Balaclava it so happens. A pound of beef each - the better to fight the Russian heretics.

So these things happened.

Colorado Sports Bar

2011-06-26T06:34:00.000-07:00

8400 Pena Blvd # B
Denver, CO 80249-6213
(303) 702-4685

by Beau Cadiyo

Bite: If you’re stopping in Denver, try one of the other places – Wolfgang Puck’s or, if you’re feeling healthy, the Jamba Juice. Give the Colorado Sports Bar a miss.

It sucks that this needs to be said:

1) There are solid double-yellow lines in the middle of many roads. These lines mean that you’re not supposed to cross them – not to make a left turn while you wait in the middle of a lane of traffic, not to pass, and not to sit in the middle of a lane of oncoming traffic while waiting to make a left turn.
2) You know the shoulder on the highway or interstate? It is for stopping on in emergencies. It is not a buffer for drifting down when you’re texting, it is not for passing, and it is not for going down at 65 mph just because you want to get around heavy traffic. It weighs on our hearts to have to say that if you are driving down the shoulder trying to get around traffic, and someone has an emergency and pulls over, don’t be shocked if people think you’re an asshole and don’t let you back into the actual lanes.
3) If a car is stopped at a light and is going straight, do not drive into the other lane and make a right turn around them. God, if only I haven’t seen six people do this in the last year.
4) In fact, just because many people don’t seem to get this, it is unacceptable to drive into oncoming traffic. For some reason, drivers seem to think that this is ok. It is not.
5) Take the Bluetooth headsets out of your ears when you are driving. In fact, take them out of your ears whenever you’re not on the phone. Wow, you’re wealthy enough to afford a Bluetooth headset. You look stupid.
6) Especially in movie theaters. Why do we have to write this, people?
7) Use your turn signals when changing lanes and, yes, when turning. So you are clear on this, the turn signal knob is located on the left side of the steering wheel. The left side is the side where, if you point your forefinger and thumb out at a right angle, it looks like a capital “L.” Push it up to signal right and down to signal left. The person you don’t see might be the one who sees your signal.
8) Do not go straight or make a left turn when your light is red. I know you’re important, and the government owes you special recognition and the right to ignore traffic signals. Wait your turn.
9) Keep playing your music really loud – so loud, in fact, that other cars’ windows rattle when you’re driving down I-90. It will all be worth it when, in 20 years, most of your sentences consist of the word, “what?”
10) Don’t spend gobs of money on rims, LEDs, chrome and anything else that costs money on your car to make it more beautiful. Don’t, under any circumstances, invest or save for the future. China’s economy depends on your stupidity…er, spending.

For an airport with an unusually high number of cowboy hats, low-rise jeans and whale-tails, the Denver Airport has surprisingly few burger joints. I ended up at the Colorado Sports Bar in hopes of getting served quickly, since the other looked like crap. Vancouver was up 3-2 in the NHL finals, which many people seemed to care about, including the older, overweight attorney who tried to pick up the single, traveling doctor mother in the seats behind me on the plane, standing at the bar, cheering the plays on television and then looking around to see if anyone had noted his crucial support of one of the teams.

Five minutes after sitting down, a Hickory Burger was in front of me. The speed of a burger’s delivery tells you a lot; if it takes a while, they’re cooking it fresh; if it’s out quickly, it was pre-cooked and just waiting for some sucker to order it. This one was slathered in hickory barbecue sauce and topped with cheese, onion rings, lettuce, tomato and pickle. The toppings added a lot, as did the delicious fries, but a few hours later I was suffering stomach pains – sure sign that the meat was of extremely poor quality. It tasted about as good as burger meat can taste, but that, of course, isn’t saying a lot.

If you’re stopping in Denver, try one of the other places – Wolfgang Puck’s or, if you’re feeling healthy, the Jamba Juice. Give the Colorado Sports Bar a miss.

Stevenson's Bar and Grille

2011-06-26T06:29:00.000-07:00

23749 Lakeshore Blvd
Euclid, OH 44123
(216) 731-7671

by Beau Cadiyo

Bite: Probably the best dive bar food in town.

A few weeks ago, Cleveland saw two shootings within a week of each other. The first, in a club on Public Square, happened early in the morning on a Friday, after the clubs got out and before people started going downtown to work; the second, again on a weeknight, happened in a bar on Saint Clair.

My mind went wild. Who the hell is out at 2:30 a.m. on a Friday morning? Don’t these people have jobs to go to? If not, how are they affording alcohol and cover charges and weapons? Why are people going out with guns to clubs in the first place, and who knows that they have these guns yet lets them walk around with them without comment? Don’t they realize that this can only escalate?

If there’s any one good thing that comes out of all this, it may be that there weren’t any race riots or accusations of white paternalistic instincts hurled about. I’m in the middle of the new, beautifully written biography of Malcolm X, and one cannot read it and not be more sensitive to issues of race. Also, now that it is summer, many people are probably being reminded of the controversy last year over Cleveland police officers discriminating against blacks in clubs on West Sixth. In light of the allegations of disparate treatment, it is thus particularly interesting that all of the victims of these shootings appear to be black; there is no mention of the race of the alleged shooters, but in one video the handcuffed man being paraded around by police is also black. We don’t know the race of the security guard, but all of the people filmed watching the scene on St. Clair are black. All of the people calling for the club to be shut down appear to be white, though, and it looks like many of the police officers are also white. There are no apparent accusations of racism in either of these instances, or of whites unduly oppressing blacks by calling to close down majority-black clubs or arresting people who allegedly assaulted a security guard. There are no calls for whites to leave the majority black communities alone and to let these communities take care of themselves. Instead, there is complete silence about the race of the perpetrators, victims and the government agents.

Is this good or bad? I think it’s probably great. The race card is easily, and often, played in situations where it is actually inapplicable. The reaction to these shootings indicates that people are deciding not to play this card for once, and instead are focusing on what we know: the Public Square club had numerous violations and was being recommended for closure before the shootings occurred, and the deceased on Saint Clair were, apparently, beating a security guard and dragging him to a back bathroom to assault him in other ways (whether this was turning into a sexual assault is not clear, and reporting since the shootings has been minimal). In a sense, then, the fact that white people are calling for the club to be shut down without charges of racism being levied against them indicates that perhaps racial animosity, or beliefs about inherent racism, don’t have to come up when race might play a factor, and I think that is a positive. At the same time, though, we must be afraid that some will argue that this is justification for more disparate treatment between majority-white and majority-black clubs; we must also recognize that this could escalate to the point where many people will feel that they have to carry weapons around for safety.
Safety. The shootings also reminded me of a debate I had a long time ago about what Cleveland needs. A classmate of mine argued that education was the top priority for Cleveland; I argued it was security. He came from the standpoint of long-term thinking, he said; education would bring people to the area, help convince them to stay and also add to the economy, long-term. Education is important; don’t get me wrong. However, if kids can’t walk to school because they’re afraid they’re going to be shot, the greatest schools in the world are worthless because the students can’t get to them.

Similarly, security downtown is of primary importance. Of course, the ideal is to have a vigilant citizenry that will police itself and prevent these sorts of antisocial villains from perpetrating crimes. Second best, though, and what is actually realistic for our downtown, is to have the police do everything that they can to prevent crimes from occurring. Whether their numbers need to be increased, their pay needs to increase, or some other factor needs to occur, we need more cops on the street preventing crimes whenever they can and arresting criminals whenever they can’t. The statements made about downtown’s reputation speak to this: when crimes occur, people are driven away. Security, then, is of the utmost importance in the city’s revitalization.

We were recently at a dive bar, Stevenson’s, which is perhaps one of the more dive-y bars I’ve ever been to. It used to be a bait shop for fishermen, and then added a bar and food capabilities. We had a few burgers and a pork sandwich, all of which were prepared right behind the bar in full view of everyone; they also have a decent beer selection. The sandwiches were delicious for dive bar food; the burgers were well-done but the lettuce and tomato were fresh and the buns were of the hard-to-mess-up variety. The best part: it’s pretty cheap. If you’re in the area and you’re hungry, this is one place you should consider. The only caveat is that there is almost no parking in the bar’s parking lot, so you may have to drive around the corner to find a spot.

Just Like Mom’s

2011-06-20T17:54:00.000-07:00

3030 Superior Ave E
Cleveland, OH 44114
(216) 685-5555

by Beau Cadiyo

Bite: Good Polish Boy.

A proposal by Yum! Brands – owner of such brands as Taco Bell, KFC and Pizza Hut – would allow people on welfare to use food stamps to purchase fast food. While we at the Cleveland Sandwich Board are, generally speaking, encouraging of all efforts to increase the percentage and number of people who have easy and affordable access to sandwiches, we have found ourselves generally against this use of taxpayer funds intended to help those who cannot afford food to buy it.

You are incredulous. Here: if the point is to allow people to eat, then allowing them as much choice as possible in their food selection seems to be an intelligent thing to do; let them get the food that they want, when and where they want it, and don’t try to dictate to them what they choose to consume. The problem, though, is in “choice.” America is the land of the free and liberty is a great ideal, and that with freedom and liberty comes great responsibility. However, we cannot support the idea that liberty and freedom should exist absent responsibility, and, no matter how much fast food companies would love to claim otherwise, choosing fast food is not a responsible food option, because Yum! Brands food sucks, being marginally better than prison food, and their food is the cause of, or at least a major contributor to, obesity and obesity-related diseases. We understand that sometimes life kicks you in your balls/ovaries, and that nothing can be done to prevent that, and that society has an interest in making sure that nobody is allowed to hit bottom without some support. However, we can’t fathom allowing people to make poor food choices when better food choices – and virtually everything is a better food choice compared to what Yum! Brands puts out – are available. The fact that Yum! will itself be one of the major beneficiaries of the program makes us even more suspicious. (The idea that this is part of Yum!'s oft-rumored "Soylent Green" project remain unsubstantiated.)

Nobody paid us to write those things. As importantly in this day and age, nobody paid us not to write them. The Cleveland Sandwich Board is an incorruptible, unimpeachable force of honesty and goodness in the world – as at least three ESPN commentators have opined, perhaps the last. If nobody pays us not to say something, we will say it, and damn the consequences.

This ties in to a more recent debate that we’ve been witnessing in Florida regarding testing welfare recipients for drug use. As far as I can tell, the reasons for doing so are pretty straightforward:
1) Drug use is illegal.
2) Because it is illegal, people should not be using drugs.
3) Unlike many illegal activities, drug use leaves some of its evidence in a person’s body, meaning that we can test for past crimes by testing the person’s body.
4) Drugs cost money.
5) Welfare is money that is given to poor people so that they can afford food.
6) If poor people did not have welfare, they would not be able to afford food.
7) If poor people had money, they would not need welfare.
8) If poor people have money, they should spend it on food (a necessity) and not on drugs (an illegal luxury).
9) If poor people have money, then welfare frees up money for them to spend on drugs.
10) If poor people have money, spending it on drugs means that they are not spending it on food, so that’s money they should be spending on food and the government is supplementing their drug use/illegal activity.
11) The government should not supplement illegal activity – here or abroad.
12) Thus, to the extent possible, the government should be doing everything in its power to avoid supplementing activity that violates its own laws.

Am I wrong? Am I wrong? Please tell me I’m wrong, because if not, I agree with Republicans and Tea Partiers, and my mother would be so, so ashamed.

To be fair, we wouldn’t want them spending money on many things otherwise available in restaurants but not that good for you. Polish Boys, for example. Recently, we were asked to compile a list of the top Polish Boys in Cleveland for Fox 8, and to have amateur yacht racer/professional rake Andrew Samtoy present them on New Day Cleveland. This city has many amazing Polish Boys, and we were asked to limit our choices to five.

Five Polish Boys. Try it sometime. It’s not as easy as you think.

There were many good ones we had; after all, it’s difficult to go wrong with sausage, barbecue sauce, coleslaw and French fries. You could put that in a bowl and mash it up and sell it as a Polish Salad and people would suck it through straws, it would be so amazing. One of these good ones that didn’t get on the final list was the one at Just Like Mom’s.

A group of us got together to eat one Friday night at Superior Pho. We went to the Indians game, where a bottom-of-the-ninth walk off home run was the perfect reason to celebrate with cartoon-themed fireworks; a sobering walk through the crowds (after three flasks of whiskey and brandy) and a miraculously easy exit from the parking structure got us back to Superior, where we ordered a Polish Boy, split it up, then started eating.

The sausage was huge, and juicy, seemingly having been deep-fried; the fries were standard and had some sort of seasoning on them; the bun was well on its way to soaking up much of the barbecue sauce (reasonably good) and the coleslaw (fresh and creamy). I finished mine far before Scarlet did, and sat back, holding Frank’s hand as Scarlet slurped up the last few pieces. Then, as I always seem to do after eating Polish Boys, I burped; later, a small fart would escape as well, more pungent than most, something I attribute to the sausage.

Good? Yes. One of the greats? No. Those were listed on the air the following Tuesday, and, as I was out of town, I wasn’t able to watch it. Since eating it, and putting significant thought into nutrition, I’ve started to have a change in heart: if I know that it’s not good for me, and that there are better, healthier options available, it is stupid to go with the worse, less healthy option over the better, healthier one. What one should do should take precedence over what one can or wants to do. Something tells me that’s the height of civilization, or discipline, or religious devotion, or some ineffable quality that is generally seen as beneficial. Choosing salads over sausages is like choosing Jesus over Satan; it is the narrow path of overcoming temptation which leads us to the promised land, not giving in to transient desires.

Someday, somewhere, a grad student is going to write her thesis on reading Milton as an instructive text on how to combat Type II Diabetes.

UPDATE: 6/21/11 - Yum! Brands just scored low on customer satisfaction in a report issued this morning. It looks like they probably realized that they needed to tap new markets, since the customers they have been relying on are becoming increasingly dissatisfied with what Yum! is putting out.

Tremont Tap House

2011-06-20T10:11:00.000-07:00

2572 Scranton Rd
Cleveland, OH 44113
(216) 298-4451
www.tremonttaphouse.com

by Beau Cadiyo

Bite: Exceptional burgers at a great price.

How much does it cost to park a jet at Burke Lakefront Airport (BLA)? Quick - get a number in your head. Think of what it actually takes to own a jet - the money, the power, the fame that a member of the jet set would have. Quite a bit, no? Think of whether someone willing to splash out a few million on a jet would think twice about a fee of $1,000 a day, or $5,000 a day. Would such numbers even bother then? Do these numbers change your estimate?

Whatever your number is, cut it in half.

Then cut it in half again.

Then again.

Where are you now? $5,000? $500? $50?

Lower.

It costs $5 per day to park a jet for 24 hours at BLA. That is not a typo. Five dollars.

How much for a car, then? Guess quickly, because the answer is $6. Yes - it costs $1 more per day to park a car at BLA than a jet, and then we wonder why BLA is losing $1 MILLION per year. It's because we feel bad for all of those jet owners who have spent all of their millions on private planes and can't afford parking fees, so we're stuck with their bills. Perhaps in the future we should be asking them to pay for us to park for free in their lots at their Cavs or Tribe or Browns games, or at their casinos.

This came up over dinner at the Tremont Tap House, on a beautiful early summer night on their porch. The midges were floating through the air around the tables and dogs, brought to support an APL fundraiser, were straining against short leashes tied to owners' chairs, tails and tongues wagging. A pretty blonde had a small dog on her lap and was feeding it from her plate, matching it bite-for-bite. The dog licked her fingers greedily as she laughed with a brunette. I thought: I would never date somebody who sat with a dog on her lap at a table. If she fed the dog like that on a date, I would probably give her a withering look and not talk to her for the remainder of the evening, and maybe even sneak inside, pay for my half of the meal, then slip out the back. Dogs, you see, are animals, not people, no matter what SWPLs might think.

I would certainly never feed them a burger from the Tap House. Oh, no. These burgers used to be not so good - or maybe it was that the only time I had ever had one, it was during a Cavs loss a year or so ago. Events, of course, change perceptions. On Wednesday, June 15, 2011, we were still exuberant over the Mavs' victory, and that may have changed my taste buds, but I don't think so.

The Tap House burger served that night was nearly perfect. The bun - soft, lightly toasted, and tasting buttered and fresh - sandwiched a patty ordered medium and served well-done; however, this ended up not detracting from its juiciness and vigor, and I ended up appreciating the charred taste even more. The lettuce and tomato rested atop bacon and a slice of aged cheddar, the latter of which overwhelmed the other ingredients out of proportion to its volume. This, of course, is not a bad thing. Most cheese chosen for burgers tend to be weaker than cheese chosen to eat on its own, letting the meat completely dominate everything else. Here, a better, stronger cheese could not have been had; I can still feel the way it pushed against the roof of my mouth and then dissolved into fragments, jostling against the meat and bread to get to my taste buds. The single slice of sweet pickle, which Scarlet disdained, was my only other complaint; I would have put two or three on top. Reasonably good fries and a dog-themed beer rounded out an exceptional happy hour meal.

And, at happy hour prices, you can get it all for just two times what it would cost to park a Lear and a Maybach at BLA.

Swenson's

2011-06-01T09:33:00.000-07:00

7635 Broadview Rd

Cleveland, OH

(330) 928-3797

www.swensonsdriveins.com

by Beau Cadiyo

Bite: some of the best fast food, service and ambiance in the region. Remember to tip your server well - it's not fun to be running to cars in this heat!

A new Republican proposal in the Ohio legislature would do away with front license plates because they don’t look good.

I’m not kidding.

Basically, Republican Rex Damschroder says that the plates pleaseth not his delicate eye and that car enthusiasts don’t want them on the fronts of cars. Also, some sports cars don’t come with brackets for the plates, so it’s apparently inconvenient. It is, in his view, not the responsibility of business to conform to laws; it is the responsibility of the laws to conform to business. Thus, we need to get rid of them on all cars.

Who opposes this? Police and law enforcement, funny enough. The front plates are useful because they help identify cars that break the law. For "Dandy" Damschroder, of course, that doesn’t matter – making things look nice is more important than public safety and enforcement of the laws, and serving the minority of car owners who actually care is more important than serving the public interest.

Is this, in conjunction with Senate Bill 5, an effort to distance the Republican party from law enforcement – a constituency which, one would think, is a natural Republican base? Perhaps. I had breakfast with D. John Horseradish recently, who is now some bigwig national political consultant. He mentioned that the Republicans have been recently exceptionally anti-government and that the Tea Party wet dream is to dismantle it at as many points as possible. In this, they are virtually anarchist; they want government to have no power over the individual citizens, and to have the citizenry in as close to a state of nature as possible. It makes sense. But this law, justified in Republican eyes because the plates don’t look pretty on expensive cars, is so far out of reasonableness as to make one question whether Mr. Damschroder actually read it.

(Interestingly, if you click on the link for “education” on his official biography, the field is blank. I’m not judging, I’m just reporting.)

Damschroder claims that, “The public wants (to get rid of the front plate requirement).” This is a surprise to me and, I’m sure, to everyone reading this. Rex, let me tell you something: the “public” of your imagination and the Public of the real world are different. The real Public doesn’t care about license plates right now. The Public wants you to go to Columbus and help figure out how to get our economy back on track however you can. The Public wants you to figure out how to ensure that our communities are safe – and yes, that means we do what we can to help police and law enforcement do their job. The Public wants you to figure out how to ensure that we don’t join California and Mississippi at the bottom of the public school rankings and that we educate our youth to take over and fix the problems that people like you create. The Public wants their potholes filled and their garbage picked up on time. The Public wants clean water and affordable health care. The Public wants criminals taken off the streets and rehabilitated, and then the Public wants to be able to integrate them successfully back into society so that they don’t pose any further threat to the Public. The Public wants its bread and the Public wants its circuses. If you can’t deliver these things, the Public wants you to stop taking up important government time with these frivolous bills which will damage Ohio’s communities in order to placate an absurdly infinitesimal minority. When you get us toward a more perfect union, then – and only then – feel free to pretty up the fronts of sports cars. Until that time, work on improving the lives of Ohioans.

And if you can’t do that, good sir, try to at least stay out of the way.

I’m really beginning to resent the constant assault on the responsible and the reasonable in favor of the merely aesthetic. Wright should have said that Form should follow function, and that function should come first; putting form in front frustrates everything else. If the Ohio Republicans were designing airplanes, they would first decide how it should look and only afterward would they try to see if the wings were aerodynamic. Essentially, we are in the middle of a war of intelligence against ignorance, a fight between the socially superior and the socially stupid. As played out in the Ohio legislature, the Republicans are attacking something that actually benefits our children and communities because he thinks it doesn’t look pretty.

This is ultimately what the Republicans are doing in Ohio right now. To all those who voted for them: you are getting the bills you deserve. After two years, we won’t be able to say the state is better under Republican leadership, but we WILL be able to say that it is less intelligent and rational.

I went to Swenson’s last night with Reuben Dagwood and Frank Kondilas; we decided a little while ago to have a book club on The Sun Also Rises. I read it every year between May and June, as I find it the perfect start to the summer, but I’ve never really discussed it with anyone. Soon after getting our Salad Boys and Fried Chicken Sandwiches, I had a whole new perspective on things.

We might be a lost generation.

But really, aren’t all generations lost in some sense? I started to think that after talking to them; we really have no purpose in the traditional sense since most of our lives are something we can take for granted. We don’t fear death so much as prolong it indefinitely; we have pretty much everything we truly need within our reach, even the poorest of us, and luxuries of the past have become as common as air. What, really, is the point of our lives, then, and how different is a weekend on West Sixth or Coventry from the nightclub scenes in Pamplona or Paris?

I’ve had the chicken sandwich at Swenson’s before; it is delicious plain, or with mayo and cheese, but with “everything” – pickles, peppers and something else I can’t quite remember – it loses some of its deliciousness. The Salad Boy, after a mint whip and fries, started to fill me up, and the patty felt mushy in comparison to the crisp-yet-tender chicken. We stood around after eating, smoking and taking snuff, and talked more about Lady Brett Ashley, about whether Jake’s impotence was physical or social or both, about how being an aficionado could just be an indication that you have nothing else of importance to go on in your life. I found it interesting that they seemed to be looking for something more to life – Reuben, a successful mortgage broker, and Frank, a high-flying international filmmaker. Then we went down the street to a bar and had three whiskies. Frank Todoroff called, and then I got gas, drove home, roasted a chicken, wrote for a while and tried to sleep. I stared up at the fan, lit by the light through the window, thinking about what I was doing with my life, whether it has meaning, or whether everything I'm doing and writing is really in vain.

