ou can keep the Constitution, the Colt .45, the Internet, and the iPhone: What makes me proudest as an American is our sandwiches.

There are a lot of us. We eat a lot. We eat on the move. And we make it up as we go along. We didn’t require some British aristocrat to take the basic stuff of life—meat and cheese and

often more meat and more cheese—and put it between two slices of bread. No, all we needed to create the sub and the Dagwood and the Cubano and the French dip and the pastrami on rye was the unleashed energies of a million hungry people from a hundred dif-ferent cultures. People who didn’t have the time to sit down or the space, or just didn’t give a shit about the formalities.

Which is to say: Americans.Sandwiches are the default food for every part of a man’s life

here. You eat them after you come back from a funeral, when some thoughtful person lays out a big, somber plate of cold cuts. You gnaw nervously on a thrown-together meatloaf on potato bread some-one hands you while you fret in the waiting room of the OB ward, waiting to see the baby. You eat pulled-pork sandwiches at bus sta-

tions and croque madames at bistros and White Castles when no one is looking. There was a flank steak, olive oil, and mozzarella di bufala hero on semolina bread, wrapped in sandy newspaper, that you shared with your new bride on the beach during your hon-eymoon; ten years after that, a pork roll, egg, and cheese marked the morning you got back together after a bad spell. Leftover tur-key dressed with gravy, schmeared with stuffing, and thrown onto a doubled-over slice of rye helps one man shake off a hangover out-side Burlington, Vermont; a truck-stop chicken biscuit helps an-other finish the haul to Johnson City.

And despite all our transience, our relative disregard for conti-nuity, life here in Sandwich Nation will always be fundamentally local—the taste of home, the thing you miss when you move. I’m from Atlantic City. The cheesesteak, for me, is a secret language. Likewise, New Orleanians speak muffuletta to one another. Buf-faloans, the jargon of beef on weck.

But we’re always happy to share: our stories, our favorites, even our blasphemous reinventions, recognizing that even in the most alien and inferior sandwich is an echo of the ones we love best.

Ah, to be an American with a big appetite and no gluten issues! For someone who loves sandwiches, there is no better place to live on earth. —JOSH OZERSKY

143

SAN FRANCISCO

THE PICKLE YOU GET WITH YOUR DELI SANDWICH IS ONE OF THE LAST FREE THINGS IN THIS WORLD. CARELESSLY APPLIED AVOCADO

R E C I P E S B Y T H E W O R K S H O P K I T C H E N P H O T O G R A P H S B Y T R A V I S R A T H B O N E

Y

Recipe on page 151.

AN UNABASHEDLY GLUTTONOUS INQUIRY INTO THE ORIGINS AND MEANING

OF THE GREATEST GODDAMN AMERICAN FOOD EVER

FACTS

T H E H OT B ROW NLOUISVILLE

Created at the Brown Hotel in 1926 as a snack for attend-ees of its famous all-night parties, the classic Hot Brown consists of toast points with roasted turkey, bacon, toma-to, and Mornay—a rich bécha-mel cheese sauce—baked un-til golden brown. According to Josh Bettis, current chef at the Brown, roasted veggies are an acceptable stand-in for the turkey. 335 West Broadway; 502-583-1234; brownhotel.com

T H E M U F F U L ET TANEW ORLEANS

In 1906, Salvatore Lupo, own-er of Central Grocery in the French Quarter, combined Ge-noa salami, ham, Emmentaler,

T H E M E D I A N O C H E MIAMI

Basically, somebody looked at a Cubano and said, “It’s not rich enough. Let’s put it on thick, sweet egg bread so that it’s more like cake.” One assumes that the idea came to somebody who had been drinking. Try it at Versailles, which has defined Cuban food for generations of visi-tors. 3555 Southwest Eighth Street; 305-444-0240; ver-saillesrestaurant.com

T H E LO OS E M E ATSIOUX CITY, IOWA

Ground beef is seasoned with mustard, ketchup, horseradish, garlic powder, salt and pepper, and a little onion, cooked in a skillet, and then scooped onto a hamburger bun. It started out in 1934 at Ye Olde Tavern, now known as the Garden Cafe, whose current recipe was created using feedback from more than twenty longtime customers who claimed very vivid memories of the orig-inal. 1322 Jackson Street; 712-252-2515

