Take That!


Make it on trend! And make it snappy, while you’re at it, dammit!

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Last winter, midway through my hourlong commute into Midtown Manhattan — having traversed part of Queens and all of chic north Brooklyn — I found myself reading about how a dish called a “chopped cheese,” a sort of cheese steak made with hamburger meat, had been gentrified. Once a specialty of uptown bodegas, the sandwich had caught the attention of novelty-seeking foodies: Whole Foods was selling them for twice what they cost in the Bronx, where they went for $4 and still do. Read on here.

Been a long time since I blogged and rolled. Meanwhile, many a sandwich rock has been turned by a novelty-seeking-foodie – sweet Jesus save me from the onslaught – hoping to unearth the next cool thing, to carry it into the gaze of media/social media and shine a light on it so bright that it is forever altered.

Out of it’s natural habitat, does an indigenous sandwich taste as good?



Chow Mein and Other Delights

Whipped cream and other delights

Happy National Sandwich Day with whipped cream on top!

The Conversation gabs about our favorite topic. Slide into a comfy Lunch Encounter booth, order yourself a snack and find your reading glasses. Sandwiches define and unite our world.

Everyone has a favorite sandwich, often prepared to an exacting degree of specification: Turkey or ham? Grilled or toasted? Mayo or mustard? White or whole wheat?

We reached out to five food historians and asked them to tell the story of a sandwich of their choosing. The responses included staples like peanut butter and jelly, as well as regional fare like New England’s chow mein sandwich.

Together, they show how the sandwiches we eat (or used to eat) do more than fill us up during our lunch breaks. In their stories are themes of immigration and globalization, of class and gender, and of resourcefulness and creativity.

Read more here.

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Thank you, Mr. Levy, for the sandwichy linkage on this noteworthy day.

Into the Wild-ish in Search of Our Sandwich Tribe

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I heard it there first, at work for the Washingtonian, wrangling sandwiches in their boardroom. Community carries a first-rate club. So off we set, Did-You-Know-She’s-Canadian Michelle and I, across the river on a Saturday sandwich safari.


Community’s dining room is attractive. Flawlessly so. Set down, whole plaid cloth.

She took our order and was calm. We liked her and she seemed happy to be there communing with the customers.


Nice wich. Well done. #notaclub


So well done that it got me thinking. Is community formed gradually, or can it be sprung wholecloth? Is it created by a flawed journey, with as much to disdain and dislike as to admire and adore? Yes, I think so.


The food was good. The name – Community – set my standards beyond capability for an establishment sans histoire. Or for any establishment. Community is deeply personal. With proper fairy dust, instant, although rare. More likely it takes time, weathering, fits and starts, adaptation.


Michelle and I are community. The dictionary term is shockingly dry so I am upping the ante to include the sharing of sandwiches. The tip of the toast point. Venture down to find the sharing of stories, theories, flights and fancies.



I wonder, has Community attracted a community? Is there such a thing as a regular anymore? We need to go there first thing in the morning and see if we can find tables of codgers drinking coffee and joking with the waitresses.


Should you exit without satisfaction, there is a donut window. Or perhaps you have arrived without satisfaction. There is a donut window. Find your community in a sugar rush. It’s brief. It will tide you over till the real thing.


Passenger Side

Along-for-the-Ride Heidi, who rides shotgun for fun on a regular basis, beamed this design missive along to the Lunch Encounter. We can go along with gusto on anything that is “For the Fun of It”, particularly if the ride includes good design. Along-for-the-Ride Heidi drives too, and drives good design.

Click on the link for an eyeful of a ride through sandwich country and company.  A lunch encounter that will leave you yearning, Design for the Fun of It will shift your stick.

Thanks, H7!

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Bow Down to Geometry






and let us not forget

the TRIANGLE, king and queen of sandwich math

Curtsey to your roots, your origins, your primal shapes. Before you can freestyle it and become a banh mi, torta, reuben or rachel, with your stuff hanging out all over the place, you must first master the basics, the shapes that are tidy and contained, simple and plain. Then onward to the mess that is a sandwich, the sandwich that is contained by your fingers-lips-napkins-tongue-teeth. Bow down and then stand, straight-backed and ready, math ready, the curves of condiments noted.

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thank you, mike rhode of comicsdc, our link to the world at large

Eeeeeee, Mo’

Mo please, jeez. E mo jeez pleez. Perhaps an Imogen Emoji?

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She said it. And from MMSMINY:
World Emoji Day

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Friends don’t let friends think without sandwich emojis. Need more be said? Methinks not. Metawichity witch wich. Metawich. Think, squint, emoj it.

Reliable Source – Drive North – Poughkeepsie!

The Imports Mix, a “house favorite panini.” The anticipation triggered by the oil-soaked paper is almost as pleasurable as the eating. Almost.


My main sandwich man in New York nailed it once again, this time a bit north of his usual beat, sending me to Poughkeepsie on sandwich intel. He heard it from a guy, who heard it from a guy. Thank you, MMSMINY, once again, for steering me right.

When Rosticceria Rossi and Sons made their debut in 1979,  I was graduating from the Culinary Institute of America and packing up my apartment just blocks away. Poughkeepsie’s historic Italian neighborhood – the Mount Carmel District – was home, at the time, to several bakeries, but no rosticceria’s. Rossi’s fills that gap with gusto.

Just a couple blocks off the Mid-Hudson Bridge, Poughkeepsie’s  Little Italy hugs the river and feels cozy, tight knit and secluded. Give the wheel a hard pull and there you are. Your own private Italy.

Head to the back to order a sandwich, then browse the packed shelves and cases, drinking in the scents, while the strapping sandwich man loads your focaccia or ciabatta with prosciutto, sopressata, copper, olive salad, “spicy sauce”, arugula, whatever your pleasure. Giant pork roasts lounge in wait. Roasted peppers are mounded high, slick with olive oil.

Time simultaneously marches on and pauses in the Mount Carmel District. While Rossi’s is newish for this hood, the Caffe Aurora, opened in 1941, remains unchanged, at least since 1979 when I was last in. The potted palms flourish, the cookies abound, the air of quiet anticipation is deep and velvety yet. Espresso and cannoli for old time’s sake. And new.

Later the same day, on the grass, the majestic Hudson gliding by, I sank into my panini and sighed. Mmdemmlimmcious…