As someone wrote, it is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night is another thing.

Lola

2011-05-31T19:06:00.000-07:00

2058 E 4th St

Cleveland, OH 44115

www.lolabistro.com

(216) 621-5652

by Beau Cadiyo

A year ago, I had an ongoing argument with a friend studying urban design at Kent State about what should be done downtown. In my infatuation with Jane Jacobs, I was – and still am – convinced that mixed-use buildings were the key to downtown development; she repeatedly insisted that I was wrong and “it (wasn’t) that simple.” When pressed for better alternatives, or even a better alternative, she was dumb; it was just that mixed-use buildings “didn’t work.” This served one major purpose I became convinced that the most up-to-date urban planners, as Jacobs so eloquently detailed in her book, had no idea what the hell was going on, and, through their ignorance, often did more harm than good.

Exhibit One. Clearly, Ari Maron, planning mixed-use communities downtown, isn’t going to go anywhere.

I don’t know this guy, so I don’t think we should make this guy the new King of Cleveland. I don’t think we should make him mayor, or put him on city council. I do think that we should get rid of any planning and zoning commissions and let him make as much money as he wants to by developing our city in any way he sees fit, according to principles – which, as far as I can tell, don’t difer much from Jacobs’ – that he finds work to create a vibrant, culturally rich and diverse city. If what he’s doing with West 25^th is any indication, he has the sort of long-term strategic thinking that Cleveland needs – and the practical know-how to put everything together. Maron, really, is the savior Cleveland has been waiting for, and perhaps most importantly, we need to make sure politicians and less enlightened developers or well-meaning but inept planners stay out of his way.

A week ago I was at Lola to try their Tuna Tartine. I had heard from Frank Clark, one of their lunch chefs, that it was transcendent; being downtown, I decided to stop by and see for myself. I was the first patron and the Condi Rice lookalike working the door let me sit at the Chef’s Table, an elevated table looking over the big, open kitchen.

I ordered quickly and watched the workers do their prep. They sharpened knives, tested cutting surfaces, looked at vegetables and cuts of meat; they turned burners on and off, they organized pans, and they moved around each other like Zen dancers, both graceful and extremely self-aware. I saw one chef toasting a piece of bread, holding it in tongs, looking at each piece carefully, as if he was an artist, ensuring…something. I wasn’t sure what.

Frank came over with another chef to say hello, then he left us to talk as he got an order in. This chef had little to do and we ended up talking about his life and work; it then came out that he was one of the co-creators of the Tuna Tartine. Suddenly I had a question.

How had he done it?

Seriously: how does one create a new sandwich, much less one worthy of being served at Lola? It’s not like people can just imagine them into existence; the creation of new food takes trial and error. Our spokesperson used to have a blog called Rice Omelette where he made omelettes out of things you wouldn’t expect to find in omelettes (like rice). He was putting weird stuff together, though; top chefs, of course, can taste things before they’re even created, so it must have been a bit more controlled than looking in the fridge to see what they had that day to put together.

It turned out that the sandwich was actually partially cribbed from an old cookbook; they then experimented with it. The tuna was line-caught in Spain and processed immediately upon landing; it was packed in olive oil, then shipped over to the US. The olives – Spanish and Italian – were each pitted in the restaurant, then sliced into the tuna. It turned out if was an open-faced sandwich, which initially made me wary, and I was less impressed after the first bite – the bread was almost charred, with an overwhelming smoky flavor. The second bite was only slightly better.

Then the third bite.

Perhaps it was that I was eating the center of the bread rather than the crust; perhaps it was that I was eating more tuna and olives with each bite; perhaps I was getting used to the burnt taste; perhaps I had added a bit of the salad to it, which moderated the flavors. I don’t know. I cut into it, took that third bite, and my jaw almost stopped working. If I’d thought of words, I would have thought of “harmony,” perhaps, or “finesse.” “Transcendent.” Instead, I was faced with a balance of flavors and textures, a mixture of the crunch of the bread (which had soaked up a small amount of the juices and oil from the tuna salad), the sweet-and-saltiness of the tuna, the ripeness of the olives, and whatever delicate mixture of spices was included. The green salad in the middle of the plate, and the slightly rubbery potato salad on the side, were palate-cleansers – good, I’m sure, by themselves, but forgettable next to the tuna.

I paid up and walked out past the increasingly populated restaurant, then out onto East Fourth. There was a quiet bustle to the street; some workers shouted down to each other, tables were being sprayed down with a hose, and I heard the distant sound of cars. The last time I was at Lola, Michael Symon was walking around and talking to customers; this time, he was nowhere to be seen, and I had the thought that he probably didn’t ever have to come down to the restaurant at all if he didn’t want to. He had managed to hire a bunch of strangers, infuse them with the passion for excellence, and then left them to their own devices, trusting that they would live up to the reputation Lola had built up over time.

Fox 8 Loves Us

2011-05-15T19:59:00.000-07:00

Attention! Attention!!!

Fox 8 asked the board to send representation to New Day Cleveland once more and, rather than ask anyone else to show up, they specifically asked that Andrew Samtoy return to discuss Polish Boys. As you no doubt know, the Polish Boy is the quintessential Cleveland sandwich, and Mr. Samtoy will be discussing the top five Polish Boys in Cleveland. (I will be in Florida at a conference, so they couldn't have gotten me if they could; sour grapes.)

Also, I realize that there have been a number of foreign sandwiches posted here. That will all change shortly.

Tune in to Fox 8 from 10 a.m. to 11 a.m. on Tuesday to see Andrew's pretty little face while I eat crap chain food and try to avoid the Heat.

Love,
Beau

Two Requests

2011-05-13T14:10:00.000-07:00

Mein Freunde -

1) Where do you go for Polish Boys in this city? I want to know the best ones to look for ASAP.

2) What do you eat at Progressive Field, or do you eat elsewhere before? I suspect I will be drinking there tonight, and that I will require an amazing sandwich during the Indians sweep of the Mariners.

Yours,
Beau

From Afar: The Breslin

2011-05-03T14:55:00.000-07:00

16 West 29th Street

New York, NY 10001

(646) 214-5788

thebreslin.com

by Des Ayuno

The night we visited the Breslin, Fred Durst was in the house. Frank, whose day job is waiting tables there, was treating me to dinner as a kind of apology for quitting the band; he was apologetic about Durst, too. In the course of his job, Frank has dispensed after-dinner marijuana to many celebrities who are far sexier and more name-droppable than Durst, but who should probably remain nameless. He has waited on those who tip generously (Jay-Z, Beyonce, James Murphy) and those who, with no claim to remaining nameless in their stinginess, do not (David Byrne, I love you but you’re bringing me down).

The Breslin, though, is genuinely more famous for its burgers than for its guests. The New Yorker, in a breathless profile of chef April Bloomfield from last year, reported that its burgers were served “one way: char-grilled, on a brioche bun, topped with crumbled Roquefort. Only Lou Reed, a fixture in the neighbourhood, is allowed to have his burger with onions, and that is owing to precedent: an awestruck employee took his order one afternoon when Bloomfield was out. Mayonnaise is forbidden.”

These days, Bloomfield serves her burgers (lamb only) char-grilled, on a sourdough bun, topped with one full cross-sectional slice of red onion (approx. 2mm thick; one gets the feeling that she stands behind her chefs with a ruler, ready to rap their knuckles at any deviation) and a small amount of crumbled feta cheese. There is, surprisingly, a ramekin of cumin mayonnaise that arrives with the burger, and whilst its placement on the rustic board that serves as a plate suggests it is meant for the “thrice-cooked” fries, there is nobody to stop you slathering it on the burger too.

This being my first visit, Frank and I decided to cram in as many dishes as we could physically ingest, including one of the famous burgers, which we would split. When the waitress placed it on his side of the table, as I was busy inhaling the steam from a bowl of oxtail in broth, Frank waved his hands under my nose. “You need to try this NOW,” he said. “While it’s hot.” I gestured at the cumin mayo in a way that I thought suggested slathering. He frowned and shook his head and, carefully, as though it was a newborn babe, handed over the burger.

The bun was thin, almost just a crispy shell, and my teeth sheared through it with a crackle. The patty, more sphere than disc, was so fat that my first bite captured only meat and bread, and none of the onion or feta hidden at the center. Still, the intensity of flavor and moisture – wetness, even – was astonishing. It was the most explosively succulent ball of meat and juice I had ever put in my mouth. I swiped in vain at the hot, melted fat that cascaded down my chin. On the next bite, I got some onion – more a crisp textural pleasure than a discernible flavor, so potent was the lamb – and some cheese, which was pleasantly dry and crumbly but made the whole bite almost too salty. The juice was beginning to pool in the bottom half of the bun, where the sourdough’s sturdy texture both soaked it up, into the thin, chewy inner crumb, and held it neatly in place, with the crust.

At this point Frank reached across and removed it from my hands. “Try the oxtail,” he said solicitously, “look at those new-season ramps!” but the room had closed in on me in short focus and all I could see was that rustic board and its precious cargo. Frank cut the burger carefully in half, my side marred with two enormous bites, and thoughtfully consumed his portion. I was less greedy, and the burger less molten, when it made its way back across the table. But even at room temperature, the bun collapsed almost flat with juice, it was a luscious, sticky delight.

The fries were pretty good – not quite the holy grail of fluffy perfection inside and crispy out, but not far off. As a non-evangelist, I’ve always been surprised that big-shot chefs spend so much time and effort trying to mimic what is basically the precise mouth feel of a chemically grown, industrially processed, water-pumped, preservative-laden, low-grade-fat-infused, heat lamp-crisped, half-day-old, all-American drive-thru fry. The cumin mayo surprised me with its mediocrity. It tasted dusty and flat, a one-trick pony of an emollient. Maybe the cumin seeds should have been roasted before grinding; a hint of acidity would not have gone amiss. The house-made dill pickle chips, on the other hand, embodied sheer pickle perfection in their delicate balance of crisp and flab, salt and sour, sweet and pungent. As Frank said, it may not have been the best pickle in the entire world, but we could not think of one that was better, and we considered this grave question for at least ten minutes.

On the way out, our farewells took half an hour, each effusive, hug-proffering waitress and busboy more charismatically kooky than the one before. But still the memory of the burger remained, as did a glaze of grease under my fingernails. I could not remember the last time I’d eaten a burger at all; near-vegetarian, and especially wary of ground meat, I avoid any animal on a menu that cannot guarantee me sufficient ecstasy in its eating as to justify its wretched death. But I am pretty sure, even now, a few weeks later and away from the hypnotic presence of the burger and the Breslin’s gloriously rowdy downstairs bar, that that lamb was indeed one of God’s – pulled from Eden, where it probably gamboled over green hills and was fed apples from Eve’s fair hand, sung to sleep and carried gently to the finest slaughterhouse in the land. That’s what I’ve got to believe, anyways, because when I’m next in town it’s trumped Momofuku’s pork buns as the very first thing my lips shall touch.

Rays Hell Burger Too

2011-04-12T16:47:00.000-07:00

1713 N Wilson Blvd
Arlington, VA 22201

(703) 841-0001

By Beau Cadiyo

It has been a hectic sandwich season for me. I have been responsible for organizing the intensive testing that the Cleveland Sandwich Board has had to do in order to rank the top five sandwiches and the top five burgers for New Day Cleveland, and if all five other reviewers have gained as much weight as I have in these endeavors, we have collectively put on 45 pounds. That comes, of course, from having collectively consumed approximately 63 burgers in three weeks; this isn’t easy, but someone has to do it.

Having neglected my girlfriend, we decided to take a short trip to Washington, DC in order to see our nation’s capital and encourage me to get a bit more exercise, even if it was just walking around. (Walking, by the way, is not exercise, regardless of what the government says.) The trip coincided with the National Cherry Blossom Festival and a particularly cold Saturday; she put a couple of museums and a frozen yogurt shop (famous, apparently, among girls) on the itinerary. She got museums and yogurt, and I arranged to meet up with a friend from high school, one from college and another from law school. In the interest of time, we decided to meet them for a picnic and then to venture forth.

After eight miles, seven memorials and a thunderstorm, only my friend from college, Frank Norquist, and her husband were left. We were hungry. Neither of them knew where we should eat, though, as the cheap places were closed on the weekends and the places that were open were pricy.

“Rays Hell Burger?” I was asked. I wasn’t sure that I could eat another burger.

“It’s Obama’s favorite place to eat burgers.”

Hmm. I know industry influences the government when it comes to food choices, so I wasn’t sure that that was a glowing endorsement.

“He took Putin there when he was visiting.”*

Sorted.

A metro ride and another short walk on aching, blistered feet and we were waiting in a strip mall parking lot. The lot was full and there was a line of cars blocking the street waiting to get in; people were sitting on benches and standing around the door, hoping to hear their names called. How we waited only five minutes is beyond me, but I don’t ask questions when government workers are able to negotiate these things. If she can get the Kim family to eschew nuclear weapons as well as she can get a table, Frank’s going to be great in her job, and I hope to have her serve in my administration - or, perhaps, serve in hers.

A beer, waters, mediocre fries and incredible onion rings were brought out in short order, and then the burgers. My girlfriend wasn’t talking; I could tell that she had low blood sugar, and I was going to have to carry the conversation on our side of the table. That’s what being a couple is all about. The waiter hadn’t known what Putin had ordered so, going by the name and ingredients, I figured he would have gotten the Big Punisher.

It was at Ray’s that I had the realization that there might be another level of Sandwich Science™ hitherto unrealized, but I will realize it to you: bread should not matter.

Think, as Fidel Gastro has recently done, of the history of the sandwich. The individual sandwich is greater than its whole; there is bread, yes, and filling, yes. However, what, in food history, were these used for? Bread, of course, was used as a method by which to transfer the matter of the meal to one’s mouth – nothing more, nothing less. While it is possible that bread was baked specifically for particular purposes, I doubt that the majority of people put much thought into what kind of bread they received, especially in the English countryside, where utilitarianism reigned. Instead, people focused the other food that was consumed with the bread – the stews, soups, meats and vegetables. Thus, the bread played a minor, supportive roll while the other food was allowed to shine. The birth of the sandwich would have taken this into account, and rather than having had some artisan baker create bread around one’s meat, the bread was likely meant to merely transport the filling to the mouth with a minimum of fuss, mess, trouble or – critically – interference.

Thus the glory of this particular burger. While the meat was tender and juicy, the cheese melted to aching perfection, and the peppers hot enough to singe nose hairs from across the table, the bread was utterly forgettable in the glorious, Zen way where it became one with everything else. I don’t believe it had sesame seeds on top; I don’t remember if it was dense or airy. It could have been whole wheat, although I’m pretty sure it was white; it might have had rodents in it, but even then, it was still perfect for this burger. I’m sure Putin, the Judo master that he is, would have realized the same thing, or would have been taught this in his KGB training and would have recognized it here.

When we left, we said goodbye to Frank and her husband. On the spur of the moment, I was inspired to say, “I’m glad you’re happy.” When we’d been in college, Frank was uber-competitive, constantly in flux and rarely seemed comfortable where she was; she’s since shown herself to be an incredibly talented, self-aware, capable woman, and her job and life fit her, I think, particularly well. The icing on the cake was that her husband struck me as perfectly compatible with her and complimentary to her; as with my lady friend, I caught them sharing little words and stealing kisses throughout the whole day, which made me happy. Saying goodbye, I felt like we were starting a new friendship, an adult one, where we weren’t so concerned about what people thought but what they could do. I also had the distinct impression that we would be crossing paths repeatedly throughout life, and if it is as pleasurable then as it was on that fine April Saturday, I look forward to it.

*Of course, it was Medvedev, not Putin, who went with Obama. Regardless, burgers benefit from being eaten by Putin.

Did Lincoln Eat a Sandwich?

2011-04-10T19:18:00.000-07:00

Part I

By Fidel Gastro

Few questions press upon the contemporary historian so much as the one of which president was the first to eat a sandwich. We know for instance that Buchanan ate only rice and sorghum and that, though Johnson requested that the White House staff prepare him an 'assortment of sliced meets betwixt bread, likewise sliced' that he, least popular of all the presidents, was refused this request by an indignant chef who would only serve him sweetmeats and pudding. And yet we know that the sandwich as a notable phenomenon in the American gastronomic palette was undergoing its nativity at this time. For an answer to our question we must look at the great innovator, Abraham Lincoln. My friends, we of the board have sought out answers so that your delicate sensibilities can continue to be coddled by antidepressants and television dramas, sparing you the difficult task of having to look for truths in musty old scholar-infested libraries. There is no creature more desperate and oil-covered than the anchovy – but the presidential scholar contends for that title mightily.

So did Abraham Lincoln eat a sandwich? Lincoln was, of course, an innovator: the first Republican president, the first to recognize mothers by assigning them their own holiday, the first to disavow slavery as an institution, and the first to wage aggressive war against the half of the country that disagreed with him. But was he the first to eat a sandwich? Our sources are inconclusive, and we must always regret that unlike that fastidious lunatic Hoover, he did not keep a diary of his caloric intake. Because Lincoln also suffered from a famous but as yet unnamed condition we know that he took none of his meals in the company of others – usually scrupling to eat behind a screen of some type. In his Illinois lawyer days this screen was only a bedsheet hung over his half of the table, but by the time he was invested in the White House a variety of screens were used – including a rather beautiful example donated by the King of Siam which was employed during state functions. Lincoln's cooks were likewise secretive – owing to the many campaigns of assassination both threatened and carried out, the executive chefs during his term were known to be, what was then classed as, idiots – people incapable of language but trained through special schools in culinary arts.[1] Thus they provide us with no useful accounts of the president's dining habits.

To discern whether or not Lincoln ate a sandwich we must instead look back at his early youth. These unspoiled seasons, free of the calamities that would characterize his professional life, were the only days where a sandwich could properly be enjoyed. As all know, a sandwich requires peace, both of mind and place, and a deep, nearly Taoist concentration upon matters so trivial that they overwhelm the important difficulties for which sandwich eating is unanimously understood to be a balm. For a president to enjoy a sandwich during times of grave distress, he must certainly have been what we in the common parlance refer to as Baller. (Consider, for instance, Franklin Roosevelt's offer of hot dogs to the King of England during the Great Depression). Leaving aside the question of whether Lincoln was indeed a Baller[2] we will instead look into the much less contentious question of whether, in his youth, he made experimental or recreational use of sandwiches.

The Log Cabin is a notable staple of the Lincoln mythology and it, in form, offers the strong suggestion of the sandwich. Logs lying crosswise pressing between them a mortar of dried mud – certainly the youthful Lincoln, eyes wide and imagination stoked by knowledge of the Great Republic must have regarded the walls of his rude home to be an example of the sublime architecture of that lord of foods. Indeed the modern sandwich itself was only recently made possible by the discovery of sliced meats. As we know, prior to the mid 19^th century all meats were consumed in the form of turkey legs and skewered hanks, but that at this time the science of cutlery had developed sufficiently to allow the slicing of meat and bread into cardlike dimensions – ready to be stacked and shuffled. The log cabin of course predates the sandwich – and it has been the contention of many scholars that it's signature form – of stacked half timbers with their condiments of waddle and daub were the original inspiration for many frontiersmen and pioneers (known for their formidable beards and lust for sandwiches). What's more, if we, as Blogart has asserted, consider the appearance of the log cabin as it stands against the prairie,[3] there we see a stack of elements, not all of one type, but of different constitutions, all arranged neatly between a roof and a floor, much in the manner of a contemporary sandwich. Many scholars have not been convinced by Blogart's assertions, but we have all been chastened by his overwhelming hostility to criticism[4].

[1] For the presence of idiots in the white house see especially Darling's work – The Fool's Paradise, the White House and the Capital Maul.

[2] For notes regarding whether Lincoln was in fact Baller see http://www.brandonbird.com/kingofcage.html

[3] See Gustavus Blogart's indispensable It's obviously a Sandwich!

[4] See Blogart's My Enemies, why they should be destroyed by venereal diseases.

Fox 8 - Hamburgers

2011-03-30T20:54:00.000-07:00

In prescient coordination with Fidel's discourse on hamburgers, local attorney Andrew Samtoy will be representing us once again on New Day Cleveland to discuss hamburgers. He spoke highly of the hosts and the format, and we may just be using him regularly to preserve our own anonymity and objectivity in any other public forum we might be invited to attend. I will be huddled up in a conference room in Philadelphia for the entire segment, but technology will allow me to watch it afterward. Also, they're having hamburgers on the air. That's right, people - ON THE AIR.

Watch it from 10-11 a.m.!

Best,
Beau

A Discourse on the Hamburger

2011-03-30T20:05:00.000-07:00

by Fidel Gastro

Let us now, I say to you in conspiratorial tones, let us now speak of the hamburger. That's right, I'll draw you now into my confidence so that I can sagely hold forth on the industrial production of digestible meat. Usually you will find the hamburger in the company of the hotdog, it's brother in the family of manufactured recreational meats, but while the hotdog, noble in its way, is comprised of the penises and anuses of a whole melange of creatures, the hamburger is made of turning or nearly turned or altogether spoiled beefsteaks. Here's a true story, once your steak becomes unsaleably damaged by the bacteria associated with aging, then you must grind it up and by the blessings of mechanization that steak becomes the vibrantly mutable medium of ground chuck, which can be used for spaghetti or meatloaf or tacos or even, and perhaps most, as a hamburger.

Now, people have expectations of the hamburger. I once visited the American south-east, an experience that I don't hesitate to scorn. Indeed, I can think of no better usage for my report on the hamburgers of Cleveland than to warn my fellows away from that den of evil called The Carolinas. Not without due cause do I make this warning and it was suggested to me by way of a story that I think will do more to illustrate my warning (as if by a great sign written in many languages, some devised by linguists as 'future languages' ideograms and glyphs meant to scare off the post-apocalyptic barbarians of the distant future who may still think to go to The Carolinas). While there I went to a place of eating and on the menu was listed the Taco. The Taco, it explained for the culturally repressed Carolinian, was 'A Mexican Hamburger.’