T H E B. L . A .T.LOS ANGELES

A BLT enhanced by the fruit so beloved in California that it could become governor if it ran. The B.L.A.T. is simple, tex-turally satisfying, hard to screw up, and actually easy to im-

145144 E S Q U I R E • S E P T E M B E R 2 0 1 4

There was an older guy I used to work with, a weekend-biker type with a handlebar mustache and a runaway cholesterol problem. He tried to eat right, really tried, but on those days when he felt as if he’d been kicked in the nuts by the world, his resolve would buckle and he’d order an Italian sub for lunch. But he didn’t call them Ital-ian subs. He called them “slammers,” as in “We’re gettin’ slammers!” Which is what he would yell. The slammers would come from a place down the street—glorious things the size and weight of forearms, with a mess of onions, hots, pickles, oil, salt, pepper, and orega-

no tucked in the crook of a solid inch of deli meat and provolone. When we had finished, we’d lean back, at once renewed and immo-bilized by that pound and a half of fat and salt and sodden starch.

My God, those things. I don’t eat them too often now—part of a broader program of early-grave avoidance—but every once in a while, when I’m walking home past my corner deli at night dinged- up, head down, thinking about vegetables for dinner, the impulse prevails: Fk it. We’re gettin’ slammers.

—JOE KEOHANE

T H E I TA L I A N SU B

provolone, mortadella, and ol-ive salad—a popular lunch for Sicilian workers—on round, flat muffuletta bread. Cen-tral Grocery remains true to its founder’s vision. “People will ask, ‘Can you put mayo on the sandwich?’ ” third-generation co-owner Tommy Tusa says. “I tell them, ‘No. Mayo doesn’t go on this sandwich.’ ” 923 De-catur Street; 504-523-1620; cen-tralgroceryneworleans.com

T H E J I BA R I TOCHICAGO

First devised at the Borin-quen Restaurant, at its former location in Humboldt Park, the jibarito lays traditional fillings—slow-cooked Latin-style pork or chopped fried chicken—between slices of twice-fried green plan-tains brushed with garlic and oil. It’s an inversion of most sandwiches: creamy on the outside, chewy on the inside. 3020 North Central Avenue; 773-622-8570

CHICAGO

FOR THE MEAT> ½ lb brisket> spice mix: 2 Tbsp fresh coarse-ground coffee, 2 tsp ground black pepper, 1 tsp dried orange zest, 1 Tbsp dark-brown sugar, 1 big pinch crushed red-pepper flakes> 1 medium white on-ion, peeled, halved, and cut into ¼-inch-thick slices> 6 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed> 2 cups chicken stock

FOR THE PICKLES> 20 jalapeños, stemmed and cut into ¼-inch slices> 1 cup white vinegar> 1 ½ cups water

> 1 Tbsp kosher salt> 4 cloves garlic, peeled and sliced> 1 onion, peeled, quartered, and sliced> 2 tsp whole corian-der seeds> 6 soft but sub-stantial hoagie-style rolls, split in half lengthwise

METHOD> Coat brisket evenly with spice mix. > Add onion, garlic, and stock to a slow cooker. Place brisket on top, cover, and cook about 6 hours. > Meanwhile, prepare the jalapeños. Place the vinegar, wa-ter, kosher salt, gar-lic, onion, and cori-ander seeds in a pot

and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce heat and simmer to infuse the coriander, about 2 minutes. Stir in the jalapeños and return to a boil. Re-move the pot from the heat, cover, and set aside un-til it cools to room temperature. Then transfer to a seal-able container and refrigerate. > Remove brisket and slice against the grain into ¼-inch-thick slices. > Skim some fat off surface of the broth.> Layer everything to taste. Dip in coffee-infused broth.Makes 6 sandwiches.

Unlike their East Coast counterparts, Chicago’s turn-of-the-century immigrants had access to the country’s largest com-

mercial stockyards. Their legacy is the city’s Italian beef: top-sir-loin butt oven-roasted in water with garlic and seasonings that drip into the liquid—making the juice you use as a dip—and served on crisp-crusted bread with giardiniera: fermented vegetable relish made with hot peppers and shaved celery. In our version, Chica-go’s stockyard past is represented with a big beef brisket braised until tender in a spicy coffee brine, and the giardiniera’s dagger of heat and acidity is delivered by homemade pickled jalapeños.

