Between the Bread

The only vaguely French quality about a Monte Cristo is that it’s made with French toast, but for kids dining at Disneyland’s Blue Bayou restaurant, the sweet, salty, and decadent creation might as well be a croque monsieur.

Though the Monte Cristo's origins are gooey, the sandwich was likely influenced by the croque, as well as by a Depression-era dinner staple called a cheese dream and the deep-fried grilled cheeses called "Frenchees" native to Nebraska. Curious to know more about its strange history? Keep reading.

I suspected I would like pickled okra, but I had no idea I'd go crazy for it. I recently bought a jar to make Cajun Bloody Marys, and I'm hooked. If you like pickles and spicy stuff, I highly recommend pickled okra, which has a velvety texture and none of the usual sliminess.

But isn't this a blog about sandwiches? Why, yes! Keep reading for details on this weekend improv.

It's been a busy week, so I'm just catching up on this important bit of sandwich news: Pitchfork has discovered a Toronto sandwich shop called Sky Blue Sky Sandwich Company, where all the menu items are named after Wilco songs.

"How to Fight Loneliness" involves chicken, apple, and bacon (I'd take comfort in that) while "California Stars" is a chicken salad (what, no avocado?!). Novel, to be sure, but old-school Wilco fans might question the choice of Sky Blue Sky as the namesake album. Apparently, the owner settled on the Wilco theme by chance.

San Francisco has a sandwich shop called The Yellow Submarine, though I don't think the offerings are named for Beatles songs. If you had a rock-inspired sandwich shop, what band would you pick? I think I'd go with Pink Floyd, because a.) it would be funny and b.) you could have an egg sandwich called "Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast."

Source: BlogTO

If you thought leftover sandwiches couldn't get weirder than pulled pork and zucchini, think again. These fillings were so bizarre, I wasn't even sure if I'd be able to dig in without total disaster ensuing. But not only was it edible, it was worth repeating.

Like most leftover sandwiches, this one started with a yummy dinner: cod sauteed with broccolini, fennel, and carrots and served in a light broth. Come sandwich time, I combined the leftover vegetables with sliced avocado and served it on Acme's olive bread with a bit of Dijon. The salty tang of the olives was the perfect counterpunch to the sweetness of the fennel and carrots, with the avocado bridging the gap. Truly a flavor explosion.

• Braised short rib sandwiches are a worthy challenge — Simply Sandwiches

• Cheesesteak showdown: Geno's vs. Pat's — Destination Eats
• More news on Yats bringing po'boys to Annie's Bistro — SFoodie
• Ham sammie kicks off "a sandwich a day" — Serious Eats
• A panini party goes down in Florence — The Atlantic Food
• Mardi Gras may be over, but it's not too late for muffuletta paninis — YumSugar

 

I've sort of given up on trying to eat at Ike's Place, even though it makes some of the finest sandwiches in the city. The lines are just insanely long, even in what used to be off hours, and I am pretty impatient when it comes to waiting in line for food. Thanks in part to Yelp, it's too popular for its own good, which makes me sad.

Apparently, Ike's neighbors aren't happy either, and even the New York Times knows about it. A writeup in Friday's paper addresses the effect of crazy queues at Ike's and Bi-Rite on the surrounding residents. If you're wondering why this topic is worthy of a NYT story, well, I'm with you. But let's take a moment to discuss anyway. According to the article:

With up to 1,200 customers on sunny weekend days, Ike’s has faced a backlash from neighbors. The once-quiet block on 16th Street is fed up with patrons who wait up to two hours for their chance to taste what they believe is nirvana between two slices of bread. In response to complaints, Ike’s reduced its hours starting this month — it closes at 7 p.m. "The only time we’re not busy is when we’re not open," said Ike Shehadeh, the owner.

Let the record show that Blimpie sandwiches aren't all they're stacked up to be. In the first sandwich-centric lawsuit I've encountered since starting this blog, two Illinois residents have filed a class action lawsuit against the sandwich chain, claiming that its Super-Stacked sandwiches do not have twice the meat of a regular sub, as advertised. And they've done some serious research, according to Above the Law:

The class claims a 12-inch Blimpie’s Best sub contains 50 grams of protein, and a 12-inch Blimpie’s Best Super Stacked sub contains 73 grams of protein, so it does not have twice as much meat . . .

Lawyers on the case have estimated damages at up to $75,000 per person. I have never been a huge Blimpie fan, but I have a hard time imagining that a 12-inch sub would leave anyone hungry. I take my sandwiches very seriously, but I'm usually on the side of deleting meat, rather than adding it.

You know what could get me into sandwich court though? A poorly constructed or soggy sandwich. Now that is an injustice.

Photo Source: Blimpie

Americans tend to give sandwiches names: the Reuben, the beef on weck, you we name it. Naming sandwiches is something that our country excels at unlike any other, but the French have one notable exception: the croque monsieur and its mate, the croque madame. The croque monsieur, which sounds slightly less glamorous translated as "crispy mister," (ha!) is an iconic French dish that begins as a humble ham and cheese sandwich. What makes it très magnifique is the combination of bechamel sauce with already decadent gruyere cheese. The white bread is then topped with cheese that's browned in the oven and, in the case of the croque madame, it's finished with an egg. According to chef Daniel Boulud, the croque monsieur was invented in 1910 at a café on Paris’s Boulevard des Capucines, right around the time the middle class was embracing cafe culture and, in turn, sandwiches. And thank goodness they did. I have had delicious croque monsieurs, but I've actually never ordered one in France. How about you?

This weekend on a rare trip to Berkeley, I scoped out a perfect brunch spot, only to arrive and discover a 45-minute wait. New plan! My mom and I wandered into a seafood joint I had never heard of called Sea Salt.

I figured I might as well order seafood, and why not get a sandwich? Though my mom's crab cake benedict was better (hard to make that bad), the trout sandwich was well done. Pan-seared fish, the perfect thickness, served on a house-baked roll with sides of tartar sauce and slaw on the side. I wondered if trout sandwiches are a local specialty anywhere in the States. Curious? Keep reading.