Friends, you who have art, reason and all the Apollonian virtues – you know that a Taco is in fact a class of food unto itself and is not, in any way, a hamburger. They are as kin as badger to the wolverine, and yet you won't find badgers and wolverines lying together in marital congress. So too the hamburger and the taco.

Nevertheless, that damning condemnation of The Carolinas, itself scarring to me in my youth, does demand addressing, for the Taco is ground chuck and condiments affiliated within an enclosure of processed and cooked grains. Such a confederacy likewise comprises the hamburger, and, yet, there are differences. No less are the differences that one finds between the hamburger and it's closest gustatory ally the hotdog, and yet the Carolinian Taco was not referred to as a 'Mexican hotdog', regardless of their more shapely similarities and the presence of conjoined sides.

###

Let us speak of the manifold condiments and associated creams, salves, vegetables and cheeses that comprise the Hamburger's appurtenances. Should you, as we of the Board did, find yourself upon a late winter's evening at Heck's, you would be confronted, which is not to say assaulted, by what must be refrigerators full of complimentary ally-foods from peppercorns to bacon to sour cream and exotic alpine cheeses. These dressings, when applied liberally to the altogether correct and sound bun, provide sandwiches in themselves, each worthy of comment if not outright praise.

At Heck's we were all business, quartering our orders and making liberal use of the palatal balm of the “French Fry” in order to more fully experience the hamburgers offered. In some respect the sour cream laden Au Poivre hamburger suggested the Taco: sour cream, fried onions, and tantalizingly, peppercorns (though my quarter was sadly negligent in providing me with enough of said corns). However, the competition between these tastes and the not very compelling flavor of the hamburger itself suggested what another quarter confirmed. Blue cheese and bacon, those conspiratorial brothers, each attacking the hapless taste buds from different segments of the savory echelon – these bold brothers made a comfortable paradise for the tongue which the hamburger did nothing to assist.

Once, I knew a man, and I use that noble title reservedly, for as you shall see, he was awful. This person would daily consume several of the vegetable patties that are sometimes made in gruesome imitation of the hamburger. These he would use purely as a kind of canvas for the application of numerous indelicious sauces. Mayonnaise was made to lie unnaturally with horseradish, which was in turn penetrated by barbecue sauce and, to add insult to all parties, various salad dressings would be forced onto the already uncomfortable orgy of creams and simulated flavors. Finally, as if his own obscenities could not be expressed in word or deed but only in vile consumption, he would liberally decorate these concoctions with hot sauces. The bread itself blushed to be applied to such a menage and the vegetable patty – had it scruples at all – would have rebelled and poisoned this person even to death. Sadly his spree continues, and I am told that he sometimes scavenges from dumpsters aged, discarded breads, so as not to alarm a grocer, who might, Columbo-like, learn the awful truth.

I was reminded of this villainy at Heck's, where the hamburger itself was merely a canvas, an uninspired slab upon which the noblest condiments made merry. It was ultimately a cheerful experience but somehow fell short of what we can idealize as the Platonic Hamburger, since I believe, unaided by the premium garnishes, the hamburgers at Heck's would be barely more sublime than those of, say, Perkins.

###

By way of a counterpoint I was later offered and subsequently accepted a dinner at the Buckeye Beer Engine. Again, the Board Assembled, and once we'd kissed our rings together thus forming the mystic pentad of Lucidity, Humor, Judgment, Carelessness and Gentility we were able adjudicate, or at least, to Sternly Guess.

Now this experience was altogether different, firstly because of the liberal application of delicious beer. Beer is as elemental to the experience of life as air or cigars or friendship and can't help but improve the situation, regardless of what situation you're enduring, save - perhaps - the event of drowning in beer. Perhaps! So the manifold exotic, delicious offerings of the Buckeye Beer Engine could not help but to augment an otherwise perfectly correct experience. What do you call a perfect experience that is made better? It is properly named a meeting of the Cleveland Sandwich Board.

And The Beer Engine. By no means has the Beer Engine invented the fatty melt. I've heard of this thing whilst frequenting the places that elite sandwich aficionados might frequent – our secret college shall not be here or anywhere else compromised, but, suffice it to say, the Hamburger with, as a bun, two grilled cheese sandwiches, is a famous prodigy of our time. In ages past no doubt the early pioneers of the sandwich arts lamented the lack of such conspicuous caloric frugality. Fortunately many hundreds of men, possibly thousands, were willing to sacrifice their lives and innocence on the beaches of Normandy and Guadalcanal, in the trenches of Verdun and at the Halls of Montezuma himself and itself in order to guarantee that those of us who have the fortune to live in the richest society that the earth has yet to produce could amuse ourselves with a sandwich so profligate in its application of consumption that surely all peoples who should come after us will consider their inheritance spoiled, ruined in fact by the glorious pinnacle of human excess represented in grim totality by the Fatty Melt.

I will gladly insult my forebears by managing a critique of the shortcomings of this iniquitous repast.

Firstly, the Beer Engine manages a finer meat, and the naked hamburger (if they served it – I didn't ask) would be superior to virtually any other hamburger that bears the name. Over a heated debate among the Board and various interlocutors as to the veracity of our sampling methods, I achieved a state of sublime transcendence while gnawing on a spur of the hamburger that had slipped the bounds of the preposterous bun, and was able to articulate a new theory of restaurant reviewing standards affiliated closely to that most exquisite science – which is alchemy. In fact I believe that I have, by having taken the hamburger equivalent of the philosophers' stone, earned an inner gold-star that gives me right and prestige to judge all matters of flavor and taste with only the barest association with facts or observations. It is a pretty good hamburger is what I'm saying. We speculated about the meat in the mix but never bothered to ask. Shackleton, I believe, while dying in the Antarctic, wrote that Dog was the sweetest meat of all the various meats. I'm inclined to agree, although, again, this decided without facts or observations. Naturally it would probably be regarded as some kind of libel to suggest dog went into any hamburger I've purchased at any time recently. But if not dog then surely Angel's Wings!

Right, damn good hamburgers.

The trick is that you've got at the Beer Engine what is essentially a reversal of what flies at Heck's. The grilled cheese? Once, I was offered an exotic Irish cheese, this by my first wife who gathered it, heedless of warnings to the contrary, and this cheese! Oh this cheese, when a prudish girl refuses your advances and slaps you, but with a hint of forgoing acceptance. When your teacher gives you a D- on your uncompleted work because you're likeable and play football. When churchgoers cross the street to avoid your gaze – that was the walloping flavor of that cheese, which was so vile, and yet so... cheeseful.

I mean this as an explanation of my credentials regarding cheese. Absolutely I did not expect to have as grilled-cheese buns on my hamburger an excess of Stilton or of Gorgonzola. Nevertheless, the meager application of partly-melted brick style institutional American pasteurized product was, frankly, a lie told to a hamburger that dreamed of a faithful dairy wife, while ending up with the oily whore of congealed vegetable oil. It wasn't a fine match, is what I'm saying.

In short and conclusively, Heck's should marry into the Beer Engine family, they should produce more excessive meat/cheese/bread industrial food products and only then can you, as an American, take pride in the forgoing efforts of Lincoln and Washington and Roosevelt.

Brennan’s Colony

2011-03-15T05:46:00.000-07:00

2299 Lee Road
Cleveland, OH 44118-3447
(216) 371-1010

by Penny Panini

My colleague, Beau, reviewed a sandwich at Brennan's before. He wasn't impressed, but Frank Sphar had told me over and over again how great the burgers were at the Colony, how it was her go to burger place, and on the quest for Cleveland's Top Five Burgers, I thought I ought to give it a try.

I met up there with another friend Frank, on a night that supposedly was going to contain a massive snowstorm at some point. I felt that familiar dread driving to the East Side in the winter, a threat that no matter how clear the roads were now, inside an hour I might be caught in a whiteout, trying to navigate the slow highwayless way out of the Heights. Despite the snowstorm that began almost as soon as I got there, there was a good sized crowd in the Colony at 7pm, and we had to wait to get a booth. Frank is a new friend, so there were a million things to talk about, and you know how it is with new people, that rush of conversation, the small degree of nervousness that gives way eventually to fever pitch exchanges and leaning excitedly over tables. When we were choosing where to meet, Frank had told me he was a pescatarian, which sounds just like Presbyterian when you say it out loud, and I always say new words out loud at least once, so the stamp of Presbyterianism is upon him. Anyway, it means he only eats fish and not all-American red meat. He got the lake perch sandwich, and I ordered the All World Burger, with provolone, mushrooms, onions, and bacon. I wasn't really hungry at all, having spent the day consuming as much coffee as reasonable for work, and was drinking even more coffee at the bar. But this was the reason we came here; it wouldn't do to not even take a bite.

It doesn't look like the biggest burger when it comes out on the small white plate. But it's deceptively thick, and the blanket of cheese and mushrooms was even thicker and perfectly gooey. I removed the offensive lettuce and tomato slice, but kept the chunky pickle slices. Pickle slices and mustard are key to any burger for me, and these were crunchy fresh pickles, the kind of which Whoppers only dream of, or rather I dream of anytime I end up having to get Burger King. I asked for it medium rare and it came out the same, which is always special for bar burgers. The bun was squishy white, and soaked up the meat and cheese grease with aplomb. We had just been talking about gourmet burgers, and I was saying how I preferred the grease and squeeze of a good dive burger. The All World had all the elements of that artery clogging dive bar glory, but with heft and honor.

I ate a quarter of it and gave up; I just wasn't hungry enough. Into a box it went, and there it sat on the table for another two hours while we talked. Later it sat for another 45 minutes in my car as I drove home in the snow, dodging gaping potholes on the empty streets past the Clinic. When I finally got home, it sat on the porch for fifteen minutes while I looked at the snow and took crappy cellphone pictures of my lonely road. Finally into the fridge it went, until two hours later when, having finished writing a love letter, I heated up a quarter of it in the microwave. The quality of the reheat matters to me, because most of my food is going to be consumed as leftovers late at night. I'm happy to report it heated up even greasier and cheesier, and I'm even more happy that I still have half left for tomorrow morning. I think this might be a strong contender for my list of best burgers, if only for the fact that I don't regret braving a winter storm to get one.

Lots going on.

2011-03-14T18:10:00.000-07:00

Sandwich Scientists™ -

It has been a busy few weeks for the Cleveland is sandwich board. First, we have picked up two new writers: Fidel Gastro and Penny Panini. We already have one new review from Penny and Fidel is meeting with the Board to offer insights from a lifetime of eating sandwiches. We’re very glad to have them both on Board.

Second, attorney and philanthropist Andrew Samtoy represented us on Fox 8 while I was out of town to discuss sandwiches. He was on a brand new show called New Day Cleveland, hosted by David “The Mossman” Moss and Kristi “Miss Missouri 2006” Capel. He was ostensibly there to discuss the top five sandwiches in Cleveland, but the discussion quickly moved into the law and philosophy of Sandwiches. He was asked, for example, what new things were going on in the world of Sandwiches, and he said “a lot.”

“A lot.” Could he have been more understated?

I myself was thinking about this a few weeks ago. Really, sandwiches have made huge strides in the recent past. Why, just a few years ago, sandwich eaters only had a few choices for bread – white, wheat, sourdough (mostly in California), a roll, and perhaps a badly baked bagel. Whole-grain was unimagined in most of the country, and the most foreign cheese might be Swiss. Now, you can get artisan loaves of specially grown grains with particularly pastoral provenances; we have meats flown in from small butchers in the Dolomites, cheeses from Azerbaijan to Zambia and everywhere in between, and wild heirloom tomatoes and scavenged urban lettuce and condiments made five minutes before being brought to table. The range of innovation shows no sign of abating; indeed, sandwiches are, like technology, advancing at a rate that mortal minds find difficult to comprehend.

Luckily, the hosts of the show seemed to grasp of the importance of these developments as they invited us back on March 31st for another segment, this time to discuss Burger Science™. As I will be out of town yet again I have recruited Andrew to represent us in a further segment where we, as a board, will the side of the top five burgers in Cleveland and Andrew will present them on our behalf. It works out because he gets to hobnob with local celebrities and we get to stay anonymous so that restaurants don’t know who we are and we can strike stealthily and undetected. It is a win-win.

I hope you find the time it to tune in from 10 to 11:00AM on March 31st to New Day Cleveland where no doubt lives will be changed. I wish I could be there to meet Mr. Moss and Ms. Cabel, but, as they say, there’s a big wedding coming up across the pond that is decidedly not going to plan itself.

Tally ho!

Beau

Thanks!

2011-03-08T09:11:00.000-08:00

Friends -

You don't know me, but I've been helping Beau out with this since we were in law school together, doing editing and whatnot. He asked me to appear on Fox 8's "New Day Cleveland" program this morning to present the best sandwiches in Cleveland, and gosh, it was amazing. The hosts were phenomenally nice, the producers were delightful, the staff was friendly and courteous and everyone was just warm and professional. Oh, and I brought cookies, which are not sandwiches, and if they ever invite us back again and Beau is out of town I will bring sandwiches instead, because they weren't all that happy that I didn't bring sandwiches.

Also, I had the opportunity to talk with Scott Riotblat and Kimberly McCune of Vine and Dine Catering. They made meatloaf on the show, and it was delicious. I had one slice for breakfast (along with four cups of coffee) and they gave me three slices to go. If you ever need a caterer, call them. Scott also told me about a really interesting idea they have for a culinary compound in Aurora; dollars to donuts that in the near future we'll be seeing some great things from them.

Thank you, and thanks to Beau for the opportunity to be on television!

Andrew Samtoy

2011-03-08T05:14:00.001-08:00

Greetings from Aspen!

Fox 8 has a new show, "New Day Cleveland." They asked for us to send a representative to appear on it. I have asked a dear friend of mine, attorney Andrew Samtoy, to appear on our behalf and talk about the top five sandwiches in Cleveland (chosen at a secret conclave convened for such a task). Watch Fox 8 from 10-11 and cheer him silently. If you are not in Cleveland, be like me and watch it online.

Best,
Beau

Big Daddy's Cheesesteaks

2011-03-01T17:06:00.000-08:00

16804 Lorain Road
Cleveland, OH 44111
(216) 251-1000
www.bigdaddyscheesesteaks.com

by Scarlet Pumpernickel

East Carolina pulled pork is not the kind of thing you normally expect to see on the menu of a cheese steak restaurant in Cleveland. Like most styles of BBQ, it’s very regional, and if you’ve never had it, you might not think it sounds too appealing, because the sauce is essentially vinegar with seasoning. But just try it once, and you’ll fall in love, which is what I did during my time living in North Carolina, and why I was so excited to see it on the menu at Big Daddy’s.

Although, I didn’t actually order it the first time I went to Big Daddy’s. I ordered the special instead. I didn’t know it was an option until I actually looked at the menu while I was waiting for my sandwich. I don’t usually order without looking at the menu, but as I walked in, and the man behind the counter greeted me and started explaining the special of the day, a gentleman who was leaving interrupted and told me to just order the special because it was delicious. What was I supposed to do? Say no?

That’s perhaps the best thing about Big Daddy’s: it’s such a small and comfortable place, you will end up having a conversation will the other customers, you will be subjected to the cook’s Jungle Cruise-caliber jokes (and just like the Jungle Cruise, he will apologize for how bad they are) and you will get to enjoy an extended monologue from the late night waitress about how when her ex-roommate moved out, she stole her dresser, from her room, while she was at work. It’s a place where you can be called a regular the third time you go there.

And it was on that third visit that I finally actually had the pulled pork. The second time I went the week after my first visit, they were out of the pulled pork, but they were unloading a fresh hunk of pork off the supply truck while I was there and the cook, Frank, was happy to talk about their cooking process with me. They do it right, slow cooking it for 14 hours with a dry rub, and then they sauce it up to order, which allows them to offer a variety of pulled pork options. I just needed to come back at least 14 hours later, when they had a fresh batch ready.

Which I did, but I forgot to account for the fact that they close and re-open on Friday and Saturday nights to attract the late night crowd. I was therefore forced to wait all the way until the late night hours the next night for my sandwich.

It was worth the wait.

While barbecue sauces get most of the attention from common consumers, good barbecue is actually a holistic combination of texture and sauce. Good sauce is easy; you can buy it in a bottle. Good texture, though, requires proper cooking, and this means slow-cooking. That's why the weekend griller can buy the same sauce that the pros use (and bottle) but not be invited to participate in state-wide or national championships; the actual cooking matters more. The recipes for great sauces are closely guarded secrets; great texture is an art. The East Carolina pulled pork at Big Daddy’s is the real deal, with pork as soft as it can be without being too soft, and a vinegar sauce that you can smell at ten paces. Their coleslaw is also perfect for dumping on top of the sandwich if you want to eat it in true Carolina fashion. The one unusual addition is their homemade cheese sauce, which is a definite improvement.

The other styles of pulled pork are good as well, as is the cheese steak (both the original and sauced variations), and the corned beef and pastrami sandwiches are great, too. If you have any specific questions, please ask in the comments. I have had everything on the menu besides the salads, but in my defense, I do go almost every week, which probably says more about the place than anything else I’ve written above.

56 West

2011-02-28T20:03:00.000-08:00

16300 Detroit Ave.
Lakewood, OH 44107
216-226-0056
216-226-0058 (fax)
www.fiftysixwest.com

by Penny Panini

Frank and I went wandering around the Metroparks the other day, because the night before had brought a huge thunderstorm, and I wanted to take photos of all the overflowing rivers. We stopped by Berea Falls, and Olmsted Falls, and every other Falls we could find on the maps. It was cold, and the rapids were muddy and violent and intimidating. At one riverbank, we walked in the slushy snow and mud and slate all the way to the very edge of a giant roaring roll of water, and as it was like looking over a railing at a very high height, we both stepped back pretty quickly and automatically.

Later, we skipped the last Falls and jumped onto I-71 to try and avoid rush hour traffic. I always feel safer if I’m closer to the city when it's rush hour. First we drove to Lelolai's, because I wanted a Cuban, but there was a man in an overcoat staring mournfully at their glass door when we got there. The door was plastered with a flier about how Lelolai's was moving locations, and to add them on Facebook to get updates about their Grand Re-Opening. It was extremely disappointing, and I had a quick grab of panic in my chest that maybe they would close forever and I would never again have a coconut milk soaked rum cake. SIGH. There's no news on their facebook page and website; I checked, like, immediately. If that place closed because Cleveland didn't support them enough, I am going to be so mad at all of you.

So we got back into the car and talked about it a minute. We decided to go to 56 West, since it was near Frank’s house. The place was empty when we got there, and we got the two spot table in the window. The menu was nice looking, with just-interesting-enough sandwiches, burgers and salads. Frank got a salad called a French Kiss, with pears and blueberries and a thick, creamy balsamic dressing. The thing that caught my eye was a sandwich called “What the Doctor Ordered,” which is Dr. Pepper braised brisket on a pretzel roll with white cheddar and horseradish mayo. I know, right? Put Dr. Pepper into anything and I'll try it. I once had a Dr. Pepper flavored cupcake. It wasn't very good, but the point is, someone thought of that. And braising brisket in Coca Cola isn't unheard of. It makes you wonder about braising meat in, like, Orange Fanta or Sprite. Or, if this was my friend Frank cooking, Cheerwine. I would be willing to put money on there being a Cheerwine cookbook somewhere, with several meat recipes.

We ordered a side of sweet potato fries, and even though they were fantastic dipped in the salad dressing, I would have totally preferred them salted instead of sprinkled with sugar, which made them far too sweet. Also, dipping sugar in ketchup is unpleasant.

The sandwich itself was composed of sauce-drenched cuts of beef, charred on the edges, with melted cheese, all on a thick, sturdy yellow bun. I tried to eat it by hand first, but that was a sticky failure, so I forked it. The horseradish cut some of the sweetness of the sauce, but it was still exceptionally sweet. If you go in for sweet, this is your sandwich. I personally would have preferred more heat or vinegar, but man, that pretzel bun was great. I tell you what, what it really made me yearn for was a sopping cut of North Carolina barbecue. And a gallon of ice water.

I took half of it home and reheated it hours later as I tried to get warm. Once you stumble around in snow all day, I find it impossible to wash the feeling of snow off me until I shower. Ergo, I took a very hot shower, and put on the softest sweater I could find. Then I watched TV while I nibbled at chunks of brisket with my fingers. And it was pretty good. Because really, this sandwich is the ultimate junk food. That's why it didn't feel quite right at the restaurant. You need to be vulnerable and tired, with muscles aching for comfort food, with a DVR full of Community episodes and a fuzzy blanket, to really appreciate it. Oh jeez winter, just go already. Just go.

On Sandwiches.

2011-02-27T17:45:00.000-08:00

by Fidel Gastro

Among my many colleagues of various circles I remain an outlier, an outsider and a pariah. It's true, you wave your hands and deny, but I reaffirm that it is so. And why should it be? Why should I be ashamed and made to feel ashamed and shamed by actions no court in the land would deem shameful? It is by my reticence to join the 'party' so to speak, my refusal to drink the Kool-Aid, that I shine the garish light of doubt on the enjoyment of the many.

You see, my friends are all food enthusiasts. They sit at tables marveling at how one food has a texture worth remarking on, how flavors in another dish scintillate or how some element of a third obscures some other palatable delight, all of which are obscure to me. When this happens, I say humbug, I. Shenanigans! It is shenanigans! The emperor wears no clothes; it's just food man! Here's how you know food is good:
1) It provides your body with the nutrients and calories that it needs to function.
2) It isn't poisonous (for once!)
3)... Well I have competing examples for 3 but none of them measure up to the weight and heft of one and two. Three might be any of the following: it's not ruinously expensive, it doesn't taste bad, it won't immediately spoil and can be kept for days, it doesn't produce an offensive odor in the house, it doesn't make your bowel revolt, it does no harm. Three is open for debate, but I think calories and not poison pretty much sum it up.