THE SANDWICH MAKER

He might bust your chops, but a great sand-wich maker understands two things: quality and

continuity. Quality is self-evident. That’s why the shop’s been open for so long. Continuity, howev-er, is harder. It bonds the store with a place even as the place changes—

as industries launch and recede, and roads are paved over, and shops and restaurants flick-

er on the street grid like spent Christmas lights. A great sandwich maker is a custodian of region-al identity, an insurer of a city’s soul, a still wit-

ness to evolution, and a person you rely on when home doesn’t look like

home anymore. —JESSIE KISSINGER

A N N A LS O F M E M O R A B L E A M E R I CA N SA N DW I C H E S

WILL ALMOST CERTAINLY RESULT IN A CATASTROPHIC STRUCTURAL FAILURE. YOU WILL KNOW THAT YOU ARE A GREAT MAN, A GREAT CHARACTER, OR BOTH WHEN SOMEONE NAMES A SANDWICH AFTER YOU. THOSE DAMP, CLAMMY WRAPS THEY SERVE AT BUSINESS MEETINGS DIMINISH US AS A PEOPLE. JUST

METHODS FOR DISPENSING WITH LEFTOVER BRISKET

1. On garlic toast with melted Gruyère. 2. On a kaiser roll with a fried egg and ketchup. 3. On an onion roll with pepper-jack cheese and roasted red peppers.

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GREAT

SANDWICHESOF AMERICA

REGIONAL

146 E S Q U I R E • S E P T E M B E R 2 0 1 4

MIAMI

Transported originally from Cuba to Tampa to feed cigar-factory workers, the Cubano found

its true home in Miami, where the salty, sweet sand-wich is an essential part of the late-night landscape. The distinctive Cuban bread, traditionally made with lard, is slathered with butter and layered with sugar-cured bolo ham, slow-roasted marinated pork, Swiss cheese, mustard, and pickles. It’s all compressed in a hot plancha, which flattens the sandwich, toasts the bread, and lets the meat and cheese warm in their own steam. Our take uses mild Italian prosciutto cotto; a roasted pork butt rubbed with dried orange peel, which echoes the citrus juice in the original marinade; and slightly sweet potato rolls.

INGREDIENTS> 4- to 5-lb boneless pork butt> 6 garlic cloves, peeled and smashed> spice mix: 2 Tbsp dried oregano, 2 Tbsp ground cumin, 2 Tbsp sea salt, 1 Tbsp granulated gar-lic, 1 Tbsp granulated on-ion, 1 tsp dried orange peel, 1 Tbsp ground black pepper> 1 large onion, peeled

and sliced thickly cross-wise into ¼-inch slices > 6 slices Swiss cheese> 6 slices prosciutto cotto> 6 potato rolls> kosher dill pickles> Dijon mustard

METHOD> Preheat oven to 425 degrees. > Using the tip of a par-ing knife, make a cross-hatch pattern on the fat-

ty side of the pork, then make six small slits on the meaty side and insert gar-lic cloves. > Coat the pork with the spice mix.> Layer the bottom of a roasting pan with the on-ions, then place the pork in the center and fill the pan halfway with water. > Place in middle of hot oven and roast until the meat is browned nicely

and sputtering on top, about 1 hour. Reduce temperature to 300 de-grees and roast for an additional 4 hours, check-ing every hour or so and adding extra water if necessary. > When pork is cooked through but still moist, turn off heat and let cool in the oven.> When ready to serve, place slices of pork on

the bottom half of each roll, layer Swiss and prosciutto, and then add pickles and mustard as desired. Close with top half of roll.> Lightly brush top and bottom of sandwiches with vegetable oil and press between two skillets over medium heat until the cheese melts.Makes 6 sandwiches.

