There’s a curious transformation that tends to afflict foods upon their passage into the New World, a form of steroidal expansion in which a joyously bountiful “more of everything!” aesthetic is paired with a parallel uptick in Americanized (often processed) ingredients (often cheese). Now, as the steady creep of modern industrialization spreads this sort of beefy maximalism around the globe, the practice has reverted to other countries, threading its way back across our inter-continental foodways. This means that things which appear to have been born here, nurtured in the hothouse cultural ferment of an uptown bodega or a downtown tea shop, may have actually been hatched back in the old country, creating another complex set of variables for charting how such transformations develop.
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While it may not exactly qualify as royalty, I’m more than willing to classify the Roast Beef and Mutz Sandwich at John’s Deli as the Dark Prince of Italian sandwiches. Ordering from a Brooklyn deli pretty much assures you’re about to face down a monstrosity of zeppelin proportions, but in addition to its essential heft, this one comes slicked with a jet-black gravy, the secret ingredient of which may very well be motor oil. It’s also piled with so many fried onions that I had to scrape some off, out of fear that my stomach would erupt in grease-fueled flames. John’s is an institution, founded in 1968, although from it’s name, neighborhood and the classic Boardwalk-style mural outside (more on this below) you’d guess it was far older. The title seems to stem from the existence of a second John’s spin-off down in Bath Beach (there’s also another in Staten Island, apparently), although the fact that the original location is under new ownership may have voided these associations. Circa 2016, the place seems to be in good hands, now run by a self-professed “kid from the neighborhood” who made the rounds with the locals while I dug into my sandwich. He also tried to sell me on the day’s special (Pulled Pork), which I’m sure is great, but had absolutely nothing to do with why I’d ventured out here.
Before there was Billy Joel, there was Sergio Franchi, whose 1968 album Wine and Song celebrates the magical ambiance of the old-fashioned red-sauce joint. The album’s priceless back cover finds Franchi, a Lombardy born crooner who made his bones covering standards in a smooth tenor, cutting it up with a 12 foot hero. I like to believe that, at the moment this photo was taken, he was actually recording, singing his heart out to a sandwich. None of the songs from this album appear to exist online (a shame, considering that Al di Là also provided the name for one of my neighborhood Italian joints), but here's a sampling of Franchi singing his heart out for Ed Sullivan: As a committed lunatic, I spend an undue amount of time trawling Yelp pages and MenuPages listings, seeking out the strange and the unique amid the torrents of food selfies and vaguely described menu items. Last Thursday, while immersed in a messy spread of browser tabs on local Caribbean restaurants, I stumbled upon what seemed like an ordinary French bakery, clicking through to the listing mostly to keep up my frenzied momentum. Amid the croissants and omelets listed on Richol’s menu I noticed a strange item, simply labeled ‘agoulou,’ which neither I nor any internet content written in English seemed to recognize.
Not quite a deli landscape, but this simple mural, spotted in the Bronx, achieves a sort of heavenly luster unmatched by most hectic sandwich collages. Elevated against a beautiful sky blue background, the plated behemoth here floats dream-like atop its bone-white host, its impossibly green lettuce as lush and welcoming as a summer garden. Lotto streamers hint at an even greater transcendence just beyond our grasp, while a bevy of grey stars, squiggles and wind wisps push back against the gray cloud (or unpainted section?) hovering above. As for that tube of sausage, looming in the upper left corner, I am totally stumped.
New York may lag far behind L.A. as a Mexican food metropolis, and Angelinos may still have license to mock our nascent, bodega-rooted taco culture, but I find hope in the idea of humble corner shops turning gradually into restaurants. All five boroughs are dotted with small delis in the process of shifting their primary business model, the stocks of everyday staples vanishing, replaced by stretches of tables and chairs anchored to a food-dispensing back counter. Such eateries usually serve rudimentary, rib-sticking fare, but they’re a starting point, providing the seeds for innovation and opportunity to expand. New York may not be able to match L.A.’s produce or tortilla culture (or the breadth of its Mexican diaspora), but it has potential to grow and improve. In terms of innovation, I have very high hopes for the imminent rebirth of Atoradero, the home-style Bronx restaurant which recently closed due to an egregious rent hike, and is now relocating in dangerous proximity to my apartment. Most bodega-based spots are content to use the same fossilized bagged herbs they sell in dwindling quantities by the counter, keeping the recipes simple, the portions large, and the prices low; Atoradero’s Denisse Chavez, on the other hand, made regular (often life-threatening trips back to her native Puebla for fresh herbs. This isn’t to shortchange a place like Chinantla, which does a few things and does them well. An exemplar of the expanded-bodega tradition, it serves up monstrous cemitas whose diverse layers of ingredients slosh together without becoming indistinguishable. The effect is several sandwiches in one, eggs and avocado and beans and chorizo piled together in a teetering mound. The effect is similar to the clamorous aesthetic of the store itself, which is constructed on a series of stylistic divisions, between canteen and grocery, neighborhood clubhouse and exotic hang-out for young gentrifiers, with Corona décor and colorful sombreros sharing decorative significance with traditional Mexican symbols, right down to the dualistic Aztec-inspired sun-and-moon symbol. Pinned behind a small freezer, there’s even the ultimate syncretic symbol - a bloody-faced Jesus icon pinned with roses and dollar bills - his pain gently soothed by the cool glow of the drinks cooler.
Few foods are as perfect for fusion as sandwiches, which whether in Dagwood monumental style or miniature snack size allow for a variety of differing ingredients to share one bready meeting place. Over the span of one week I consumed four fusion-oriented sandwiches, prepared with varying degrees of success: 1 - Paneer Achari Tikki / Polenta / Orange Tomatoes / Cilantro / Tamarind & Date Chutney: A leftover serving of these delectable cheese kebabs paved the way for a vaguely Indian-themed sandwich, using the ubiquitous tamarind date chutney (familiar as part of the omnipresent trio of condiments offered at Indian restaurants), also available in bottle form. A previous attempt at haphazardly pairing lamb shami kebab with polenta having proven successful, I embarked on the larger scale effort of mixing mild corn pap with Subcontinental flavors, fresh herbs and cherry tomatoes. The result was possibly the most successful of these four sandwiches, and also the only photograph taken under ideal circumstances. Fair warning that the backdrop will only grow more rumpled, and the staging more haphazard, as we continue.
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The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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