Now, you can ask me about sandwiches and I can tell you straight away that the best sandwich ever is two graham crackers with canned frosting smeared between. True story – you can make probably five dozen of those gentlemen for under $5. You know how many friends you'll make on the bus with that kind of offering? Now my food-enthusiast friends will scoff at this. They will point out that the frosting is from a can, the graham crackers from a box. I dunno man, at this point in American history industrialized cuisine counts as a folkway! It's an honest to goodness cultural institution. The guy who made Graham crackers wanted to invent a kind of human-dogfood, a food that was all you'd ever need to eat ever. It was to be a permanent meal. Now in the past I, like a lot of people, have experimented with permanent meals. Minestrone soup was good; I had that twice a day during my stupid vegetarian years. Then I ate rice for supper. For a while I had two or three cheeseburgers a day as a permanent meal, with Dr. Pepper to wash it down. That sickened me quickly though and I had to correct myself with the minestrone solution and the stupid vegetarian years. One summer I didn't eat at all! I drank those half-gallons of green juice made of broccoli and spinach and more apples than they probably want to admit. That was healthful I suppose. I felt like a spaceman the whole time. It was great.

Now? I don't care. I want my friends to enjoy their exotic tastes of the far lands. It’s fine. But if you ask me about sandwiches, there's really only two or three worth commenting on: the club, the Monte-cristo and the Reuben. Of these I nominate the Reuben as king.

Why? First of all, it fits the national character. It was invented in a competition (capitalism), it's made of industrial products (corn fed beef, mechanically separated cabbage etc.) and it incorporates elements of different European cultures (corned beef & cabbage, swiss cheese, rye bread, Thousand Island dressing) and makes them all much, much better. Now you might be asking yourself this: “what's this praise of a noble breed of sandwich got to do with your longwinded and frankly irritating preamble?”

Oh I'll tell you – I'll set you straight at the same time, too. See, here's my thing. You go to McDonalds. Or maybe you read a food blog and don't go to McDonalds. I don't drive so I rarely go there myself, (despite the quality of their coffee). But say you go there. You get the Big Mac because, hey, it's McDonalds and it's after breakfast. You know how at some McDonalds you're in a kind of crummy neighborhood and the people are sloppy about making your Big Mac but they're also over-generous and you get three meat patties instead of two? Or how if you're in some dingy suburb after dinner has been served and the lazy teens give you a Big Mac half melted from the heat lamp? Or at the truck stop – where you get the platonic ideal of the Big Mac – and feel as if you've entered the big leagues of the fast food franchise business where excellence (such as it is) is the only option. See there are the kinds and types and...well at the end they're all forgettable and equivalent and the same. They're all Big Macs – all prepared with more or less consistency more or less competence. They're the same. You see yellow (they're not gold, never were) arches – you know what you're going to get.

Now, I see my eating venue of most frequent choice and that is the diner. They have coffee all day and it's always fresh. There's a lady who is always, always about 10 years older than me (regardless of my age through the years) and she's pouring the coffee like it'll make me love her (it will). She comes by for my order and I have to consider carefully between sauerkraut balls and fried pickles, but when it comes to the main course, it is the Reuben. This is my permanent sandwich. I will follow it (follow it) follow it wherever it may go (oooooo). Now, a diner is a diner is a diner. It can be called anything, and it usually is; they can have TVs blaring (I discourage this practice), they can have the radio going, there can be a jukebox, they can be crowded, empty on a main road, on the highway, at the Shaker RTA station, greasy or clean, but whatever it is, you have a certain expectation. You expect rye bread (toasted), swiss (melted slightly), meat (not too lean, but not too fatty), and it should be a tall sandwich. Saurkraut should be gently applied but consistent; you want a bit with each bite. You will have thousand island dressing in a plastic cup on the side. You will note the pickle.

Now you'd think this isn't a hard thing to fuck up.

Well, enter the idiotic food-enthusiasts. I dunno, are you guys invented by the internet? I mean, now you're seeing balsamic saurkrauts or, God help you, coleslaw. Have you ever ordered a Reuben and it comes with coleslaw? Or turkey! This happened to me once! It was served on thick slices of white bread smeared with mayonnaise and coleslaw and it was just turkey. Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. I mean, what is it, Thanksgiving? Who eats turkey? Or maybe you've had something with some kind of elaborate bread , because the best thing since sliced bread is...slicing your own bread? Cutting off big unpalatable hunks of some over-wrought bread idea? Or they're playing around with the sauces or they're somehow – and I defy you to explain this – excluding the pickle.

Now, I've blamed food enthusiasts, and maybe that's just mean talk, but I see the fingerprints where I see them and I point and blame you! I do! I mean, diner is a diner is a diner – you expect to get the big-mac of diner sandwiches, not some kind of french-fry stuffed concoction of forlorn ingredients slowly soaking into one another. You don't want that; nobody wants that. Nobody should have to have carrots in their sandwich without specially asking for them. And anyone who does should be stared at, and mocked behind their backs. And yet, without a word of apology, I've been served a sandwich with carrots in it by the purveyor of something called - but not matching the definition of – a Reuben. Consistency is the one thing you can demand and expect of food in our time. Factories make it! Exult in the liberty that you are afforded by the mechanization of food! It's cheap, it's commonly available, and it's everywhere. We should all be so lucky that we have enough to play with our feelings about it.

Continental Flight #6087 (operated by United)

2011-02-27T16:55:00.000-08:00

by Beau Cadiyo

There was a sophomore at Georgetown on the plane sitting next to me. She was normally everything I’d want in a girl, physically speaking: of moderate height, slender, blonde, studious, smart, educated, wearing some sort of athletic sweatshirt that she'd actually earned by playing a sport.

Then she opened up her mouth. First it was about how she was going to be a lawyer but wanted it solely because of the social prominence it would bring her. Then, she just wanted to be a housewife and raise kids. Then, she bragged about how she’d shouted at a stewardess for trying to stop her from going to the business class to talk to her father, and how awesome she was for doing it in front of everyone else in business class.

After a week spent almost exclusively with Europeans, this was my reintroduction to Americans.

That wasn’t all: the sandwich that United served was soggy. Not just moist – it was as if the bread had been soaked in water and then chilled. I didn’t even eat it; instead, I ate the sides, then asked for some Scotch. I'd just wait to get back to the US and get something to eat at the airport. I didn't need food, anyways; I had a lot to think about.

la nena

2011-02-27T16:40:00.000-08:00

Carrer Ramón Y Cajal, 36-38
08012 Barcelona, Spain
+34 932 851 476

by Beau Cadiyo

When I woke up on Saturday I ran out of the house to meet her at Diagonal. She was late, and I sat on a bench and wrote and watched the newspaper distributors compete to see who could give out the most free rags. She showed up and proposed breakfast, followed by two museums and then a walk, all of which I accepted with the only reservation that we had to meet Dominic and Anna at 1:00 p.m. to walk around and then go to lunch. She said that we’d be fine.

I love ambition in a woman.

It was almost too much for us to eat breakfast. We settled into a table at la nena near the door and, while waiting to order, she pulled down Pick Up Sticks from the wall and we played. While waiting for the coffee to arrive we got through a half-hearted game of Dominoes, and then, whilst setting up backgammon, our food came. I’d told her I wanted a bocadillo, but beyond that it was her choice.

She knew me better than anyone I can think of.

The coffee came with a croissant, which was incredibly dense and airy. "It is almost like the ones in Paris. These also use real butter, not the oil that the bakeries use down here." The sandwiches arrived with a few olives strewn casually on the plate; one sandwich was ham and one was cheese. We finished with hot chocolate, which tasted like pure melted chocolate; the fresh whipped cream on top was all mine, as she is extremely lactose intolerant. While we ate, kids pushed miniature strollers into the glass doors and parents watched, amused and adult.

All of these things made me realize that it was awkward. On Thursday I’d suggested that we talk, but we never had the opportunity since then, and the impending conversation was as large an elephant in the room as my impending departure. At one point we grabbed each others’ hands and I told her that I missed her, and we held hands and she told me how horrible I’d been for not contacting her much after I’d left – for breaking off communication totally. I agreed. She had deserved more. Yet that morning we weren’t sure where we stood in relation to each other. It seemed silly, really – I thought it was obvious that we were in love. I’m a shortsighted guy, though; she needed more, I think. In retrospect, I think. I don’t know. We didn’t really talk about it.

The night before, while drinking with my English friend Domingo, I’d asked him how he had decided to get married. Basically, he said, she was fucked up in all the right ways, and they’d become best friends, and “it’s amazing to fuck your best friend who’s a girl, and realize you’re fucking your best friend. Who is a girl.” Was he, a renowned player, going to miss sleeping with other girls, or did he feel that he was losing out on future conquests? “To be honest, that didn’t hit me until much later," he said.

That, really, was what I feared.

Friday

2011-02-27T16:39:00.000-08:00

by Beau Cadiyo

The next day I got off of the metro near my old apartment in Vila Olimpica, then got water, jam and olives at my old local grocery store. I walked down to the beach, then kept walking – down pas the aquarium, to the water sports club, the new W hotel, then the docks and around up to Las Ramblas, where I got on the metro. I stopped at a few points to eat some olives. At one of these, I wrote in my Barcelona notebook, “Well this is a fine pickle I’ve gotten myself into. The intelligent thing? Talk rings.”

Dans de Noir

2011-02-27T16:36:00.000-08:00

Paseo Picasso, 10
08003 Barcelona
+34 93 268 70 17
www.danslenoir.com

by Beau Cadiyo

Joan pushed it as a restaurant Francesca would love. I don’t know how he’d found out about it, or how he’d ever afforded it before, but it’s very possible that he didn’t actually pay – that his date paid, or he saw it on TV and got a gift card. Regardless, after patatas bravas at Bar Tomas and two ports at the Portugese bar, we were sitting in a beautifully decorated room that smelled like shit.

“It is very typical of this area,” Francesca said. “The buildings all have a bad odor.”

The host, Jaume, welcomed us in Catalan, Castellano and English – he’d lived in Oakland for a year (he actually said that he’d lived in, “Oaktown, what what”) and wanted to move back. He reveled in the opportunity to practice his English. When we had to wait for a few minutes extra he asked us if we wanted coffee. Then, he got really embarrassed when he couldn’t operate the machine. Francesca went over to explain it to him, and then we got some really, really strong coffee.

“It is very different than the coffee in America,” he said. Really, it was different than the coffee anywhere.

Along with one other couple, Toni and Mireille, we were the last to go into the dining area. This is how it works: a blind waiter comes out and the host introduces you. The blind man explains that there are curtains and a downward slant and a hallway, and you’ll follow him and he’ll show you your table. He also asks that you pay attention to the volume of your voice; people, for whatever reason, tend to talk much more loudly when it’s completely dark.

Like, completely dark.

And we’d be repeatedly reminded to be quiet when it got too loud.

I don’t think I’ve ever been in total, utter darkness. There are a few places that I’ve been in that were dark, but all of them had at least a sliver or crack of light in them, or a few stars, or at least the promise of light just beyond a blindfold. This place was totally dark – nothing, absolutely nothing, could be seen inside, and eventually even the false firings of my eyes subsided. We walked in and Jose, the waiter, put my hands on the back of my chair and I sat down. I felt the table: a knife, a fork, a napkin. While Francesca was led to her own seat I took the liberty of exploring her side of the table to see what she had; it was the same. No salt or pepper. The tables fit tightly together; there was nobody to my left and Toni and Mireille to my right.

We were served. I truly believe that being given the knife and fork was done solely to show people how ridiculous it is to expect blind people to use the tools of the sighted, or to impress upon us the immense skill that they have in understanding the dynamics of a plate. There was no question of us using them; I didn’t pick them up except to move them out of the way, and I didn’t hear the click of metal upon ceramic the entire night.

The food was delicious, and was all the more so because we didn’t know exactly what we were eating. The waiter simply brought out plates and we ate our food with our hands. In a lot of ways, it was like the trust games you play at summer camp, or at corporate retreats, except that the stakes seemed higher.

At some point – after the cava and the first or second glass of wine, but before the third – we started holding hands. As I got progressively more drunk, we got progressively more touchy and progressively more quiet, as if we were coming to some sort of understanding. Nothing felt awkward. We were communicating with each other and that was what we both needed. When we talked – in Castellano, French or English – I seemed to understand every word she said, and she tended to bring out the best in my linguistic attempts in all three languages, too.

Later, she got on the bus, making me promise to take a cab. I saw her off, then walked, as I’d intended to do the whole time. At one point, walking down Gran Via, there were no cars and a single leaf blew off of a tree and into the street. Gran Via without cars is one of the more apocalyptic things I’ve seen. I walked out without hesitating, picked it up, and walked back to the sidewalk, holding it. Later, when she saw it, she’d laugh at me for putting it in my suitcase, and I wouldn’t explain.

Anyways, I realized then that it was Thanksgiving day in America, and with the time difference my family was probably eating dinner.

Wednesday

2011-02-13T10:08:00.000-08:00

Digues-li com Vulguis
Carretera de Collblanc 102
Barcelona
656728945
Digueslicomvulguisrestaurant@gmail.com

by Beau Cadiyo

Even though he was a former student, I always felt a certain kinship with Joan. The only reason he’d had me as a teacher was that he was failing English, not for lack of talent but for lack of trying. His father hired me after seeing a flier I’d put up, and I spent one night a week with him, hunched over a tiny desk in his tiny room, conjugating verbs and talking to him about basketball and Catalunyan independence and his fledgling teenage interest in girls. He’d ended up scoring the highest marks in his English class on some of his tests; when his dad told me, and Joan, with his normal modesty, gave me the credit, I couldn’t help but feel that I’d done something important with my life.

Meeting up with him was, as he might say, “Wow – incredible this.” He was bigger – big enough to lift me up in the air, and mature enough that I felt I was talking with an older friend, not a 21-year-old college student.

We met at the restaurant Digues-li com Vulguis, which translates to “Say what you Want” according to Google and “Tell him what you want.” It wasn’t meant as an invitation to order chicken fried in caviar; instead, they wanted to create honest, truly delicious food for their customers. The owner, Robert Bertriu was a long-time chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant north of Barcelona called El Cau, which means “The Cave” in Catalan. He didn’t know the world for Cave, so he translated it as “the place where lives the bears in the mountains.” He married a girl named Joanne, who is a feisty, beautiful half-Catalan, half-Pennsylvanian girl from Panama. Robert runs the restaurant and she runs the kitchen, constantly yelling out “Cariño” to him and “Guapo” to all of the male customers.

Robert brought out a bocadillo de Pernil (a type of cured ham) and a slice of Tortilla de Rellena. The latter was a tortilla special to the house; after being cooked as a normal tortilla de patata, though, they added a layer of ham and cheese, then another egg to bind it all together. Not this was absolutely common; indeed, it was an innovation of his.

What sets this bocadillo apart, according to Robert, was the bread. It had a very hard crust and was very soft inside; he said it was a result of being cooked at a high temperature for a short time, then warm for a long time. The first step developed the crust; the latter step made the bread. Inside was a ham that was a typical of Catalunya, but to me it tasted creamier and had a smoother texture than most of the ham I’d eaten before. The coffee was, of course, strong and delicious and punched me in the head.

Three hours later, Joan headed to class and I went to the Collblanc metro station to return to Franco’s apartment. Then, Franco called me when I was at Sants Estacio – did I want to come to the restaurant of his brother and eat lunch? I turned around and spent three more hours there with a selection of dishes that were part typical, part innovative, all delicious.

That night we were supposed to cook bread at Carla's apartment, but Barcelona was playing and some of her Greek friends were in town. We went to a Basque-styled restaurant to watch the game. Francesca left early, as she had to catch the train, and we all sat around smoking while Franco and the Greeks played "My balls are bigger than your balls." English was the common language, and Carla and I sat back and laughed at their posturing; then Franco and I jumped on his moto and left.

Later, at his apartment, he asked me what was happening with Francesca. "Nothing," I said. And that was the truth.

Tuesday

2011-01-24T17:16:00.000-08:00

by Beau Cadiyo

On Tuesday I had a long, leisurely lunch with Marta and Franco, and then walked around the city, and met up with Francesca outside of the Fontana station after she worked and took her tests and remembered how the station was shaped with the long, snaking stairways that bring you up to the street, and how there were back passageways if you didn’t want to wait behind everyone on the escalator, and how I used to run up them and see if I beat the people who took the weak, passive way up, and I did it here, but I was a little out of shape and very out of breath when I burst out of the doors onto the street where the benches are lined up and people wait, and Francesca was talking to another girl about something and I remembered how she was always surrounded by people, and she introduced me and we said goodbye to her friend and started walking around and I thought about how it is good to walk around Barcelona with someone, especially when you have your bearings and sort of know where you are, and I saw some leather wine skins hanging down which reminded me of "The Sun Also Rises," and I wanted to blow one up and then jump on it as a test and pay for it in pesetas, and she pointed out how, inside the store, there were casks of wine and you could buy it by the liter and if you didn’t have your own bottle they would give you a used plastic water bottle from the proprietor, and suddenly it made sense that I always saw people walking around with wine in plastic water bottles, so I bought some, and up the street a ways we made a right into The Portuguese Bar and even though it was packed she got us two seats immediately, with wine and food, and we sat below two giant pictures of a woman dressed as Little Red Riding Hood with a caption that read, in English, “You are a slut if you eat the flesh and drink the blood of granny,” and she ordered croquettes and a selection of savories and sweets, and we drank wine and ports and caught up with each other, but this time with more sleep, and when I bit into the croquettes they were brown and tasted saltier so I asked, “Do they put beef in these?” and she said “Yes, these are beef,” and I felt my brow furrowing and I pursed my lips and said, “The normal ones are potato?” and she looked confused and asked back, “The chicken ones?” and I realized that I’d been a vegetarian five years before, and loved croquettes, but always thought that they were made from potatoes, and she laughed so hard that she almost fell off of her chair, and we agreed that the green port wasn’t very good so we got two more, and then she went behind me and paid for everything, then dropped me off at Laura's apartment while she went to study for another test, and I got drunk on the evening and on incredible wine out of a plastic bottle, and then I went to the Harlem Jazz Club to watch Francisco’s band play, and then he and Marta brought me back to his amazing apartment and I slept on a fold-out mattress which was the most comfortable thing I’d slept on in days, but because I didn’t eat a sandwich I have nothing to report before this illustrious Board.

Gauchos Restaurante Argentino

2011-01-06T09:16:00.000-08:00

C/ d' Aragò 235
08007 Barcelona
Espanya
932 720 059
carnesdelsur.com
‎
by Beau Cadiyo

Monday

It was not a good sleep: it was still late, the dust had gotten into my sinuses and clogged them, and the apartment was freezing. Monday was rough. At 8:30 I was wide awake, and Franco woke soon after. We went into the center of town.

My first test was by iron: get copies of Franco’s keys made. Franco was sure that El Corte Ingles had a key-copy center, and after a few stops for help I was standing behind an unusually tall, unusually slim Catalan girl with one of the most perfect asses I’d ever seen, framed by jeans that appeared tailored to accentuate that little round bit just at the bottom. When she put her boots back on – the key-maker doubled as a cobbler – and turned around, I was looking at what God is capable of when he puts his mind to it. When I walked up to the counter, the cobbler said to me, “I am from Cuba. I have been all around the world. The women most beautiful in the world are in Barcelona.”

“God mine,” I said.

“God mine.”

Second test: by plastic. I walked up to the Orange store on Passeig de Gràcia, took a number from the dispenser and waited for 30 minutes to talk to someone about getting a SIM card; within two minutes of meeting a salesperson I was walking out, having forgotten from five years earlier that I needed a passport in order to get a SIM card. It was one of the hard and fast rules of the Spaniards that I could understand but not support. At least it was law, though, and not one of the far more annoying and less rational social conventions that sometimes govern their daily lives.

With time to kill, I walked up Passeig de Gràcia on the wide sidewalks with intricate brick patterns, dodging through thick crowds. Some of the people were Catalan; they usually walked short distances between businesses, greeting each other in the street with handshakes or little kisses. If they were young students, they usually were carrying folders full of papers and fashionable backpacks and moving as if they knew that they would never be as hot ever again. If they were middle-aged or older, they moved more slowly, smiled at each other and were impeccably dressed, even if they looked slouchy. Most of the crowds, though, were tourists. A group of Italians walked around without looking where they were going, getting in the way of other pedestrians, talking loudly and condescendingly about buildings, people and Spanish society in general as if nobody could understand or be offended by them. Two of the women had cameras with giant lenses with which they got up close and, with impressive lack of self-consciousness, took pictures of children with their parents, beggars in the street and diners in the streetside cafes.

Most of the young Americans were girls, nattily dressed and slightly chubby to tubby, with giant purses pinched tightly under their arms and cameras wrapped either around their wrists or bouncing off of padded stomachs. The older Americans inevitably wore khaki hats, cargo pants and button up shirts covering even more ample stomachs than the teenagers. A shocking number had those large, thick glasses with the plastic which automatically darkens when exposed to sunlight. These were often perched inches above a slack jaw and meandering gait. Many just stood in the middle of the sidewalk staring at things - lampposts, parked cars, doorways. I imagined them throwing up into their own mouths, chewing and swallowing again, and silently prayed that they'd see me as a local oddity rather than a compatriot.

Further up the street the groups of pedestrians thinned out. I noticed that there weren’t any Gypsies, Africans or Asians selling DVDs or CDs on giant sheets on the sidewalk as there had been before – maybe there had been a crackdown, or it just wasn’t profitable anymore. I crossed the street and was reminded of the way that drivers in Barcelona are incredibly aggressive when they have the right of way and entirely deferential when they do not, and how they are careful to let pedestrians cross the street. I started up again toward Gràcia, passing Diesel and Lacoste and Zegna, and crossed Diagonal, and then passed the store with the religious icons. I turned around and walked back down until I was almost at Plaça de Catalunya. There was no chance I was mistaken; I was on the side correct of the street. I walked back up once more, already knowing what had happened.

“Excuse me,” I said to two middle-aged Catalan women, “But on this side of the street was a store of pipes five years ago. Do you know if it is closed now?”

They looked at each other. “I do not know. Need you a Tabacs? There is one…” She put her hand to her mouth, trying to remember.