147

prove: Mash the avocados to hold it together and add some field greens for a little spice, like they do at Flake in Venice, California. 513 Rose Avenue; 310-396-2333; veniceflake.com

T H E F R E N C H D I PLOS ANGELES

The story goes that in 1918,

Philippe Mathieu, owner of Philippe, was making a roast-beef sandwich for a cop and ac-cidentally dropped the roll into a pan of drippings. The cop took it, liked it, and the French dip was born. The sandwich has spread, but the original still exerts a powerful hold. “We had a gentleman suffer a heart attack,” says managing part-ner Mark Massengill. “As the EMT was walking me through what we needed to do, the cus-tomer came to. The first thing he asked was ‘Do you have my French dip?’ We wrapped it up and he was able to take it with him to the hospital.” 1001 North Alameda Street; 213-628-3781; philippes.com

T H E S P I E D I ETHE TRIPLE CITIES

(ENDICOTT, BINGHAMTON, JOHNSON

CITY), NEW YORK

The spiedie—from speidino, Italian for “skewer”—is made of marinated hunks of lamb, pork, or chicken cooked on a skewer and served on Italian bread with onions, peppers,

hot sauce, cheese, whatever. Sharkey’s in Binghamton has been using the same recipe to make its version for more than sixty years. 56 Glenwood Avenue; 607-729-9201

T H E J E RS E Y S LO P PY J O ESOUTH ORANGE, NEW JERSEY

The first thing you’ll notice

about the Jersey Sloppy Joe—brought back from the Cuban bar that gave it its name and originally sold by the Town Hall Deli in South Orange in the thirties—is how tidy it is: nine layers of thin-sliced bread, Swiss cheese, ham, Russian dress-ing, more meat (usually beef tongue, turkey, or roast beef ), and slaw. The second thing you’ll notice about it is the speed with which it earns its name. 74 First Street; 973-762-4900; town-halldeli.com

ABOUT EVERYTHING ANYONE HAS EVER PUT INTO A BREAKFAST SANDWICH GOES WELL TOGETHER. OFFERING SOMEONE HALF OF YOUR SANDWICH IS THE MODERN VERSION OF BREAKING BREAD. UNLESS IT’S A BAD SANDWICH, IN WHICH CASE YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF. YOU CAN HAVE DANCERS, A MARIACHI

When I was growing up in Dallas, the fridge was always stocked with a clear plastic tub of Price’s pimiento-cheese spread. The “spread” part still seems strange, suggesting that it functioned like Miracle Whip or mustard. But pimiento cheese—that piquant mélange of cheese, pickled peppers, and mayonnaise—isn’t considered by Texans and southerners to be a sandwich condiment. It’s the main idea, the point, the filling of the sandwich.

Now, that sandwich is usually just pimiento cheese on bread. This is what was always placed in my lunch box as a kid, anyway. But for me, it was only a canvas. The finishing work happened when I got to school. The following recipe covers both stages of the process.

Stage 1: On one slice of store-bought white bread (preferably Mrs. Baird’s Large White: a Texas clas-sic), apply a half-inch-high layer of pimiento cheese. Place one slice of bread over cheese, wrap with alu-minum foil, and place in lunch box.

Stage 2. At the school cafeteria, remove top slice of bread. Sprinkle approximately fifteen Fri-tos (Cheetos will do in a pinch) on the pimiento cheese and lightly compress with your hand until corn chips are secured. You’ll end up with a com-pacted rectangle of cheese, chips, and bread—ba-sically a redneck pressata.

It is the ultimate sandwich: cheap, easy, innova-tive, and exceptionally portable. And delicious at any age. —ROSS MCCAMMON

T H E P I M I E N TO C H E E S EA N N A LS O F M E M O R A B L E A M E R I CA N SA N DW I C H E S

THE UNITED STATES OF

METHODS FOR DISPENSING WITH LEFTOVER PORK 1. On 7-grain with toma-to jam. 2. On sourdough with refried beans. 3. On a Portuguese roll with sliced provo- lone and arugula.

CENTRAL TEXASNineteenth-century German and Austrian immigrants opened butcher shops here, and what they didn’t sell, they smoked—particularly brisket. Get yours on butcher paper at Smitty’s Market in Lockhart and make a sandwich with the side of white bread.

KANSAS CITYAfter the Civil War, former slaves flocked to Kansas City—which became a major meatpacking hub. As a result, K. C. barbecues every-thing. Embrace it at Danny Edward’s BLVD Barbecue with a Big D: a pile of point ends stacked on marble rye with Swiss cheese and onion rings.

MEMPHISPostwar Memphis had jobs and a booming blues-fueled nightlife. Barbecue was part of that free-for-all, especially pork ribs, which started out as castaway food for slaves. Try them in sandwich form at A&R Bar-B-Que, with ten-der, almost silky rib meat, slipped off the bone and dressed with house barbecue sauce.

