Category: Food and eating

The worst meal of my life

This has nothing to do with marketing, but I think the occasion must be commemorated: last night I had the worst meal of my life at Steak Escape, a “food court” store in the Denver Airport. Worstness is here defined not by the savoriness or healthiness or preparation of the food, but by the total indifference of the staff.

I had time before getting on the plane in Des Moines and thought about picking up a known quantity, a Quizno’s classic Italian from their store right next to the airport. Then I decided that taking a sandwich on the plane to eat 3 hours later was too food-obsessive and I’d just roll the dice when I made my connection in Denver.

I chose the “Steak Escape” because they were right by my gate in Denver and they advertised an Italian sub. I asked the counter person what was on it. He could not tell me. He darted his eyes around the food prep area, and I could tell he wasn’t finding anyone or anything that could help me. Finally he took a stab in the dark: “It’s salami… ham… and some other kinds of meat.”

So I ordered a known quantity, a Philly Cheesesteak. It came bare and I stopped the counter person just as she was about to slather it with mayonnaise. I told her I wanted mustard instead. She said, “we don’t have any mustard.” A cheese steak place without mustard? Impossible. But turned out she was just being lazy… SHE did not have any mustard and her station, and did not feel like stepping over to the next station on a slow night to get some. But a guy cleaning the place heard the conversation and produced a big box of packets. Hope he gets a better job soon because he deserves it.

The food was just as awful as you’d expect, but the non-service described above is what makes this the world’s worst. Here is their phone number: (303) 342-3445. Why not give them a call and ask them a question about their food?

The world’s best sandwich?

This afternoon I was in Pasadena for a meeting that ended early, so on the way to the airport I slipped into the mysterious zone between the Golden State Freeway and the Alhambra hills to visit A-1 Eastern Pickles, on Johnston St. As I’ve done several times since I saw their phone number scrawled on the wall of a Greek deli in the 1980s below the word “pickles”, my plan was to buy a case of 4 1-gallon jars of fresh kosher dills for the ridiculous price of less than $12, then try to eat and share as many as I could before they became too bitter to enjoy.

But—today I discover they stopped selling the gallon cases 2 years ago, because “nobody was buying them.” The kosher dills are now available solely in a 5 gallon drum, hardly airline carry-on material.

I stumbled out in to the hazy sunlight and moved on to my next ritual stop, the subs at Giamelas on Los Feliz just east of the Golden State, a few miles north. Would these be gone too, perhaps my fault because I haven’t told people about them or eaten them more frequently? No. The subs, price list and even the serving and kitchen personnel were exactly the same as when I was last in town in July.

Here’s what I order and my ritual: the Italian Cold Cuts sandwich, no mustard or mayonnaise (why do they even ASK?), Italian dressing on the side, plus lots of their little yellow chili peppers and the carrot sticks which become flavored by association when they are wrapped with the peppers. The “regular” is $4.50 and the large is $4.95—ooh, tough choice!

The kitchen, which has not changed since I first went to Giamela’s some 20 years ago, is perfectly organized for preparation of this meal. The cook splays a soft sesame roll on the counter, like getting a diaper ready for a baby. He reaches into the reefer and pulls out a setup of mortadella, coppa and provolone on wax paper. He whacks the setup lengthwise with the back edge of a knife to score it and make it easier to mold to the bread. Then scoops of diced tomato, lettuce, pickle and onion are added with an artful chorography involving a slotted spoon dancing up and down the bread.

I used to get my sandwiches dressed but they got too sloppy before I was ready to eat them. So now I bring down a little jar with a tight lid and transfer the dressing from Giamela’s flimsy container (which once popped open in the Hertz parking lot—disaster) to my own more substantial one. Then it’s on to the plane with my sub. Tonight I was back in Oakland and on the freeway home at 7 so I spread a towel on my lap, poured on the dressing, and ate as I picked my way toward the Bay Bridge. Perfection.

I don’t really want to insist this is the world’s best sandwich. A Burger House cheeseburger and Carnegie Deli pastrami are also pretty good. But meanwhile, who’s interested in going in on a 5 gallon tub of pickles? We’d need to bring our own gallon jars, convene before A-1 closes at 3 pm (the neighborhood’s not safe after that anyway), then offload from the tub in order to avoid paying a hefty deposit.

the rumor

I was speaking with someone I respect and mentioned my favorite neighborhood Indian restaurant. His eyes widened and he proceeded to tell me the following story:

A couple, who happened to be African American of the same sex, sat down in the restaurant. They were well dressed and well behaved. When they had not been waited on in half an hour, and others had been, they asked for a menu but the waiter did not return. One of the women said to the other, “I guess we know what’s going on here…”

At this point the owner of the restaurant came to the table, began screaming at the women and eventually hit one of them. The police were called and they, too, screamed at the women who then departed without their food.