“No, that is good. Thank you. I wanted that store in particular, with the windows, the pipes, and the olds inside. Thank you, thank you.”

As my grandfather might have asked, “Is this progress?”

I touched my fountain pen in my pocket to make sure it was still there and walked up again to where the street curves and narrows and then becomes single lane going towards Tibidabo. The burrito shop was also gone and I walked up further past the rows of motos and then finally saw Dir. I remember when it represented the pinnacle of health clubs, a virtual spa compared to some of the places I’d been working out at in America. I learned to swim kilometers in its pool from the sister-in-law of a European champion, and learned the rough translation from pounds to kilograms by lifting in the upstairs weight room; I was tempted to walk through the sliding glass doors and see if I could get a day pass or just a tour. I took a picture of the façade instead and then took a left and walked through the streets, past groups of school children talking about playing games on their phones, past myriad shops where people ostensibly sold furniture or cosmetics or Brazilian waxes but never seemed to have customers, and past cafes and restaurants without anybody drinking or eating in them. Then the street opened up onto the little park in front of the Ferrocarril station. I walked up and saw that Paul was still in business.

I bought a chocolate croissant and a peach pastry with a name that, as far as I ever knew, was “that one,” then sat in the park to eat them both, joined by pigeons looking for a spare crumbs. Across the street was where I had first met Francesca. I took a picture of Paul and then walked to the phones right in front with my spare Euro coins. It was time to make some expensive phone calls.

First I called Franco and explained the situation with the SIM cards. He told me that he would get one for me and I wouldn’t have to worry. Then I called Francesca and said that I would call her when I had a functioning phone. We would eat something later that night and then I would have a meeting at seven or eight o'clock - I did not know which – and she would go do her thing. If it was the only time I saw her, it would still be nice.

I walked back through Gràcia, through streets that have not changed in hundreds of years. I passed Caprabo and saw chocolate and suddenly thought of Frank. In the States, it was difficult to get away from her – songs, restaurants, coffee shops, gas fireplaces, toilets, foods, spices, smells, times of the day, and even some ideas were painful reminders. I’d been thinking about doing an entire series chronicling our breakup through sandwiches, but it never seemed appropriate. Here, though, I hadn't thought of her much. I was reminded more often of more painful memories: those of trying to fit in. Barcelona, for all its beauty as a tourist stop, is a difficult place in which to live. The Catalans are cold; they do not like foreigners, and don’t trust you unless you’ve proven yourself. It takes work to develop a relationship with them.

Earlier, I’d discussed this with Franco. He’d laughed and said that perhaps it was difficult for foreigners to live in the city, but that it was even more difficult for Catalans to live there because of the pressure to succeed. Maybe that reinforced my innate need to accomplish things, to be active. I thought of a girl I dated in college who went through NOLS. She said that one night they slept in a muddy field that was made of knee-deep cow shit. After that, nothing she did could be as bad.

I suddenly had perspective that I should have had a long, long time ago. Breaking up is hard to do, but it doesn’t have to be the end, and I’d been through far worse and been hurt far more. There was a big world out there, and who knows who I’d meet, or who I knew?

###

I met up with Franco at Gauchos, an Argentinian restaurant, for lunch. My rule for Spain was that when there was a sandwich I asked for it, and when there wasn’t I deferred to my companion and asked them to get me what they thought I should eat – a “sorprisa.” Gauchos had hamburgers on the menu, so by my rules I had to order it while telling Franco to choose everything else.

The problem was translation. These weren’t hamburgers at all – they were fried patties of ground meat served on the plate with a relish on the side. With the appropriate bread these would have been superb – the meat was dense, almost steak-like, and on top was some incredible melted cheese and bacon strips. With the fries, they formed a very nice (if non-hamburger) plate.

I realized later that I shouldn’t have chosen it at all – when I eat heavy quantities of meat I end up feeling really, really ill. Hotdogs are the worst for me – I get violent. Perhaps it is a result of spending a third of my life as a vegetarian. Regardless, I knew that I’d be seeing Francesca later that evening, so I should have avoided eating meat at all so I could be at top form. Hours later, I was dreading seeing her and having to spend time with someone. Anyone.

###

She asked me to meet her outside of the Hard Rock Café. I stood there feeling angry toward the tourists and beggars clustered around the entrance, and then a wave brought my attention to a short, blonde figure streaking through the Placa Catalunya crowd, her smile suddenly making me feel normal. Not normal – better than normal. Cliché.

We walked almost as we used to do, just not holding hands, first to a café and then, when I learned my meeting was postponed, up to a museum that was closed and then a random bar. I slouched in the couch, and suddenly needed coffee. I was struggling in a true, physical sense, to stay up; this was an opportunity to see someone I cared about as deeply as anyone I’d ever cared about, perhaps more, and I was falling asleep.

She noticed and suggested that I go home and she would go home and we’d see each other later in the week again. We paid up and walked down to Catalunya, then she jumped on the Ferrocarril and I grabbed the metro to Espanya.

Only later did I think of how nice it was to say goodbye to her like that. I was tired; she was tired. We were probably both overwhelmed. Instead of pushing through, faking it or using chemicals, though, she was fine with just letting things be as they were and letting me be as I am; she didn’t push me to drink coffee or stay awake, and she wasn’t offended that I didn’t find her so captivating that her mere presence overcame jetlag (she didn’t know about the meat coursing through my veins). She also didn’t judge me; fatigue was fine. I was human.

When I got back to Franco’s, he was sitting up smoking in the living room with his Italian roommate. I thought of telling them about the Italians I saw, but thought better of it. Shortly after, he went to bed, as did she, as did I.

The next day, Francesca told me that her mother had asked if she’d recognized me. She didn’t mean to, but she’d inadvertently admitted that she’d been talking to her mother about us.

Spain: Chelsea

2010-12-30T19:40:00.000-08:00

Avenguda. Paral-lel, 172 bis
08015 – Barcelona - Espanya
93 325 34 47
http://chelsea-bcn.es/chelsea.html

by Beau Cadiyo

A few hours later, I was at Franco’s family’s weekly lunch. When I’d first met Franco, his family had a large garage near Placa Espanya which they’d used for giant weekly gatherings of their entire extended family. The city had used some version of eminent domain to seize the land, then built a small park and a large apartment building where the garage had been. The family intelligently purchased a far grander space with the compensation money they’d received. After five hours of eating, drinking, cigars and an startlingly Machiavellian version of Uno, we left and did what Franco does very well: we hung out.

I was hungry later – very hungry. Around 11 we went to Chelsea, a hamburger bar that advertises itself as being extremely American. When I lived in Barcelona, to be fashion meant to wear shirts with meaningless English phrases on them. My favorite was the five-year-old whose parents thought he should ride the metro with a shirt splashed with “Man rides 15¢ only.” Chelsea seemed to be cashing in on the idea that to be stereotypically American is cool: the walls were lined with phones from which to order extra dishes (I guess they think we’re too fat and lazy to flag down a waiter) and posters of MLK’s Dream speech, JFK’s picture with the quote, “Ask not what your country can do for you…” and 2Pac declaring that “Only God can judge me.”

We talked. I was struck by the similarity of Franco’s relationship to Maria and my relationship with Frank. When we told stories, the other had inevitably had almost the same exact experience. We compared notes on what we liked, what we didn’t like, what we fought about, what kept us together until we weren’t together anymore, and mostly the things we discovered about the girls and about ourselves. Everything was flooding back to me, but in Castellano; I found myself slipping into the common patterns of Spanish speech, and Franco used the opportunity to practice his English. “You know,” he said at one point, “my family has very much concern for me because they say I don’t speak English and you don’t speak Spanish. But you – you speak your Spanish,”

“- yes, but as one Indian -”

“and I speak my English. It is perhaps not so good as you, but they don’t understand that we, we have a language. It is the language Franco-Beau.”

“The thing most important is the communication. With the communication, the languages and the words are not important, they are not important,” I responded.

The Top Bacon was better than I expected: a burger as good or better than most places in the US, and thus far superior than what I would have normally expected from a Spanish place trying to be American. The meat was dense and cooked through completely, which was the only disappointment. While the lack of pink might have been frowned upon in upscale American burger joints, the meat here was very tasty and very moist, as if they’d ground bacon or pork into it. On top was an egg, fried just a bit too much so the yolk was solid, stacked on strips of delicious Iberian bacon and a cheese which was probably meant to imitate American cheese but failed in that it was actually very good. The end result was better than most American places because of the high quality of the ingredients. In addition, the blatant Americanness of the place meant that all Americans stayed away – they were all looking for “authentic” restaurants – and Catalans crowded the tables, young strumpets and urchins rubbing elbows with five of the surliest cops I’ve ever seen.

Franco went to sleep when we went back to his apartment, his television blaring a Catalan news network down the hall. I stood on the balcony for a few minutes, breathing in the air. It was dusty from construction, and a near-full moon was rising above the buildings to the left. I realized that I had no idea in what direction it was coming from. Unlike London or Cardiff, Barcelona is more or less a grid, and it’s easy to orient oneself internally once one knows where, say, Tibidabo is. I had not seen it above the buildings since I’d arrived, so I was lost.

I went back inside and sat on the couch. There wasn’t any heat in the apartment, so I was in my jeans and leather jacket. I was also on Cleveland time, so it was roughly 7 p.m. for me. The last time I toured a former haunt I used it to my full advantage, forcing myself up in the morning and then staying out late at night with ease, napping only occasionally and putting espresso into my veins with an IV drip. Getting back to Cleveland time at the end was easy because I wasn’t really off of it. I was hoping to do the same again, but I started thinking about how I’d only gotten six hours of sleep in the previous 68, and didn’t have anything, really, to keep me up, and I nodded off.

Spain: Bartolo

2010-12-18T22:13:00.000-08:00

Carrer de Entença y Avinguda de Mistral
Barcelona, Espanya

by Beau Cadiyo

(Read Part I here.)

I landed on Saturday. Franco and his cousin, Marta, were at the airport to meet me; I recognized them immediately, even though Franco had shorter hair and Marta was older and prettier. We dropped my bags at his apartment and went around the corner to a bar, where everything was familiar: a long counter with plates of tapas, smoke rising from the glowing tips of cigarettes, an espresso machine, Barça half-heartedly destroying some other team 4-0 on the television in the back.

“Madrid is make shit in their pants,” Franco said. Madrid v. Barcelona, the biggest game of the year, was a week away, and the Catalans were in fine form.

Franco chatted with the barmaid and then we ordered. What did I want? There was no choice: a Spanish omelette sandwich and some fried potatoes.

Rather, a bocadillo de tortilla de patata and patatas bravas. She took the order, as well as an order from Franco for a cigarette, and we pulled tables up right in front of the screen to watch the game. Franco was preoccupied; it turned out that he had a problem, this one named Maria. As I learned about her, the food came: pig’s ears, croquetas, olives, the bravas and my bocadillo.

A tortilla de patata is, at its core, nothing more than a few common elements of a breakfast thrown together. Thinly sliced potatoes are first fried in olive oil in a small pan. Usually a sliced onion is thrown in and also browned. Then, a couple of eggs are beaten and added, and then you wait. When the eggs are brown on the bottom, you put a plate over the whole thing and flip it, so that the tortilla ends up runny-side down on the plate. You put the pan back on the burner and slide the tortilla back into the pan so that the uncooked side browns, too. It’s a delicate process and a rough one all at the same time. To make a bocadillo, a baguette is sliced length-wise. A tomato is cut in half and the innards are rubbed into the bread. Sometimes garlic is also rubbed in. Drizzle a little olive oil and sprinkle some salt on, slice the tortilla into pie-shaped wedges and assemble your sandwich.

There are some who cook the tortilla all the way through, but the general consensus is that the eggs should be browned on the outside and runny in the middle. The tortilla at Bartolo would have satisfied the majority: the potatoes were soft, the eggs both brown and runny. The bread was crispy on the outside and smoothly soft on the inside; while I’d been promised tomato, I found scant reference to it. The bravas were unremarkable – fried potato wedges, the likes of which one could find in the frozen food section of WalMart, with aioli and a mildly spicy sauce on top. I was hungry for Spanish food, though, and I polished off the bocadillo, two plates of the bravas, two plates of croquetas, one pig ear (washed down with half a beer) and more olives.

“It is not possible to get this food in Cleveland,” I said, thinking of Marbella.

“You do not have good food in Cleveland?”

“No - there is good food, there is very good food. The food in Cleveland is fantastic, is incredible. But there is not food like this food. There is food that has the face of Spanish food but” Barça scored again and the matter was dropped before I could talk gibberish. Seven to nothing. It looked like they were trying to avoid blowing this other team out, but they were so good that they couldn’t avoid scoring more goals.

After the game, Marta and her boyfriend Josep took me to a theater at the very end of the L2 metro to see a Serbian/Catalan rockabilly band sing songs in English. It was technically a theater and not a club, so there was no alcohol and no smoking. We went to a tiny bar around the corner to drink Four Roses with the bass player, a friend of Josep’s who had a beautiful pompadour and a girlfriend who knew English. Then we took the metro back into the city, met up with Franco at the bar where he works, and I got more drunk than I’ve been in years; at 4 a.m., when he finished, we went to a gay club with some girls he knew. Neither of us got anywhere with them, and on the Vespa ride home sunlight had begun to stream through the streets. I’d slept for three of the previous 44 hours and I wanted to go to bed.

Spain

2010-12-10T09:31:00.000-08:00

by Beau Cadiyo

I remember the first time I saw her.

It was December 24, 2004, and I’d spent the evening with my friend Franco Betriu’s family. The Christmas Eve tradition in Barcelona is to eat dinner – a late, late dinner – and then the parents go to sleep while the children go out and party. I was gladly winging for Franco in a bar in Gracia, talking to an uncommonly underweight blonde, which is normally absolutely my type. What she lacked in personality she made up for in undemanding conversation and visible ribs. Then Francesca came in. She was a ball of fire and I was captivated. A few other girls were there, too, but I found myself gravitating to her; also, she spoke English. Franco ended up with the blonde and I got Francesca’s number. I sent her a few text messages, but only got short responses so gave up.

In April, I went out with Franco; he’d just gotten his first car and we were set to go to a fair to celebrate the month of April. We randomly picked up Francesca and another girl who I can’t remember, and again I found myself infatuated. This time, though, it was mutual. I remember almost nothing about the evening other than that I knew I wanted to spend every second I could with her, and at the end of the night, after drinking and dancing and cheering little girls parading in fancy April dresses, when she wanted to go on the Ferris Wheel and nobody else did, I went up with her, despite my paralyzing fear of heights. I just didn’t look down – I looked at her. I don’t think anyone was surprised when we got off and were holding hands. A few days later, we went to a movie – apparently it was Bride and Prejudice – and then walked down Passeig de Gracia, past the closed shops, through Placa Catalunya and then around…some other streets.

To quote my review of Marbella, “I’ve said “I love you” to a lot of girls in my life, but I’ve never meant it as much as when I said it to her, for the first and last time, before walking onto my plane.”

Like all things, this restaurant review begins with a girl.

(Read Part II here.)

Kravitz Delicatessen

2010-11-05T09:15:00.000-07:00

3135 Belmont Ave.
Youngstown, Ohio 44505
(330) 759-7889
kravitzdeli.com

by Beau Cadiyo

I watched a television show on rail travel recently, and I’m now convinced that the key to Cleveland’s prosperity in the future is an extensive monorail system. I call it the Lake to Lorain Line, or LLL for short. The LLL will go from Painesville to Lorain, as the main line, and will have various branches shooting out of downtown – through Lakewood, to Lyndhurst and any other suburbs beginning with the letter “L.” It could be a regular monorail, but I think it would be cost-effective and intelligent to build it like the Wuppertal Schwebebahn, particularly if it had shatterproof glass bottoms so you could look down while it’s traveling. The main line would naturally follow I-90; during rush hour, it would shoot at 40 miles per hour past the creeping cars and drop off its passengers inside downtown buildings, including Key Tower and Tower City and the Galleria and on W. 6th and E. 4th and Public Square and Playhouse Square, and it would go over the bridge with blue lights leading to Detroit, then up Detroit. There would be stops every few neighborhoods, but because it would go so fast it would still have major advantages over cars. It would also cost $1. We’d work out a deal with the manufacturing company that if they build it for free, they can keep the revenue from it for the first 10 years. It would be run by computers from a central station in a remote location, where a few guys in pristine uniforms would monitor everything. If food is served, Mia Bella, Lolita and the Greenhouse Tavern would get first dibs.

I’d like it if the line extended to Youngstown. Growing up, I heard the name “Youngstown” in various contexts, but it never meant anything to me. Actually, since I was in SoCal, nothing beyond Vegas meant much to me. It was thus neither positive nor negative; like “sand” or “paper,” it was a word assigned to something that existed as an abstract idea, and that was all. Then I saw Richard Pryor’s sketch about working in a mafia nightclub, and suddenly Youngstown had significance – it was the home of a mafia family, and the mafia was outdated, or of a prior generation, and could be really, really funny. I wanted to take people in Youngstown out to dinner in the hopes that they’d stop me from paying, and maybe tell the chef to put a little struzzi on top of whatever we ate. I like fried food.

I learned that I would be going to Youngstown to meet with a client. At the last minute, I sent a Facebook message to Frank Crooke, a law school friend. Shortly after graduating, she’d married, and we’d lost touch. We reconnected in Kravitz’s deli. The building felt old, like the waitresses had been there for tens of years and never saw any reason to go elsewhere; the booths showed wear, as did the materials used to prepare and display the baked goods and deli selections, but that was, in my mind, a good thing. In animate and inanimate objects, character is attained by use and age. Thus, an old wooden table with stains, or a leather briefcase worn at the edges, has more to offer than a disposable untouched plastic table top or a new satchel purchased for the season’s fashion.

As we settled into our booth, the only diners at 11:40 a.m., I remembered how good Frank was with people – I felt like she was really interested in talking to me, which is a rarity among pretty girls. Frank isn’t just pretty, she’s gorgeous; in law school she was known as the Unicorn, as she was both ethereally beautiful and uncommonly elusive.

The waitress was attentive, and soon we were sharing soups, an egg sandwich, a tuna sandwich and potato salad. Everything was as one might expect – while it wasn’t gourmet, it was hearty. The bread was not too light and not too heavy; the egg salad was creamy; the tuna was mashed to perfection; the potatoes were cubed to just the right size, and if you don’t know what that is, you will never know. The soup, too, was outstanding – cabbage, hearty, hot, with good tooth.

After lunch, we stood on the curb under an overhang, talking. Further down the strip mall, two men hustled out of a door and into a car. As they were backing out, two waiters ran out of the restaurant and stopped them, yelling that they had to pay. “Dine and dash!” Frank cried, and I gawked as the men slinked back inside, looking both guilty and resentful and self-justifying, as if they had the right to eat for free and it was society which needed to adjust to their needs and actions. “Stupid,” Frank muttered as she hid behind me to avoid them seeing her. “They parked facing the curb. If they’d parked nose-out, they could have just jumped in their car and taken off. Backing up takes way more time. They weren’t thinking.”

I’m pretty sure she meant to imply what I was imagining: how perfect it would have been if they’d bolted out the door at just the right time, jumped onto a Schwebebahn and were whisked away…

From Afar: Tesco Lasagna Sandwich

2010-11-01T06:09:00.000-07:00

Islington Green Metro
25-29 Islington Green
London
N1 8DU
0845 6779864
www.tesco.com

by Beau Cadiyo

One Saturday morning I took a walk with Des Ayuno and Frank Ely. We stopped at a cash machine outside the Islington Tesco when I realized I had to go inside.

“Where’s he going?” I heard Frank ask behind me.
“He's going to get a lasagna sandwich,” Des replied.
“A what?”

I marched in and looked up and down the aisles, giving each a token glance without seeing the sandwich cooler. Finally, I asked a clerk, who pointed me back to the front of the store, which I'd vigorously strode past and thus missed completely. He followed the labels with his finger, and we'd almost given up when he said, “Ah there, we have one...no, two left.”

At 11 a.m. on a Saturday, they'd almost sold out.

I grabbed one and held it for a minute, jittery with anticipation. £2.20. A triangular plastic package with a cellophane window, and, inside, white bread bookending two layers of pasta, cheese, sauce and ground meat. What kind of meat? A true pilgrim would never ask.

When I got outside, Des and Frank were still waiting to take out money. They saw my prize and Frank – a gourmet chef – shook his head. Des leaned in to look at it the way one might look at a harmless animal secure in a cage, but shrank away when it was brought marginally closer to her face.

I have learned when living abroad that it's sometimes best to play into English stereotypes of American behavior. It's a subtle but effective form of manipulation. If you defy their expectations (i.e., with nuanced insight and intelligent sophistication), they feel they can't let down their guard around you, whereas if you act as they expect of the oafish American abroad, they feel validated and are less wary. This is entirely true even of people who should know better – like Frank, whom I’ve known for nearly three years, and Des, whom I’ve known for 15. Thus, I became the aggressive, pushy American stereotype. I ignored their protestations of disgust, ripped the cellophane open, pulled out half the sandwich and thrust it upon Des. Then I pulled out the other half for myself.

It worked. Despite her natural inclinations to the contrary, in the face of American pushiness, Des took a bite while Frank watched. Then she offered him a bite. Something about her face – perhaps its surprising equanimity, the continued chewing, the lack of total repulsion – made him take a bite without even a perfunctory shrug. As he was chewing, Des grabbed it back to take another bite, and then Frank did the same. Then Des finished it off.

There was no talking. We were all shocked: it wasn't actually bad. I wouldn't call it good – to me, the processed white bread and noodles were too carb-heavy and the texture didn't sit right in my mouth – but it actually sort of worked. There was enough sauce on it that the bread did not dry out, and Frank particularly praised the béchamel. I think Des was just surprised that it didn’t make her want to vomit, and kept eating out of a kind of clinical curiosity – to see if she'd have some violent, negative reaction to it at some point.

I finished my half at 11:10 a.m. - exactly three hours after I’d walked my flag to the Tube and 24 hours before I'd have to get on it myself, to head to Heathrow. Over the course of the day we got gloriously drunk, ate oysters and pork belly and fish and lager bread and watched a documentary about the life and death of Arthur Russell until 3 a.m. My duties as transatlantic diplomat complete, I got five hours of sleep, packed and came back to the US, satisfied that I'd represented my country well.