EASTERN NORTH CAROLINAConquistadors brought

the pigs; the locals even-tually cooked them

whole, mixing the meat and soaking it in a West Indies–influenced pep-

pery vinegar sauce. The Big-Que sandwich at

Wilber’s in Goldsboro adds a creamy slaw to

cut the sauce.

WESTERN NORTH CAROLINAScotch-Irish and Penn-

sylvania German farmers opted for the less-waste-

ful pork shoulder over whole hog. Later came

the red slaw—made with ketchup—to counter the

smokier meat. Both are deployed to devastating

effect in the pork sand-wich at Jimmy’s BBQ in

Lexington.

GREAT AMERICAN BARBECUE SANDWICHESTHE CHECKERED PAST AND GLORIOUS PRESENT OF

149148 E S Q U I R E • S E P T E M B E R 2 0 1 4

PHIL ADELPHIA

INGREDIENTS> 1 medium white onion, diced small > 4 cloves garlic, pulverized> 4 long-hot peppers, chopped small> ½ cup distilled white-wine vinegar> 2 tsp kosher salt

> 2 tsp dried oregano> ½ bunch cilantro> ½ bunch flat-leaf parsley> 1 cup olive oil> 1 ½ lbs flank steak> 4 long slices rustic country-style bread> 1 cup black-pepper Boursin cheese

METHOD> Place the onion, garlic, and peppers in a mixing bowl and add the vinegar. Stir in the salt and oregano, and let the mixture stand at room temperature for about 1 hour. (This can also be done a day

in advance.) > Chop the cilantro and parsley and place in a separate bowl, and then mix in the olive oil. > Season the steak with salt and pepper and grill it medium-rare.> When you’re ready to serve, finish the chimi-

churri by combining the vegetable-vinegar and infused-oil mixes.> Toast or grill the bread and slather the cheese across it. Slice the steak, layer it on top, and lib-erally spoon on the chimichurri.Makes 4 sandwiches.

The best sandwiches come from the greatest factory cities, and Phila-delphia—the “Workshop of the World”—has its share. But none are more

famous than the almighty cheesesteak: thinly sliced meat quick-cooked and served on a roll, with Cheez Whiz or slices of American or provolone. Onions are optional, but a proper cheesesteak comes with fried or roasted long-hots: long green peppers common in the kitchen gardens of South Philly. In our version, we upgraded the meat to flank steak, substituted spreadable Boursin for the Whiz, and transformed the long-hots into a Philly version of chimichurri—the spicy Argentine green sauce used for all sorts of roasted and grilled meats.

] \

T H E P I T B E E FBALTIMORE

Beef cooked over a pit of

hardwood charcoals, sliced thin, and served on a potato roll with horseradish, onions, and barbecue sauce or mus-tard. It started out last century as a street food, but its stature has grown. “I’ve had a driver pick up fifteen, twenty sand-wiches for the King of Jor-dan’s entourage several times now,” says Bob Creager, co-owner of Chaps Pit Beef. 5801 Pulaski Highway; 410-483-2379; chapspitbeef.com

T H E G E R B E RST. LOUIS

Ham and provel (a soft pro-cessed white cheese popu-lar in St. Louis) served open-faced on French bread with homemade garlic butter—inspired by Dick Gerber, the guy who first request-ed it at Ruma’s Deli in 1974. The name is copyrighted and trademarked, although this

has not stopped competitors from selling virtually identi-cal sandwiches with names like “the Jerber.” 1395 Cov-ington Manor Lane; 314-892-9990; rumasdeli.com

T H E H O RS E S H O ESPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS

In 1928, the chef at the Le-land Hotel put sliced ham on toast, covered it with rare-bit sauce, and served it open-faced on a heated metal steak platter. Noting that it looked like a horseshoe on an an-vil, he studded it with potato wedges to represent the nails and gave it its name. Now D’Arcy’s Pint sells upwards of seven hundred a day. 661 West Stanford Avenue; 217-492-8800; darcyspintonline.com