What do you think of this story? Before you answer, here is one more consideration. My friend didn’t actually witness any of this. It was told to him by his friend.

As I mentioned, I respect the anecdote-teller too much to assume he’s making it up. And I don’t think I could continue to eat in this wonderful restaurant if I knew they treated a portion of their clientele that way. But this is second-hand information…does that make a difference? Also, the described behavior of the owner is completely out of character… the person I’ve witnessed is a Sikh with immense dignity. And, the description of the cops and their behavior just doesn’t pass the sniff test (at least not here in San Francisco).

Wrestling with my moral conundrum… whether or not I should continue to give this establishment my business, based on imperfect and contradictory evidence of a reprehensible act… I related the whole story to my wife. She reminded me of something: NOBODY gets their order taken at the table. You go up to the counter, you order and get a number, then they bring the food when it’s ready.

I emailed my friend with this new information and asked him if it was possible his friend could be mistaken. He emailed back that woops, he had the name of the restaurant wrong!

I’m off for daal and samosas now….

No ‘Que for You…

Let’s start by agreeing that people who refer to certain fire-smoked meats as “‘Que” are like those who refer to mushrooms as “srooms”. The pet names come from an uneasy relationship with food, and they deserve to be ignored.

The bigger issue is that “barbecue” itself is a term with such broad application as to be useless. In Texas where I grew up, we’d say “I’m going to Sonny Bryan’s” rather than “I’m going to Sonny Bryan’s Barbecue” and never the generic “I’m going out for some barbecue”… a meaningless description since smoking, grilling and saucing styles varied tremendously from one establishment to another.

My all time favorites include Kreuz’s in Lockhart, Sonny Bryan’s in Dallas (original location only, near Parkland Hospital where they took JFK), and Sam’s in Fairfield. When I lived in LA I would try to swing by a place called “Mr. Jim’s” on Florence Blvd, near the epicenter of the LA Riots. They had a saying, “you need no teeth to eat Mr. Jim’s Beef.” I have teeth so can’t validate this, but it seems plausible.

Today I live in the Lower Haight, 100 feet from Memphis Minnie’s which was praised in Gourmet Magazine as the best barbecue place in the U.S. The brisket is good, as are the rib tips. But if you order a sandwich they will bring it to you on a sourdough roll (?!) with a set of distracting sauces. Instead, buy a pound and bring it home and eat on cheap white bread with dashes of Tabasco or Crystal hot sauce.

(Memphis Minnie’s also makes an excellent sour slaw, but you don’t have to get on the 71 bus to enjoy it. The San Francisco Chronicle printed the recipe on 7/2/03 and last time I checked it was archived.)

But my favorite place in San Francisco (especially now that Claypool’s is gone) is Rudy’s in the Bayview, on 3rd Street near Oakdale. Hours are somewhat unpredictable, so I try to stop by on my way home if I have meeting in Silicon Valley, rather than making a special trip, and I try not to go too hungry in case I’m disappointed.

I order the brisket sandwich with two sides: a mustardy potato salad and beans with the tangy, intriguingly scorched taste of dark molasses. Ask for “mixed” sauce… not too hot, not too mild… and you will be set for more than one meal.

Philip Claypool

I drove to the Marina district the other day to check out the rumor and, sad to say, it’s true: Claypool’s B-B-Q is gone. A lady who looked to be closing out the books said he was “out of town… working on a franchise to open in Southern California” but further investigation reveals he’s simply gone… off to the Napa Valley with no immediate plans for a new spot.

Which is a true shame. Because this Arkansaw boy (whose family ran the huge Claypool duck farm, incidentally) who specialized in Tennessee pulled pork established, in the last year, a true talent for Texas brisket to go with his wonderful Jack Daniels beans. And is a good and generous guy as well as (full disclosure) the original owner of my backyard barrel smoker.

Come back soon, Philip. In the meantime, all of us should head off to Amazon.com and buy one of his country albums or, at the very least, listen to a clip or two.