Lava Lounge

2010-10-20T19:19:00.000-07:00

1307 Auburn Ave
Cleveland, OH 44113
(216) 589-9112
www.coolplacestoeat.com

by Beau Cadiyo

When we got to the bar, Frank Callahan was sitting with her back to the door, drinking coffee and reading The Jungle Book. Frank Mathoslah immediately proclaimed

The Son of Man goes forth to war,
A golden crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams from far —
Who can follow in his train?

while I put down my briefcase and walked to the back, past two couples on dates, possible future couples and a hipster girl smiling at her MacBook Pro screen. When I passed the kitchen, Kipling’s couplets still ringing in my ears, I thought: These are the people I want to know.

The first time I’d seen the Lava Lounge was with my ex, back at the beginning of the summer. We’d been eating at Bac’s, on the patio, and afterward we walked past and decided to check it out. The patio in the back – small, cozy and well lit – was the feature that made me want to return, and the general vibe of being a little more than just a neighborhood bar. Its off-center location put it ahead of Prosperity in my mind, too; Prosperity, pushed onto Lincoln Park, is for hipsters going out of their way to call attention to themselves, while Lava seems like it’s for people looking to talk and have a good time, not be seen and be scene.

We sat down to play Bananagrams, which Des Ayuno told me about and which may be the best game ever invented.

The only sandwich on their happy hour menu is a $5 cheeseburger. I ordered and a minute later realized that the barmaid hadn’t asked me how I wanted it cooked. It was the first time in ages that I hadn’t been asked, and I started to doubt my choice. After all, as Scarlet says, “If they don’t ask you how you want your meat cooked it means they don’t trust their meat – and you shouldn’t, either.”

It came out more well done than I’ve had in ages – dark brown all the way through. As I bit in, my mind was filled with images of filler, of cartilage ground into patties, of rats falling into grinding machines. If this was reality, I wouldn’t have known; the patties were huge and generously portioned and good tasting and textured. The red onion jam added a certain tanginess; the gruyere cheese added creaminess and something to hold onto other elements. The ketchup I added made everything slippery, and I had to consume the filling together without finishing the bread.

This may have been the best thing to happen. The bread at Lava Lounge is phenomenal. It was light, toasted, and perfectly flavored with garlic. It crunched between my teeth and then turned into a chewy, doughy delight. I dipped it in the burger juice on my plate, then in the ketchup, and finally in the garlic aioli that came with my side of pommes frites. I wanted another burger without the meat.

Two others in our group got burgers, and then a third; then we played a question game, then wrote. When we were done the bar had suddenly been populated by middle-aged, professional-looking women and a few small groups of diners and a sole single man sitting at the corner, enjoying his drink. We paid up and walked out into a crisp fall night. It was an evening of food, games, writing and friends – something unimaginable until recently.

Later, Frank wrote me:

So this is the lounge of lava,
Where we've gone for half our lives;
And those who know it prosper,
And those who go there are wise.

These are the people I want to know. And they hang out at the Lava Lounge.

Ireland Alert

2010-09-29T07:03:00.001-07:00

If you live in, work in or are planning on visiting Ireland, beware of pre-packed sandwiches. A new report says that a significant portion of them are stored at incorrect temperatures, which can result in food poisoning.

Stay vigilant, Sandwich Scientists™.

Best,
Beau

KFC Advertising: The Sandwich Scientists™ weigh in

2010-09-28T11:12:00.001-07:00

If you’ve been paying attention to recent developments in Sandwich Science™, you may know that KFC has been paying college girls to advertise their Double Down bunless sandwiches on their butts. Naturally, this has raised a stink among radical feminist clerics.

These unchic sheiks need to get some knowledge:

Sex sells. It always has and it always will. It's an irrefutable fact of human nature. If you want to condemn this, then why not condemn Victoria’s Secret for printing “PINK,” Juicy for placing “Juicy” and every college in the country for putting their own logo on sweat pants or yoga pants bottoms - it's the same type of advertising and is only worn by women. But wait: how do I know that companies are doing this? Because I, like 99% of heterosexual males, check out a lot of butts around the world, and I’ve noticed this sort of advertising from Cleveland to Calcutta and San Diego to Singapore. Hell, butts themselves are advertisements of sexual virility. No freedom-loving American should demand that they be permanently obscured by form-concealing fabric.
Humans – yes, men included – are sexual beings. Pretending that we are not, or that our sexual urges should be repressed, denied or ignored, is so 1809. The puritanical, sex-negative, repressed cat-people who wish to push their offensive agenda on the rest of the world, dictating what women should or should not be able to wear, should be tonguepunched in their fartboxes.
We’re going to be looking at these womens' butts regardless of whether KFC is advertising on them or not. Instead of being condemned, KFC should be applauded for allowing women to make money in inventive ways. Denying women the opportunity to do this, or implying, as some have, that these women are incapable of making intelligent decisions about work or their bodies, is sexist in the extreme. Next they’ll be arguing that these women cannot make intelligent decisions about pregnancy, finances and driving.
KFC should also be applauded for encouraging these girls to keep fit. Obesity is an epidemic in America. I can guarantee you that these jobs are awarded on merit, and, in this case, merit is a hot ass. I would be willing to bet a significant amount of money that the people complaining are actually those who would not be able to obtain these jobs and, if they were able to, they would be collecting paychecks from KFC in a heartbeat.

The Spoof is usually stupid. However, they had a good counter-headline to the people complaining: Wienerschnitzel Pays College Men for Ad Space on Crotches. It speaks for itself and, if this were true, you certainly wouldn’t be hearing complaints about the objectification of men. Indeed, liberal thought would mandate that this be celebrated among intellectual crowds and masses alike.

Stop setting double standards; let women work.

Best,
Beau

Congratulations Mia Bella

2010-09-21T10:28:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to Mia Bella for winning awards for Best Food and Best Restaurant at the Taste of Little Italy last weekend. I'm assuming the judges all had sandwiches?

Best,
Beau

Ingenuity Fest

2010-09-14T06:29:00.000-07:00

FOLKS -

THIS IS SO IMPORTANT THAT I'M TYPING IT IN ALL CAPS. GO TO INGENUITY FEST THIS YEAR. YOU MAY VERY WELL SEE US WALKING AROUND, UP TO ALL SORTS OF NO GOOD AND EATING SANDWICHES A'PLENTY FROM THE LIKES OF:

-Dim and Den Sum
-McCormicks & Schmicks
-Gypsy Beans Cafe
-Bunny's Mediterranean Cuisine
-Lake Erie Fish and Chips
-Antonelli's Italian Specialities
-Quaker Corporation
-Simply Elegant Catering
-Pfile Concessions
-Pizza Bogo
-MiMos Hand Crafted Ice Cream

WELL, ICE CREAM SANDWICHES AREN'T SANDWICHES, BUT YOU GET THE IDEA. FOOD, DUDE. FOOD.

IF YOU'VE READ THIS FAR, I WILL ALSO BE DOING SOMETHING PUBLIC. LIKE, SPEAKING, PERHAPS. MAYBE PRESENTING SOMETHING. IN TWENTY SLIDES. ON FRIDAY EVENING. PERHAPS.

BEST,
BEAU

Marbella

2010-09-08T18:22:00.000-07:00

29425 Chagrin Blvd
Beachwood, OH 44122
(216) 464-9939
www.marbellarestaurant.com

by Beau Cadiyo

It was my last night in Barcelona, and all I wanted was patatas bravas from Bar Tomás.

Well, I wanted other things, too, but those were all but guaranteed. The problem was the bravas. My girlfriend, Francesca, and I had arrived in Sarriá at sunset, and Bar Tomás was already closing down – being a family institution, they kept their own hours sometimes, and this was one of those times. Bravas, or fried potatoes topped with a garlic/mayonnaise sauce and a dash of hot sauce, are a national dish in Spain. Bar Tomás was regularly acknowledged as the best place in the peninsula to get them, and their doors were closing, the customers heading home, the waiters wiping tables and sweeping under chairs.

They would have to wait, though, for my beautiful and determined French/Spanish novia. She slipped in through the door and confronted the barman; all I could see was her big blonde hair and, when she turned to indicate me, the smile that I’d first noticed months earlier – the fullness in the middle and the upturned ends moving into perfectly symmetrical dimples. The barman looked out at me, looked back at her, listened again to her Daisy Buchanan voice and a few moments later she poked her head out of the door, smiling, and blew me a kiss. We ate on a bench just up the street, and when we were done we went on a long, hand-holding, glance-darting, bittersweet walk through the hills above the city. She pointed out an acacia tree and we broke off a green, low-hanging twig. She took one end and I took the other and we snapped it in two, making simultaneous wishes and tucking our pieces away. I don’t think I was the only one who wished that they would someday be reunited.

The next morning, she used her tricks and connections to get a fake stewardess boarding pass which let her into the terminal. I’ve said “I love you” to a lot of girls in my life, but I’ve never meant it as much as when I said it to her, for the first and last time, before walking onto my plane.

I was reminded of Francesca when I threw out my wallet recently – a gift from another ex – and started using the wallet I’d had that night in Sarriá. Tucked inside the billfold was the sprig of acacia. I found a stash of Restaurants.com coupons the very next day; one was for Marbella, and I figured that maybe it was a sign that I should try some Spanish food in the US.

Within three minutes of sitting down, I wasn’t so sure it was a good idea. When asked if they had bravas, the waiter didn’t understand what I was saying. Patatas bravas? Bravas? Patatas? Anyways, no, he’d never heard of them. Un bocadillo de tortilla de patata? No, sorry, he had no tortillas, and he started to look uncomfortable. Well then, the hamburger is good? He crinkled his nose and pursed his lips. The tilapia sandwich is better. The tilapia, please, y thank you.

After an excellent cabbage soup starter, it went downhill from there. This wasn’t the Spanish food I ate in Spain. Aside from the bravas, most of my restaurant-bought meals consisted of potatoes, bread, eggs, ham and vegetables. I certainly never had a fried fish sandwich, much less tilapia, from Pans & Co. or any neighborhood bar. A burger? Certainly never at a real Spanish establishment. Tilapia? Nothing about tilapia is particularly Spanish. A deep-fried fish sandwich? Never – maybe tuna in oil, but not anything else.

These aberrations could possibly have been forgiven if the fish had been exceptionally good. Possibly. The bread had a good crust and a soft marrow. However, the fish was dry and gummed to my teeth; the breading, meanwhile, was soaked with oil, which pooled on the plate. The tomatoes on top were green and hard, and the fish sauce in a ramekin on the side wasn’t enough to spread across one side of the bun. A huge pile of chips filled the rest of the plate. The only chips I had in Spain were Doritos, and while these were tasty, I would have preferred a side more stereotypically Spanish. The coffee was weak, about on par with Denny’s. A mix of excellence and detritus, it wasn’t Spanish food – it was American, and it was only barely passable.

I’ll fortunately be going back to Barcelona in November. In just three months I’ll be walking through Gracia and stopping by the ham shop up the street from DiR. I’ll take the metro to Entenca and stop for a bocadillo de tortilla de patata in Pans & Co. and then, across the street, get a better one at the bar run by the older couple and their single, middle-aged, overweight and sexually frustrated daughter. I’ll take the street car to Villa Olimpica and stop for a café solo at the restaurant two blocks down from my old apartment. And I’ll jump on the Ferrocarril to Sarriá, walk through the side streets and once again open the big wood-and-glass doors to Bar Tomás.

And, needless to say, someone will be waiting for me there.

Guess who's back?

2010-08-31T14:27:00.000-07:00

Folks -

I apologize a trillion times for the absence. I promise that if it happens again, I will apologize a trillion times again. An epic review is in the works; I can't say what restaurant is being reviewed, but let me tell you, you'll know more about me and a certain past relationship than you did before reading this new piece de resistance, unless you're the girl I'm writing about, in which case you know how amazing and special I still think you are.

Second, I'm not sure what this means, but it could use some serious academic review.

Third, and last, you've no doubt been hearing about the Denny's cheese stick sandwich. I've been ruminating on this for quite some time and I think it's time to stop - stop both the ruminating, which is taking away from my productive time, and stop using extreme sandwiches as publicity stunts.

Sure, this has gone on for ages - it goes back at least as long as the Nathan's hot dog eating contests. But since the KFC Double Down, places are coming out with extreme sandwiches at an increasing and sickening rate, all for a cheap news bite and to get some attention, and the mainstream media is lining up, mouths open, ready to suck down whatever hot mess these places are shooting out of their sandwichmakers.

I, for one, am sick of it. It's time to stop exploiting sandwiches for cheap personal gain. Please join me by writing on the Denny's Facebook Wall and telling them that enough is enough - they need to leave those poor sandwiches alone and go back to making absurdly sweet key lime pie, amazing curly fries and bottomless cups of coffee.

Who's with me?

Best,
Beau

From Afar: Bay Cities Italian Deli & Bakery, Los Angeles, California

2010-07-28T07:52:00.000-07:00

1517 Lincoln Blvd
Santa Monica, CA 90401
(310) 395-8279
www.baycitiesitaliandeli.com

By Sandwich Koufax

“How far will you drive for a sandwich?” It’s a question we don’t get asked very often (by my count, I’ve never been asked), but it’s got to be one of life’s most important questions. And now I’m asking you. How far will you drive for a sandwich? How many hours (or days) will you journey? What kind of personal growth are you willing to experience for two slices of bread and some meat? As it turns out, my answer was about twenty minutes.

Los Angeles is a food lovers paradise. Not only can one find any type of cuisine, one can also find multiple options for that cuisine. If you don’t like the fried crickets at the place on Sunset, you can try them in Santa Monica, and the place in Silverlake will roast them with cockroaches if you ask them right. This creates an endless and healthy amount of debate. But if you survey any food lover in Los Angeles about their favorite sandwich most will list Bay Cities Deli at the top. If it’s not in the top slot it’s almost certain that it will be in their top three (Larchmont Deli and Portos tend to be the other top choices).

Unfortunately, the other thing about Los Angeles - and trust me, I hate to give strength to the cliché - is that it is sprawling. The beach is seventeen miles away, but it could easily take me an hour and it will never take less then twenty-five minutes. About five years ago I committed to living in Los Feliz, the first neighborhood I’ve ever lived in that felt like home. I barely use my car on the weekends (the first thing to ever happen in my life which made me think that miracles do exist) and I’m even starting to be on first name basis with local vendors. My neighborhood is a paradise and I rarely regret living here. However, when I made the choice to live here, I was also choosing to live a minimum of twenty-five minutes away from the best sandwich in Los Angeles. And so it had been approximately five years since the last time I made it all the way to Lincoln Ave and ate a Godmother sandwich from the counter at Bay Cities Deli, proof that my maximum travel time for a sandwich was about twenty minutes.

Fortunately, I recently had a meeting on the westside, within blocks of Bay Cities Deli, and I was able to convince my writing partner that it was our only option for lunch. It had been a long time, but it all came rushing back the minute I saw the simple red sign shining like a beacon. The experience is half the battle at Bay Cities. Not just a deli, Bay Cities is also a small grocery store with narrow aisles. I know they sell various sundries, but I couldn’t give you any specifics, because the first thing you do upon entering is brave the crush of humanity crowding around the deli counter. Bay Cities is busy enough that when we took our number, 83 they were currently serving customer 93 (hyperbole, but I’ve been as many as 40 digits away on the weekend). The number of customers also forces you to be ready; the fifteen or so employees working the 30 foot counter have no patience for the slow or weak, and if you’re not ready for them, they will move on without mercy. When our number finally came I ordered my usual (or what would be my usual if I had been to Bay Cities in the last half decade), the Godmother Sandwich: genoa salami, mortadella, coppacola, ham, prosciutto, provolone, with the works, no onions, no pickles and spicy peppers.

The Godmother is the type of sandwich that is going to get messy on you. Fortunately it comes wrapped in heavy duty butcher paper, so the oils, toppings and various chunks of sandwich that get squeezed out as you attempt to tear your way through the tough and deliciously crusty bread get trapped in a nice stew that you can reference at various points in the sandwich. Feel like you could use some more peppers? There they are, collected in the butcher paper. Want some more dressing on your next bite? Just dip the sandwich in the pool in the paper. This is a sandwich you need a napkin for, so make sure to ask for it when you pay at the register. But it’s also a sandwich that makes you reconsider your answer to life’s most important question. As I slaughtered this sandwich (and it was a slaughter) I was kicking myself for letting time and distance separate me from something I already knew was so good. It’s not like Bay Cities was a place I’d been “meaning to try.” It was a place I had been meaning to go back to, but I let the traffic on the 10 keep me away, and that was not something I was comfortable with.

The Godmother sandwich has been written about a lot, but I’ll do my part and say that it might be the best sandwich I’ve ever had and it is without a doubt the best “Italian” style sandwich I’ve ever had in my belly. Everything about it is pitch-perfect. The bread is delicious and the hard crust will cut the roof of your mouth if you’re not careful. The meats are of impeccable quality and the five (FIVE!) different types complement each other well. The spicy Italian peppers are not overwhelming and the condiments add flavor without overwhelming anything else. This sandwich is the King and now that I’ve been reminded of what sandwich wears the crown in Los Angeles I have a new answer to life’s most important question. How far will I drive for a sandwich? How far is Bay Cities Deli?

From Afar: No Name Delicatessen, Columbia, South Carolina

2010-07-27T10:09:00.000-07:00

2042 Marion Street
Columbia, SC 29201

By Don Archebaub

I’ve been an avid reader of the Cleveland Sandwich Board since I met Beau at the wedding of a mutual friend. We’ve stayed in touch, and knowing my love of food, he encouraged me to try my hand at reviewing some of my experiences shoving chow down my gullet. While I am extremely outspoken with my opinion on any topic, I’ve never fancied myself a writer of any skill, and the idea of committing my personal thoughts on a subject so dear to my heart and arteries was nothing short of intimidating. I’ve finally decided that there are some places in this town that truly deserve an honest assessment of the sandwiches they produce. So, here goes.

The first thing I noticed when I walked into the No Name Deli is how busy it was. The dining room was completely filled, there were two lines backed up close to the door, and there was constant movement of people between the different areas of the store. I wasn’t sure where the line formed and what the process was, and within seconds of walking in, more customers streamed in behind me. These people were obviously regulars and knew exactly what to do; sensing my confusion they quickly walked around me to the stack of trays and began making their way through the line to get their lunches. I took this opportunity to watch the process and learn how this place works.

I fell in line behind a group of people who were obviously co-workers in a nearby office. I noticed an old menu board on the wall that, aside from the prices, has probably not changed in over 20 years. There is nothing unusual about the offerings: ham sandwich, salami, turkey, pimento cheese, etc. As I slid my tray down the line, I grabbed a cup and filled it up with diet coke from the ancient soda fountain, slid past the self-serve refrigerator with a hand written sign offering the best banana pudding you would ever eat, and got ready to tell my order to one of the numerous young people moving in a chaotic ballet of sandwiches and side dishes.

The teenager behind the counter shouted “NEXT ORDER!” and immediately began looking at me impatiently. “Chicken breast sandwich, on wheat!” I said loudly. In less than a minute the line had moved down numerous spots and it seemed like I was rushing past the sandwich line as a flurry of workers put together sandwiches, bowls of soup, sides of pasta, and deli pickles. As I quickly moved closer to the cash register I was asked by a different teenager, “you want fries or pasta salad?” Again I hesitated. I started looking around and see movement all around me; yet again I am stalling the well oiled machine. “Pasta salad” I manage to mumble out. “LettuceTomatoMayoHoneyMustard?” she asks in a single breath. “Uhm…sure.” I replied before I had even understood what it was I was being asked. The line kept moving and suddenly I was standing next to the cash register with an empty tray. I started to tell the guy I got a chicken sandwich, but before it is out of my mouth he says “Number Two with pasta and a soda, $7.70 please.” His fingers then began dancing over the buttons; he knew the price before the register did. Clearly the man had sold a sandwich or two in his day. Seemingly out of nowhere a plate appeared with a large sandwich and a heaping pile of pasta salad and was placed on the counter in front of me. I took my change, grabbed my plate and found a small table in the dining room next to an elderly couple.

I took a look at my sandwich and immediately realized how sloppy it looks. Chicken hung out irregularly around the parts of the large rectangular bun. After my first bite, any concerns about the presentation disappeared. The bun was a large wheat bun with a slightly sweet taste, toasted to be firm enough to hold a large piece of chicken without falling apart within the first few bites. I quickly realized that the chicken was hanging out from parts of the bun because it was a real chicken breast that looked like it was grilled right there in the store, not a processed chicken patty, or neatly formed grilled and pressed breast meat creation. The bulk of the meat was juicy and easy to bite through, with a few dry areas around the periphery. The honey mustard was sweet and mild, adding flavor to the chicken but not overpowering it. The shredded lettuce fell out from the edges of the sandwich as I begin to devour my meal. I was immediately impressed with the sandwich and ate half of it in only a few bites. I realized how fast I wolfed down the first half and look around at my fellow patrons, hoping that no one noticed. I take a few bites of the pasta salad. It is your typical multi-colored rotini pasta with some veggies and what tastes like Italian dressing; it was the standard good compliment to just about any sandwich.

As I forced myself to slow down while I ate the rest of my meal, I started to people-watch. I decided that the slightly graying man working the cash register must be the owner because he kept a watchful eye on everything that is going on. Occasionally he gave out instructions to the sandwich makers and table bussing staff. He always had a slight smile on his face and didn’t look stressed out, no matter how busy the line got. There were two children walking around the dining room offering to clear away trays the moment patrons were done eating. I assumed that they were the register guy’s children from the way he kept his eye on them. The pace of the line hardly let up as I ate. Seconds after I put my napkin down on my plate, one of the children immediately came up and asked me if I was done and could he take my tray please. I nod to him and he quickly grabbed it.

I looked around and realized that if the flux capacitor in my Delorean was working, I could have had this exact same experience in 1985, or even 1995. Everything about the No Name Deli is likely the same as it has been for years. The reason for this is no doubt because there is no need to update anything. The menu is simple, straight forward, and good. The service is quick and efficient. There are no gimmicks or trendy ideas, just fresh food made and served quickly- and that puts it on my list of my favorite places in Columbia.

