It appears that there’s some contention over where in Philadelphia the first sub sandwich (aka “hoagie”) was invented. Hogwash. It must have been invented in the North End of Boston. Or, erm, New York.
So what brought that on? I was driving back from the UPS depot after picking up a package (grumble grumble signature required grumble) and coming through the oxymoron that is downtown Redmond, when suddenly I realized I wanted a sammich. Not a sandwich, which could have been adequately provided by the cafeteria at work, but a sammich. Something with soul.
Only there aren’t any in the greater Seattle area, particularly Eastside, that I’m familiar with. Quizno’s? Schlotzky’s? Please. Chain sandwiches can never be sammiches, and besides both make me reach for the Alka-Seltzer. Burritos are fine, but they aren’t sammiches. And don’t even get me started on the orthographic abomination that is the “wrapp.”
Surely there must be better alternatives out here. I hope.
In no particular order, great sammiches of all time:
- Turkey-breast pastrami with gouda and special sauce on fresh-baked whole wheat from Take It Away (Charlottesville, VA)
- Grilled cheese (cheddar and havarti) on thick “Texas toast” style white bread from the late Corner Grill (Charlottesville, VA)
- Toss up: either fresh roast beef with horseradish and cheddar or freshly roasted turkey breast with lettuce and tomato, both on sourdough bread (a deli in Rosslyn, VA)
- The chicken parm sandwich at Oreste’s: breaded chicken breast, cheese, sauce, a little hot pepper relish (Rosslyn and Fairfax, VA)
- Dino Special: capicola, fresh mozzarella, lettuce, tomato, oil, and balsamic vinegar on a soft sub roll (Dino’s, Boston)
- Italian sub: salami, capicola, provolone, lettuce, tomato, onion, hot peppers on a hard sub roll (Monica’s Pizza, Boston)
- Lamb gyro with hot sauce from the Moishe’s Chicken truck at MIT (Cambridge, MA)
While we were in the garden last Saturday, Lisa noted large holes dug in the back bed, larger than you might expect from a squirrel. “Maybe it’s a cat,” I offered.
“Looks too big to be a cat,” she said grimly.
I thought it was destined to stay a mystery, but Sunday night after dinner with Ed and Gina we were sitting around the dining room table talking. Then Gina said, “Oh, you have a raccoon!” pointing out our skywall into the darkness.
I saw a naked pointed snout and said, “That’s no raccoon. It’s a possum.”
Sure enough, as we watched him, he went into the back bed where the holes were. He was huge, at least a foot tall at the shoulder, and not particularly afraid of the light either. At least until we got a flashlight, at which point he unhurriedly vanished into the bushes.
Unfortunately I didn’t think to get a picture. Sigh. At least now I know what’s been digging in the side lawn.