National Hamburger Festival

2010-07-17T13:04:00.001-07:00

by Beau Cadiyo

This is just a quick write-up of the National Burger Festival down in Akron this weekend. To save money and stomach space, we ate only at non-chain places or places we wouldn't be able to eat at in Cleveland (Sorry Dim and Den Sum - we still want to review you!). Here's our report. If you go, let us know what you think in the comments!

Menches Brothers Restaurant
330 S Main St
Akron, OH 44308
(330) 375-1717

Menches made a big deal out of how they invented the hamburger and that they'd won a bunch of awards at the festival. We went with the Festival burger.

Meat: VERY greasy, but also juicy. Overall, it was a bit above average for what we sampled.
Toppings: The bacon was the crispiest we had that day.
Condiments: The Menches sauce was excellent. It tasted like it was mustard-based; it added a huge amount of flavor to the burger, and I was tempted to go back with some other burgers to just pour on some of the sauce.
Bread: Average - nothing special.
Overall: A decent burger.

Main Street Burger
I'm not sure which Main Street place this is - I think it just said "Main Street Burger." Therefore I won't put any address or link through to it. We ate here partly because there was a massive man taking orders; it reminded me of Eating Cleveland's adage that one shouldn't trust skinny people to review food.

Meat: Much drier than the Menches Bros burger, to the point where Frank called it tasteless.
Toppings: Excellent pickles in every bite.
Condiments: Mustard and Ketchup were slathered on.
Bread: Average - nothing special.
Overall: This was a classic burger. I'm not sure I could recommend it over others, but it was ok.

Crave
Crave
57 E Market St
Akron, OH 44308
(330) 253-1234
www.eatdrinkcrave.com

The people at Crave were the most artistic-looking and the most friendly. It was great to see the two owners behind the booth, taking orders and cooking. They looked happy.

Meat: In my opinion this was probably the best overall burger we had today. The meat played a huge role - it actually tasted like meat, and was just slightly charred.
Toppings: In the four bites I had of this burger I got four distinct, different tastes: peppers, bacon, red onion and barbecue sauce. The chihuahua cheese they put on it was there, but didn't register on my tongue.
Condiments: Barbecue sauce - very good.
Bread: This was one of the two breads that stood out. Normally buns with seeds have the seeds on the top, and the bottom is just ignored and left seedless. Crave's bun had sesame seeds on top and on bottom so that the bun was covered in seeds.
Overall: Very good. Worth an award, actually.

Metro Burger
845 W Market St
Akron, OH 44303
(330) 253-8743
www.metroburger.com/home.php

This burger was pretty run-of-the-mill. However, they do win the award for the most comely servers.

Meat: Generic.
Toppings: This had the most fresh vegetables of any that we tried today. For this they should be applauded.
Condiments: Average.
Bread: Average.
Overall: Average.

Steel Trolley Diner (STD)
140 E. Lincoln Way
Lisbon, Ohio 44432
(330) 424-3663
http://www.steeltrolleydiner.com/

This is one of those places people go to because it's branding itself as fun and edgy - literally. They char "STD" into each bun, and their shirts say "How about something thick and creamy?" on the back. The Johnny Appleseed was creative, but not great.

Meat: Very bad. Nobody was impressed.
Toppings: This burger had apple sauce on top, which was a really great addition. The idea was excellent - all they need is better meat and they'll be great!
Condiments: Applesauce. Awesome.
Bread: Average.
Overall: This would be a winner with better meat.

Martini Brothers
1300 N state Street
Girard, OH, 44420
330-545-8540
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Girard-OH/Martini-Brothers/167466659366

John Wayne Burger

This was one of the most difficult and entertaining burgers to get. The brothers - I hope they were brothers - argued with each other, were frustrated and overwhelmed, and were slammed with orders. Their stand didn't seem to be set up too well - they were constantly reaching over each other to get things. However, they put out a very high-quality product. Good luck to them!

Meat: This became the best meat we had, I believe. At this point we were a bit full, so that's saying a lot - it wasn't spiced with hunger.
Toppings: The bacon was ok; the onion rings were amazing.
Condiments: There wasn't anything special on this, but there didn't need to be - it was a good combination. They also had a burger with some sort of tomato soup reduction which I wanted to try.
Bread: They used some sort of ciabatta bread which added a lot of texture. I was really impressed, but it struck home how few other places were experimenting with bread at this festival.
Overall: Very good.

Windsor Pub

1322 E Tallmadge Ave
Akron, OH 44310
(330) 633-5211

We saw this when we went in, and saved it for last - glorious last. We shouldn't have, as it left us with a bad taste in our mouth that only Buckeye Birch Beer could take away.

Meat: Horrible. This was the biggest disappointment of the day, because the actual cooking of the meat was impressive, and the lines for Windsor were by far the longest we saw. However, the meat tasted like it had been frozen for a long time, thawed and then horribly charred.
Toppings: Dismal. The mushrooms were clearly straight out of a can and the onions were completely flavorless. The provalone cheese was about the only thing that made a positive impact.
Condiments: None. They would have helped.
Bread: The bread had a nice swirl on top but was otherwise unexceptional.
Overall: Each of us took a bite of this, the biggest burger we saw at the festival. Then, we put the remainder back on the plate and threw it away. Like models who look good but end up being boring, or actually horrible people, this looked great but wasn't worth a bite.

PSA

2010-07-08T14:15:00.000-07:00

Frank Vardakas-Styrna, a friend of mine from high school, now lives and works in San Francisco. She was at work today when - dum dum DUM - she found herself stuck in an elevator. Looking on the bright side (as she is wont to do), she sent a message to Facebook:

"We always made jokes about getting stuck in this coffin on a string. Can't believe it actually happened. At least I have a sandwich #stuck"

She subsequently wrote:

"I recommend carrying a sandwich at all times. Just in case you might be stuck in an elevator."

Folks, we've said it before and we'll say it again: be prepared. While you many not think tragedy can ever happen to you, remember Frank's words and learn from her experience. Do not let her ordeal be in vain. ALWAYS CARRY A SANDWICH.

Best,
Beau

Revolution???

2010-07-08T06:59:00.001-07:00

This interesting piece just in from the New York Times. Sandwiches in a can. I think this could be on par with week-old wonderbread and store-brand PB&J. They might need to create a removable barrier between the ingredients to prevent them from making the bread soggy.

Your thoughts?

Best,
Beau

Sandwich Science™ Report

2010-07-06T07:55:00.000-07:00

There's an outstanding new report from India which purports to show that...well, in their words:

"Based on some concrete market fundamentals, we anticipate that the sandwich segment will register one of the most impressive growths in overall fast food market of the US during our forecast period, thus becoming one of the most dominating market segments in the fast food industry.

"Our systematic and thorough research studies the US fast food market to give an insight into its various segments, including Burgers, Sandwiches, Pizza/Pasta, Mexican, Chicken, Snacks, Seafood and Asian. The comprehensive analysis of the market has identified burgers market as the highest share-holder at present, but future will see a revival of the market when other segments will also post rapid growth." (emphasis supplied)

I question a few things about the study - after all, burgers are clearly sandwiches, and sandwiches DO exist in Mexican food (tortas), chicken (chicken salad), snacks (tea sandwiches), seafood (po' boys) and Asian food (Bahn Mi anyone?). Regardless, if the zodiac sign for Sandwich hadn't been replaced by stupid Gemini (the symbol of which is clearly a sandwich), we would say that Sandwich was ascendant. Momentum is entirely on our side and resistance is futile. For those of you who didn't believe us before, you now have to argue with Sandwich Science™ AND Sandwich Statistics™.

If anyone wants a copy of this important and impressive new research, there's a link at the bottom of the article.

Best,
Beau

Michigan Alert

2010-06-30T10:58:00.001-07:00

This just popped up on our Feedjit:

Brighton, Michigan arrived from google.com on "The Cleveland Sandwich Board: B Spot Burgers" by searching for where to buy fake meat in cleveland.

If you know anyone in/from Brighton who is opening a restaurant, and they plan on serving meat there, be very, very wary.

With your best interests in mind,
Beau

We called it.

2010-06-24T14:01:00.001-07:00

April 12, 2010: Double Down Day. I predicted that within three months KFC would kill the Double Down, but keep the wrapper.

Well folks, the announcement apparently came today: KFC appears to be replacing the DD with a regular chicken sandwich. It is a bit ambiguous - they don't specifically say that they're taking the DD off of the menu, but it appears that that will be the natural step. Money says, though, that they're keeping that brilliant little wrapper - the greatest advance in Sandwich Science™ this year.

Yours,
Beau

The Quit

2010-06-15T11:15:00.000-07:00

by Beau Cadiyo

Since the Quit I have received 1,528 e-mails, all approximately the same:

Dear Mr. Beau Cadiyo,

What would Lebron James’ exit from the Cavaliers mean to the Cleveland Sandwich Board?

Sincerely,

Starry-Eyed Admirer

PS Your review of (restaurant) was totally right-on! I (loved/loathed) it as well, but have not the skills to put this (love/loathing) into words like you do!

The crush of requests has become too much to deal with, particularly since the last couple of posts about New York's sandwich scene and its attempts to lure LBJ to the island. It would be too time-consuming to email each individual back personally (much less oblige the one-out-of-seven emails requesting a worn, unwashed pair of briefs). I also don’t know why they think that the Cleveland Sandwich Board would be affected by LeBron James’ status with the Cavaliers – contrary to common belief, we do not actually hold controlling positions in the back office at the Q, and while Dan Gilbert is in my address book he hasn't made it to speed dial. I think, however, that these readers really mean to ask what his exit would mean to Boards, Sandwiches and the city of Cleveland in general. I will therefore post my responses here and hope each of these would-be correspondents has the opportunity to review it.

First, the easy one: Boards. A search on Google revealed this video of LeBron which purports to show him smashing a backboard. Personally, I can’t see anything indicating that this is LeBron or that he actually broke the backboard. This was also apparently back in his high-school days, and I did not find any videos of him shattering any boards in the NBA. If anyone knows of any instance of him smashing a board in the last seven years, please, do tell. Otherwise, it is fair to say that LeBron’s potential departure would not affect boards in any discernible way.

Second, what effect will Lebron leaving have on sandwiches? Here, I must rely on anecdotal evidence: LeBron was also spotted at the Winking Lizard on Coventry a few weeks ago – not horrible, but not exactly fine dining with personalized food. I think we can extrapolate from this tidbit that chefs are not going to be particularly eager to accommodate him with special sandwiches. Further, as far as I know, no Cleveland chef has made a sandwich for LeBron James in the same way that R.J. Boland’s made a Shaq Burger (hyperlink) just after his arrival. Verdict: LeBron’s possible departure will not have any discernible effect on sandwiches in our fair city.

Finally, much has already been said about the effect that his departure might have on the city of Cleveland. Most commentators believe that LeBron’s presents here is a positive and that, were he to leave, Cleveland would suffer a serious blow in morale, economically, socially – heck, the city would instantly die.

I think that LeBron leaving could actually be a positive.

Cleveland, and most of the rust-belt cities, were dependent in their heydays on manufacturing. All of our eggs were in one basket, and our economy depended on people making stuff. Then manufacturers left and 20/20 hindsight made us see that dependency upon a single industry was folly – we should have diversified when we could have. Even now, many people hope that manufacturing will return and employ Clevelanders. While there is a romantic allure to American manufacturing self-sufficiency, the reality is that returning to regional dependency on manufacturing will only further delay our emergence as a multifacteted, international economy. If we could go back in time, nobody rational would ever advise Cleveland or Detroit or Youngstown or Pittsburgh to be dependent on a single industry, regardless of what that industry was; instead, they would tell the town elders to diversify and focus on widespread wealth creation.

What does this have to do with the Cavaliers? They, too, put all of their hopes in one player and didn’t diversify. The Bleacher Report said it exceptionally well: "It is not often that a franchise and a city rely so heavily on one man...Sources have said that if James leaves the Cavs this summer as a free agent, the value of the Cavs franchise would depreciate by up to $150 million."

Having LeBron thus hurts the Cavs as a team; the others rely on him too much on both offense and defense, and the habit that they have of letting him dominate means that they are used to being submissive. When he doesn’t dominate, though, they are still submissive. What Cleveland has to do, with or without LeBron, is create a team in which each player is comfortable being individually dominant yet can play together, rather than playing to support the Alpha member. As long as he’s here, they’re going to depend on him; the cycle of dependency is well-nigh impossible to break. Boston, in contrast, has a team with individually above-average players and no single superstar.

Of course, the players LeBron is often compared to – Michael Jordan and Kobe Bryant – were basically one-team players; it’s hard to imagine Kobe deciding to move, say, to Sacramento, even in the lean years. If LeBron wants to be as great as they are, he should stick it out with the Cavs and work with them as a team. If he does move, he’ll immediately realize that his new team won’t have the structure he’s used to and he’ll immediately pine to be back at the Q. Regardless, the dependence on LeBron by both the Cavaliers and Cleveland is, like our former dependence on industry, an anachronism. It’s taken a bit of work, but we now have much more than just factories to depend on. Similarly, the Cavs have some good individual players; what we need is an amazing team. Will it bring us a championship? That is unclear, but it seems to be working for Boston right now - they're up 3-2 against the Lakers (who are dependent on Kobe). As long as Cleveland relied upon manufacturing, we didn’t try to diversify or bring other ideas or industries into our city. As long as Cleveland has been dependent on LeBron, we haven’t tried to create a winning team independent of our single great player. If he stays, it would be the equivalent of having an industrial base still operating but diversifying at the same time. We would simply have to make sure that we did not squander the opportunity and build a solid team with - not around - his prodigious talents. If he leaves, then we have to make sure that our team is strong enough that when he returns, we destroy whatever team he’s on so thoroughly that he leaves the Q without shaking hands or giving interviews.

WSJ, LeBron, Sandwiches.

2010-06-15T10:21:00.000-07:00

Is R.M. Schneiderman a malicious spreader of lies? An incompetent reporter? A formentor of social unrest through uninformed muckraking? I'm not sure - I've never met him, nor have I read much besides this article in the Wall Street Journal. I do know one thing: he's not very good at getting his facts straight here. Schneiderman writes,

"As for James himself, Iron Chef Michael Symon has said he’d cook for LeBron and his friends once a month if the Cavs star comes to New York. And Slyman’s Deli has said it would give LeBron free corned beef for life if he moves to the city."

Really? Has Rupert Murdoch turned the WSJ into a rag with the credibility of the National Enquirer, with little R.M. tagging along at his heels?

Obviously, both of these statements are wildly inaccurate, at best. First, Symon offered to make dinner if LeBron STAYS. One would be hard-pressed to understand why Symon would fly to New York to cook for LeBron out there.

Second, Slyman's - that storied Cleveland institution - said he'd get free corned beef for life if he STAYED. Such a glorious landmark would be burned to the ground if it chose to give him free corned beef for life if he left. In addition, it defies logic to think that LeBron would take Freddie up on such an offer. It IS good corned beef, but why would LBJ move to New York and then fly back to Cleveland for a Reuben every day?

Should anyone be surprised that newspapers are dying when these sorts of made-up "facts" appear in their pages? Should I be surprised that the Wall Street Journal let these things through their fact checker system? What else are they lying about???

Luckily for the truth, the Cleveland Sandwich Board is here to call these varmints out and defend the honor and dignity of our restaurateurs. This is exactly the sort of thing that could cost Schneiderman his career; lets hope, for his sake, that the WSJ corrects it immediately.

Best,
Beau

Dear LeBron: New York is waiting to kill you

2010-06-14T09:20:00.000-07:00

Dear LeBron,

We just wanted you to know that New York City is attempting to kill you. They want you to get fat and die, and they're going to overcharge you for it. Here's the evidence.

Our advice: stick with the chicken salad sandwich at Good To Go Cafe.

Best,
Beau

Mia Bella

2010-06-06T16:48:00.000-07:00

12200 Mayfield Road
Cleveland, OH 44106
(216) 795-2355
www.miabellacleveland.com

By Beau Cadiyo

It's long been difficult to actually get a good sandwich in Little Italy. Presti's, of course, has superb chicken salad, but for a regular sit-down place the pickings are few and far between. Thus, when I learned that the head chef had left La Dolce Vita to start his own restaurant directly across the street, I was glad – while the Dolce food was generally good, I didn't like the restaurant itself. When I heard that the chef would be making sandwiches at his new restaurant, Mia Bella, the heavens opened, angels sang and I had a vision of a promised land of delicious leavened bread and filling.

I arrived at 8:30 p.m. on the night of their soft opening, which coincided with the Little Italy Art Walk, just as a group of four were turned away at the door. Tables all along the sidewalk were packed. I strode purposefully past a perky blonde hostess and went inside; every single table was taken, and the air was full of excited conversation. Both the interior lighting and the huge, open windows made it feel light, airy and pleasant. I walked to the very end of the bar and leaned against the only open seat in the entire restaurant, which also happened to be just above an air conditioning vent. Immediately, two women started talking to me and the bartender came over to shake my hand.

Things were looking good.

Frank arrived and suggested we go outside. I was skeptical; after all, I had a perfectly good perch in a very, very crowded restaurant - how were we supposed to get a prime table on a beautiful night when so many others were being turned away? She marched outside, spotted an empty table at the very end, said a few words to the hostess and we were seated.

We waited. Water, silverware, fresh bread and herb butter were brought out at different times, as were our menus, and eventually someone arrived to take our order. Meanwhile, people walked past – friends walked by and said hello, our water glasses were filled and refilled again, and we passed the time by ignoring our cell phones and talking.

Months ago, I received a few angry messages about my B-Spot review; the gist was that I reviewed it when B-Spot was new, and that I should have cut them some slack. The thing was, the food at B-Spot was terrible and we were charged full-price. Mia Bella, on their very first night, couldn’t have been more different. While it took a little time, when my Sopa di Pesche and Frank’s Calamari arrived, both were artfully presented in elegant four-sided, high-walled bowls. From the first bite, I was impressed. Mia Bella’s soup is fresh: everything from the fish to the vegetables to the parsley tasted as if it had been caught or picked immediately before being cooked. The thick stock swirled with oil and herbs; the warm bread they served had the harder shell and soft interior indicating that it had just come out of the oven. Frank, who normally doesn’t like any seafood, had one spoonful of my soup, then two more, then used her fork to get half of a piece of fish from the bowl; her calamari was similarly delicious, although for some reason she didn’t think it should have been served with the small triangle of bread in her bowl.

Then the sandwich arrived. It wasn’t on the dinner menu, but when I’d asked the waitress she smiled, winked and said she’d see if the chef could make me one. On such an important, busy, chaotic night, I was impressed; when I actually got the sandwich, I was floored. If this was indicative of what Mia Bella can do with a last-minute sandwich request, the rest of the previously-planned entrees must be phenomenal.

The bread was a seemingly fresh-baked flat loaf of slightly leavened bread, folded over on itself. Lettuce, tomatoes, red onions and charbroiled chicken were stuffed inside with a generous slathering of pesto. The chicken was exceptionally tender and tasted of recently applied flame; there were blackened bits, but he avoided burning it beyond what was necessary for flavor. The lettuce was crisp, but not texturally overbearing. The tomatoes tasted like actual tomatoes, not like cardboard. The red onions were arranged so that I tasted their new-cut, pungent flavor in every bite, but just a little.

The standout, though, was the pesto. At first, the newly crushed basil was the most powerful flavor, but after a few bites I realized that I’d also been tasting garlic; the olive oil played a few pleasant, lingering notes and held all of the other flavors together, as good olive oil should. I’ve never had pesto which tasted this fresh, and I’ve only rarely had a sandwich where all of the parts worked so harmoniously. Within a few bites, I had a new favorite summer sandwich.

We finished just as it started raining, so we moved inside. On the back wall, two paintings in progress – detailed murals of a castle and a bridge – were lit up with spotlights, inviting patrons to see art in progress. "Life Is Beautiful" was on the widescreen. "Take a look at this belly button! What a knot! But you can't untie it, not even with your teeth! Those racist scientists tried it. Not a chance! This is an Italian belly button!" We laughed, and Frank sipped her wine. It was 11 p.m., and people still milled about, talking, laughing and finishing their food.

Little Italy has a new, outstanding restaurant in its heart. I’d suggest letting them run for a few weeks to let the chef and the waitstaff adjust to their new digs and perfect their techniques. Then you should make reservations; Mia Bella is going to be too popular to leave getting a table up to chance. Go, enjoy the experience, and taste the real sweet life.

Metairie, Louisiana

2010-06-03T06:42:00.001-07:00

Feedjit just showed up with this:

Metairie, Louisiana arrived from google.com on "The Cleveland Sandwich Board: October 2009" by searching for where in cleveland is there a milf hangout?.

Metairie, Louisiana - we hope you find what you're looking for.

Best,
Beau

Ask the CSB

2010-06-02T07:41:00.000-07:00

Question:
What are your thoughts on the effects the BP oil spill might have on sandwiches?

Edward Sandwichhands:
Good luck getting a shrimp po' boy

Earl S. Wich:
Seafood from the Gulf represents 5% of US Consumption and 1/5 of the Gulf is now closed to fishing with every expectation that it will get worse. That is certainly enough to affect prices on seafood. So price increases will happen. Frank Cousteau took some underwater video of the effects of the spill and it was pretty revolting.

Believe it or not, the testing procedure for checking for contamination includes human "sniffers" who smell the fish. One expert called it "...the best oil detection tool we have available."

Plus, this has seriously cut into Sponge Bob's Crabby Patty production.

D. John Horseradish:
I'm looking forward to not having to grease my pans, as the oil should provide enough protection against burning.

On the other hand, there's nothing worse than an oily oyster.

Edward:
Also, consider hurricane season. If a giant storm fed by the gulf dumps oil all over the Midwest, goodbye grains, bread, and sandwiches as we know them.

Earl:
Oily bread. That would trump an oily oyster. "Oily oyster" is kind of fun to say, though. Might be a good band name!
D. John:
Oh Ed:

We've genetically engineered our plants to the point where if oil-rain comes down on our midwest wheat, it'll probably just grow like all-natural H2O.

Beau Cadiyo:
So, this could be devastating for not only oyster-based sandwiches but sandwiches in general, should the grain harvests be affected?

I was thinking about tuna fish; luckily, they're often caught in the open sea. I don't know of many other fish-based sandwiches.

I wonder what will happen with Subway's fish salad sandwich - is there even a fish ingredient in it? Should potential franchisees be looking to, say, Papa John's instead?

Ed:
Cod sandwiches are really popular around here, don't think cod comes
from the Gulf though. Not sure.

Earl:
What kind of fish go into the fast food fish sandwiches? I have no idea where those come from. Could be affected. The Fillet-O-Fish becomes unobtainable. Lent is ruined!

Papa John's. Fish-free pizza and proud of it!
Ed:
McDonalds exploits a whitefish similar to cod that I believe is in the new zealand/australia area. As for the other fast food chains,
probably a crap shoot.

Beau:
Yeah - McD's is all south Pacific sourced, although because of overfishing that could change.

D. John:
I'm surprised McD's isn't Chinese farm-grown cod.

Earl:

The hurricane scenario taken about as far as it can go.

http://xkcd.com/748/

News

2010-06-01T07:19:00.001-07:00

"After twelve years of doing Wait, Wait, on which I have interviewed future Presidents and Elmo himself, nothing has excited my daughters more than Sandwich Monday. "What sandwich did you eat today, Papa?" they cry as I return home on Monday evenings."

I hope that someday I am lucky enough to have daughters like them.

Also, this man threatened and robbed a sandwich shop with gasoline. Then when he was cornered by cops he set the bathroom of his hotel on fire, which forced him out. Nobody ever said a sandwich shop thief was smart.

Keep 'em coming, America.

Best,
Beau

Subway Cheese Changes

2010-05-28T11:48:00.000-07:00

As Sam Cooke sang, "It's been a long time coming but I know a change gonna come." Subway announced it will be changing how its cheese is placed on sandwiches. Readers should make themselves aware of the new procedure and report any violators to the proper authorities - namely, us, so we can make fun of their backwards way of doing things.

Best,
Beau

For Goodness Jakes

2010-05-23T16:14:00.000-07:00

Public Square
130 Public Sq.
Cleveland, OH 44114
(216) 241-8099

by Beau Cadiyo

Public Square is great at moving people along, but terrible at holding on to them. It is an expansive, unfriendly concrete desert, and the vast majority of people pass through it trying to get from one place to another as quickly as possible, or pray for the bus to show up NOW to take them away from the Square. It doesn’t have the bars of West Ninth, the clubs of West Sixth or the award-winning restaurants of East Fourth; it offers almost no reason to stop and look around, and every reason to hurry through.

For Goodness Jake’s, a deli right on Public Square, is likewise set up not for pleasant lingering but for speedy exits. It occupies a long storefront with doors on each end, and contains a n extended deli counter and lots and lots of pop coolers, chip racks, pie displays and ice cream freezers. There is a perfunctory counter along the window, but an ice-cream cooler blocks off much of it. There are no chairs. People place their orders at one end of the counter, walk the short distance along it, grab their food and leave. Patrons are unable sit and watch the people passing by on the other side of the window, unable to linger over coffee – and unable to enjoy one of the best sandwiches in the city in the place in which it was made.

Upon unfolding the waxed paper around my Turkey Reuben, I was a little disappointed at how small it was. For the $7, I could have bought a much larger sandwich, with chips, at Jimmy John’s. But For Goodness Jake’s aims for quality, not quantity, in a finely executed balance. The thick rye bread was buttered and grilled, leaving it crunchy yet still soft on the inside. In between were masses of moist, succulent turkey, a small amount of sauerkraut to season it without overwhelming the rest, just-melted Swiss cheese and enough Thousand Island to let you know it was there without punching you in the face. It held together surprisingly well considering how moist and slippery it could have been – a result, I believe, of intelligent design and skill on the part of the sandwich makers. It also only dripped a little; the main reason I needed napkins was to wipe the butter from the bread off my hands and face.

Because the entire eating space at For Goodness Jake’s was effectively taken up by a single man in a striped shirt and tie, I had to eat my Reuben in Frank Howells’ apartment in the Park Building, a heavenly oasis above Public Square. Why should I have had to seek a safe haven elsewhere in order to enjoy such deliciousness? It’s a mystery to me. Fixing For Goodness Jake’s is a relatively simple proposition. They should get rid of some of their less appealing options (who actually eats plastic-wrapped pies?) and refashion the newly opened-up space for customers, adding small tables and bar stools. This would give it social proof, make it a much more pleasant place to patronize, and fundamentally change how people interact with the space.

Fixing Public Square is a more difficult project. Three prominent proposals are now floating around – to build a giant mound of grass, to semi-enclose it in some sort of structure, and to create a “forest” with “clearings.” Each proposal is explicitly pitched to move Public Square in the direction of Chicago’s Millennium Park. This should raise alarm bells in the minds of anyone who cares about Cleveland, since Millennium Park is useful and attractive only during the day. At night it is an empty, scary, unwelcoming wasteland. It’s also only really useful during the warmer months, as fewer people venture out into the cold of Chicago winters. It would be folly to try to emulate this in Cleveland, yet that’s what these well-meaning designers would do: each of these proposals would create a dead zone for the 10 dark hours of every day during the warm months, and 24 hours a day in the winter months. What’s more, the designers consider that an improvement. They’re flat-out wrong: if we want people to enjoy Public Square, we have to make sure it’s clean and welcoming, and making it more like Millennium Park is decidedly not the way to do that.

The best plan of action would be to privatize Public Square. That’s right – we should build on it. Let’s rezone the land so that the ground floor is taken up by restaurants and bars, and put housing on the upper floors, like at East Fourth and West Sixth. Let’s divert motor traffic around it and only allow in light rail. Heck, let’s put in a monorail or a Wuppertal Schwebebahn shooting straight down into the Flats and Tremont, turning the newly christened Private-Public Square into a sustainable, city-expanding transportation hub. Rezoning would accomplish what no current proposal can: it would increase foot traffic and lingering, and would almost certainly increase the business traffic in Tower City. It would create a sociable connection between East Fourth, West Sixth and West Ninth and, with transportation to the Flats and Tremont, would make both places more pleasantly accessible with public transportation, offering bar-hoppers and city-dwellers an easy way to move between these cultural hotspots. It would make people actually use Public Square. Next, we can turn downtown back into a real downtown and start building on those godforsaken parking lots on West Sixth.

Whatever happens, though, keep the Turkey Reubens at For Goodness Jake’s. They're delicious.

VOTE FOR SANDWICH

2010-05-21T11:07:00.001-07:00

Des Ayuno just sent this link to me: Vote For Sandwich. I'm not fully sure I understand the intricacies of this election system, but someone surely does. Have at it, America!

Best,
Beau

TLC Top Ten Favorite Sandwiches in America

2010-05-20T10:16:00.000-07:00

by Edward Sandwichhands and Beau Cadiyo

Edward found an article called "America's Top 10 Favorite Sandwiches" by Echo Surina. ("Echo Surina" is one of those names that, for a girl, is pretty hot, and for a boy shows that your parents hoped you'd be gay.) Ed sent it to me expressing some skepticism about the list, and asked if the CSB should respond. He intimated that sandwich writing is not for amateurs, and when a novice enters into our world it's our job to make sure that they bring to the art of sandwich reviewing a suitable respect for Sandwich Science™. Naturally, I agreed. It's impossible to argue with truth like that.

Here is their list with our responses:

10: English Muffin Breakfast Sandwich

Ed's response: If it is one of America's favorite sandwiches, why is it made with CANADIAN bacon and an ENGLISH muffin? Clearly the writers of this post are Redcoats, Benedict Arnolds, or terrorists.

Beau's response: I don't share any of Ed's reservations about our neighbor to the north or former colonial master. I did, at first, question this as a choice of "America's Favorite" sandwiches. On some reflection, however, I could accept this, considering that so many fast food stores and breakfast restaurants have this or some variation on their breakfast menus. This gets a pass.

I noticed that there was no statistical evidence supporting the claim that this is the tenth favorite sandwich in America. Who made these determinations? Or is this Echo Surina's top ten?

9: Smokey Barbecue Beef Sandwiches

Beau's response: Yeawhat? This is totally out of left field; how did this make the cut? Perhaps, again, the author is looking to fast food menus for inspiration, but here, it fails. Without some sort of statistical evidence - much less some sort of logical argument - showing that it should be on the list, it should be pulled. Merely saying that it was "inspired" by Southern eating doesn't cut it. Amateur hour and, again, I suspect Echo Surina is letting his/her own biases get in the way of proper sandwich reporting.

Ed's response: Really? I'm pretty sure the pulled pork sandwich, which did not make this list, is much more popular.

8: Hot Beef Sandwich

Ed's response: So basically, this is the same as number 9 but it doesn't have bbq sauce?

Beau's response: Ed hit the nail on the head. I don't get this one at all. It takes up space which could have been used for, say, Tuna Salad or a standard Hero.

7: Ham and Cheese Stromboli

Beau's response: Sandwiches are two slices of bread with filling. Strombolis are not two slices of bread with filling. I have no idea why Echo Surina thought that this would somehow slip through. I'd like to chalk this up to amateurishness, but this seems to be a willful attempt to stretch the definition of a sandwich to any sort of food which involves baking and filling, and anyone purporting to report on sandwiches must know better. At this point, Echo Surina should have been fired from the job and an expert should have been brought in to replace him/her. It would have cost much, much more, but the list of America's top sandwiches would have at least included only sandwiches. What's #6 going to be - a chicken pot pie?

Ed's response: A Stromboli isn't a sandwich. Why not just throw pizza, apple pie, and chicken wings on the list? Don't quit your day-job, moron.

6: Classic grilled cheese sandwich

Ed's response: I'll give them this one. I don't appreciate their suggestion that I make my grilled cheese on whole wheat bread though (even though I usually do.)

Beau's response: I will echo Ed; the grilled cheese is a classic adored far and wide. This should definitely have been on the list.

5: Grilled Reubens with Cole Slaw

Beau's Response: I'll also give them this one; Reubens are pretty good. However, before this, why not go with the more wide-spread classic - a corned beef sandwich?

Ed's Response: Reuben's are grilled with sauerkraut. SANDWICH SCIENCE™, check it.

4: Philly Cheese Steak

Ed's response: I highly doubt that the majority of Philly Cheese Steak's in this country are made with rib-eye. Steak-umm's are not rib-eye. As a matter of fact, if you visit the Steak-umm's website at http://www.steakumm.com/, you will notice that one of the first things to appear on your screen is, "Steak-umm's Recipe Ideas! "Philly Cheese Steak" Sandwich. "

Beau's response: With the success of Philly Cheese Steak chains across the country, this should probably have been included. However, again, I'd like to see something to back this up as one of the country's favorite sandwiches, rather than just Echo Surina's. I also doubt that it goes to #4 - a fried chicken patty would come ahead of a Philly Cheese Steak any day of the week.

3: Chicken Salad Sandwich

Beau's response: This was a bit of a shocker. Sure, they're in a lot of places, but I'm not sure it warrants placement at #3. In addition, they leave out egg salad sandwiches, which I would suspect are as popular and wide-spread as chicken salad. This should have been lower on the list, and these two sandwiches should have been a tie.

Ed's response: Gross, just gross. Where is the turkey club?

Beau's further response: good point, Ed. Perhaps we shouldn't read any more.

2: Sloppy Joes

Ed's response: Back in the old times when I lived in a frat house we had a humongous cook named "Kathy." She frequently made extra-sloppy sloppy joes. The sandwich itself will always remind me of her giant arms with huge tufts of fat pouring out like molasses.

Beau's response: I haven't had one of these since my days at W. D. Hall Elementary School. In fact, I don't know of a single place outside of elementary academia which serves sloppy joe's. This might be a kid's favorite, but kids also liked pikachu and slap bracelets. Kids are stupid. So is anyone who would put a Sloppy Joe at #2 of America's Favorite Sandwiches.

1: Po' Boys

Beau's response:
When I flipped through the list and saw #2, I naturally expected that #1 would be the quintessential American sandwich: the mighty Hamburger. Thus, seeing Po' Boys, I just stared in stunned, stupefied silence. I should have known that #1 would be totally incorrect, of course, considering the other sandwiches on this list. Are Po' Boys good? Yes. Are they one of America's Favorite Sandwiches? No. Is Echo Surina deliberately trying to make a list of not the Favorite Sandwiches in America? Is she trying to impose some skewed sandwich preference paradigm on the country? Is this like the plan Kurt Vonnegut described whereby humans made aliens feel inferior? (Someone help me out with the name of the book...) Is she just trying to beef-block burgers? Put PB&J here if you really want to keep burgers off of the list. Put a BLT. Put hot dogs. A Po' Boy as America's Favorite Sandwich? Surely you're joking. I would suggest to Echo Surina that he/she visit Afghanistan wearing either a kippah or bikini (or both) and wander into the mountains before he/she submits such absurdist filth, such ridiculous drivel, to an intelligent American public he/she obviously has no respect for.

Ed's response: They don't even say WHAT KIND of Po' Boy..... What is a Po' Boy anyhow but another word for hoagie, grinder, or sub? The writers might as well have put the number one sandwich as "sandwich".

###
It turns out that Echo Surina is a reasonably photogenic woman, an "award-winning journalist," and she now lives in San Diego. At last count she had 190 friends on Facebook. Neither Ed nor I are on that list.

She also owns a "writing studio" called Philanthropology, which describes itself thus: "Philanthropology is a boutique writing studio specifically for individuals with a cause." A professional, award-winning writer crafted that sentence. I guess we'll have to step up our game.

CSB Approved

2010-05-19T09:00:00.000-07:00

Amigos -

I know, I know, we haven't been as busy posting in the last couple of weeks. Rest assured, more of the greatest sandwich reviews of all time are in the pipeline, including one about everything you need to know about city planning and sandwich shops and one about The Quit. Meanwhile, Weapons of Mass Creation is happening this weekend. I asked about the possibility of sandwiches there, and the organizer wrote me:

We will not have sandwiches on site, but we’ve partnered with local restaurants that surely have a menu full of sandwiches. Take a look at the Gordon Square restaurants http://www.gordonsquare.org/maps.html .

I will be there with Frank at certain points during the weekend, and I recommend that you come, too.

Best,
Beau

Hot in Cleveland

2010-05-14T08:03:00.000-07:00

Feedjit just reported the following:

United States arrived from google.com on "The Cleveland Sandwich Board" by searching for where to pick up older women in cleveland.

United States - we hope you find what you're looking for.

Best,
Beau

Light Bistro

2010-05-04T06:14:00.000-07:00

2801 Bridge Avenue
Cleveland, OH 44113
(216) 771-7130
www.lightbistro.com

by Bite Buff

I think that it is probably a sin to say this on a blog dedicated to the love of sandwiches…but, I hate deli meat. I’ve often caught myself saying “I don’t like sandwiches” because I truly detest deli meat. It’s slimy, cold, and it just doesn’t do it for me no matter how hard I try to “dress it up.”

When I was approached to do a guest post on The Sandwich Board I saw it as a personal challenge. Mission: Find a sandwich that I want to try (and hopefully end up loving) to review for this blog. I spent weeks thinking about the perfect sandwich to try, and I finally found what I was looking for.

Frank and I attended a fundraiser last month at the Sight Center. It was a grazing event offering samples from 19 of our fabulous local chefs. Chef Matthew Mathlage from Light Bistro was serving a version of his Pork Belly Finger Sandwiches, and Frank and I both instantly fell in love with them. It was served on soft, fresh seven-grain bread, and the spicy aioli gave it just a little kick. I think we may have each been back twice after our original sample! We knew that we wanted more, and were thrilled to find out that the sandwiches were served on Light’s Happy Hour bar menu. Plans to dine there quickly formed. I had found “my” sandwich.

I have been to Light Bistro before, but never for Happy Hour. They have quite good deals going on!

Monday - Friday
4:30 – 7:00pm
All Bar Menu food items for $5.00 each.
5 domestic beers for $5.00
5 specialty beers for $7.50
Single specialty beers for $2.00
Glass of wine for $5.00
Bottle of wine for $10.00
Specialty cocktails for $3.00

Note the $10 bottles of wine. They typically have 3-4 options of both white and red wine, and after trying three different bottles on separate occasions I can vouch that their quality is usually superb.

You’ll be happy to hear that the Pork Belly Finger Sandwiches were just as good as we remembered. The meat is tender and juicy, and the subtle heat of the aioli plays on your tongue. The other dishes that we tried were very good as well, including the Lamb Burger, Honey Ham and Cheddar Croquettes, Charred Pesto Flatbread, and Summer Gazpacho.

Light Bistro is a great neighborhood bistro, with a cozy and comfortable atmosphere, that consistently delivers excellent food. They are in the process of expanding their dining area and installing a patio. Tucked away on a corner of Bridge Avenue in a residential area, I think that people forget that this gem is hidden off of the more popular West 25th Street in Ohio City. I am here to say that Light Bistro is not to be forgotten!

They have turned this “sandwich hater” into a believer.

Hello, New Delhi!

2010-05-03T09:43:00.000-07:00

This just showed up on our Feedjit:

New Delhi, Delhi arrived from google.co.in on "The Cleveland Sandwich Board" by searching for A man walks into a restaurant, orders for an albatross sandwich, eats it, goes out of the restaurant, and shoots himself. Why?.

New Delhi - we hope you find the answer.

Best,
Beau

Sandwich Delites

2010-04-29T13:36:00.000-07:00

1 Berea Commons
Berea, OH 44017
(440) 234-3322

By Earl S. Wich

In the mid 1970's I wondered what an Earth Shoe was. As a child it seemed as though that would be a shoe made, somehow, out of earth. Given that this was the 70's that did not seem like such a strange idea. The reason that this would even enter my mind is that the downtown area of Berea had been mostly (somewhat? partially?) demolished to make way for a new shopping center to be call the Berea Commons. At the time, it was a grand vision to build a reasonably sized mall in the middle of a small college town. In retrospect, building this during the period of great expansion in very large suburban malls like Great Northern looks like folly. And, indeed, that is exactly what it turned out to be.

However, to a ten year old, the most important part of this retail development was that they placed a large, loud bell in the central area. This bell was able to be reached by a ten year old and it was rung loudly and enthusiastically. Important to this story, this bell was located beneath the sign of the aforementioned Kalso Earth Shoe store. As it turns out, my childhood confusion over the origin and usefulness of something called an "earth shoe" was prescient. The shoe store was gone with in a short period of time.

In the now vacant space, a sandwich shop quickly sprung up. It was known as Grum's Sandwich Shop. Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to eat at Grum's since my parents could not see the logic in buying a sandwich when cold cuts from Rego's (or indeed, chipped chopped ham from Lawson's) were far more economical. Eventually, I outgrew this gastronomically careless thrift, got a job, and began eating sandwiches that were not made by an immediate family member.

By this time, Grum's had been sold and its name changed to Sandwich Delites. The menu, however, stayed largely the same. In the 25 to 30 years since, the Turkey Ridge sandwich has sustained me whenever the urge struck and I was in Berea.

To be honest, it appears to be a simple sandwich; simplistic, even. It is comprised of turkey, provolone, lettuce, onions, tomato, mayo and seasonings (mostly oregano.) It overcomes its humble ingredients, however, and is more than the sum of its parts. The turkey itself is good. It isn't great, but it is moist and sliced fairly thinly, which I prefer for deli meats. I believe that thin slices always makes a better eating experience, whether it is deli meat, cheese or most other forms of food. (I know that you, the reader, will come up with many foods that contradict this but stay with me here.) The cheese is also decent. It's not dry and it has a good flavor. The lettuce is crisp and shredded medium-fine (again with the thin cut,) and the white onions are also sliced quite thin (again.) Ditto for the tomatoes. The bread is a fairly normal roll of the type that subs are usually made of. It is soft and holds up well to the moisture.

The mayo and the seasoning are what really set this sandwich apart. The seasoning is mostly oregano as best as I can tell, and dramatically adds to the flavor. The mayo, however, is different than any other that I have had. It is very mild and quite thin, almost watery. I know that sounds bad but it isn't. It adds moisture (which almost any turkey sandwich could use) and mixes with the thinly sliced lettuce and onions to create a sort of very mild slaw. I have no idea if that is what the creator of this intended but it is what makes it great. You have to eat it over the paper it is wrapped in because it will drip. Wonderfully mayo-y drips of goodness.

Other sandwiches are good there as well. The Cold Steer is mostly the same thing but with roast beef and horseradish instead of turkey and mayo. The horseradish has a similar mild thinness that really works. For my money, however, the Turkey Ridge can’t be beat. I really don't get anything else.

There are a few caveats. It is a pricey sandwich at about $10.50. At about 16 inches it is, however, large enough to justify this price (they make a half that costs about half). Also, the staff is really not very inclined towards good customer service. I believe that the same woman has owned the shop since it became Sandwich Delites and she remains surly and occasionally combative. Despite being within walking distance of 1800 college students, she has effectively driven off that crowd through the shrewd combination of high prices and what appears to be an active disdain for customers in general and "the kids" specifically. Of course, it is when she is there that the food is best. Get any of the older women and your sandwich will be awesome. Get one of the kids at the end of the shift and it will be a somewhat lifeless experience. This can be said for most businesses.

Don't, however, let the drawbacks stop you from getting what I consider to be one of the top three sandwiches in my pantheon of bread and meat. I bought one just today. If I were in Berea and I did not bring one back to share with my co-worker there would be hell to pay.

Also, there is still an original Grum's in Coventry on the east side. Although they have not technically been related for 30 years, the Turkey Ridge is still the same (within reason) at both. This is somewhat amazing. I ate at Grum's for the first time ever recently and had a great sandwich that was immediately identifiable as the same Turkey Ridge. The service was better too, but as they are quite far apart, I don't imagine that one loses any business to the other.

It’s not as good as What About Bob’s in Willoughby, but it is good and it’s worth going out of my way for. There are days when I don’t want anything else.