B R ATSSHEBOYGAN, WISCONSIN

Another debt owed to the German immigrants who flowed into the Midwest last century: one bratwurst link cooked over a charcoal grill—slowly, so the casing doesn’t break—and served on a hard roll with ketchup, onion, mustard, pickles, and but-ter. It’s known to inspire a kind of mania, says Scott Pre-scher, owner of the Charcoal Inn, which has been selling them for thirty years. “I had one guy in California—he sent me a letter: ‘I want two dozen brats fried and shipped to me. Enclosed is a blank check. If you feel the need to call my bank and verify, you may do so, but I don’t care what it

costs.’ It came out to like 180 bucks. He didn’t care. ‘I can’t get to Sheboygan,’ he said. ‘It was eating at me.’ ” 1313 South Eighth Street; 920-458-6988; charcoalinn.com

T H E RU N Z ALINCOLN, NEBRASKA

In 1949, a German-Russian immigrant started making her own version of the bierock: ground beef with seasonings and cabbage baked into bread. She renamed it the Runza—a name she pulled out of thin air—and opened a stand with her brother, a jobless veter-an. Their operation grew into a chain that now sells an esti-mated fifteen thousand Run-zas at every Huskers game. runza.com

BAND, AND A PETTING ZOO, BUT THROW A PARTY WITH A SIX-FOOT SANDWICH AND THAT WILL BE THE THING PEOPLE REMEMBER. THE CHICAGO HOT DOG SHOULD NOT BE EATEN STANDING UP; THE NEW YORK HOT DOG SHOULD NOT BE EATEN SITTING DOWN. THE TIME YOU ORDERED A

When I was a kid, I thought the chop-suey sandwich was a staple in the American diet. I know now that it isn’t. I know this because when I was sixteen, I bought one for a girl, excited to share a delicacy I’d been enjoying twice a week for as long as I could remember, and she spat it out on the ground right in front of me.

I can’t wholly blame her. The sandwich—which originated in the early 1900s in the old mill town of Fall River, Massachusetts, and spread down the coast to Rhode Island—is one of those truly inex-plicable American foods: chop suey and soy sauce on a bun. Some-

times there’s meat, but that’s it. When you bite into it, what you see is awful looking—truly awful looking, like the glistening insides of a still-vaguely-alive sea creature. On a bun.

And yet, I will tell you: If you’re able to overcome the visuals, it is a singular experience—served in wax paper and picked at with a plas-tic fork, ideally while standing at the beach as you watch the tide beat back off the Atlantic Ocean, the sea air mingling with the salt of the soy sauce. It’s all very romantic. I hope you can see that. I really do. —BEN COLLINS

T H E C H O P SU EYA N N A LS O F M E M O R A B L E A M E R I CA N SA N DW I C H E S

I don’t often lick foil, but I was in Cleveland, my hometown, birthplace of the Polish Boy—grilled kiel-basa, fries, cole slaw, and barbecue sauce, all joined in holy, sloppy marriage on a bun—and what I had just eaten was a paragon of the form: bought off a food truck sitting in the parking lot of a restaurant-supply outfit in a fairly bleak section near downtown, fresh off the grill, sweet-sauced, and six bucks. What fell onto the foil alone was worth the price.

As far as I’ve been able to determine, the Polish Boy has no creation myth, no backstory, no progeni-tor. Not every great sandwich needs one: All it needs is a love that lasts, for a moment or a lifetime. I ate my first Polish Boy in 1971, from a long-gone ghetto deli-grocery; I was nineteen and as high as a weath-er balloon. I plan to eat more than a few before I scarf my last. I only hope I get the chance to die—de-cades from now—holding one in each hand. —SCOTT RAAB

T H E P O L I S H B OYA N N A LS O F M E M O R A B L E A M E R I CA N SA N DW I C H E S

THE UNITED STATES OF

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151150 E S Q U I R E • S E P T E M B E R 2 0 1 4

The bánh mì has a rocky past: The ba-

guette-style roll came to In-dochina during the French colonization, and the sand-wich was brought here by the Vietnamese who fled Saigon in 1975. Many of them, using San Fran-cisco as a gateway city, opened shops that special-ized in bánh mì with dis-tinctive Vietnamese fla-vors, like sweet barbecued red pork sprinkled with sliv-ers of lightly pickled daikon and carrot and seasoned with jalapeños and cilan-tro. In our riff—inspired by San Francisco’s sprawling Chinatown—takeout Peking duck is sliced and topped with shredded carrots, cu-cumbers, and cherry pep-pers in a sriracha-spiked mayonnaise.

INGREDIENTS> 1 cup grated carrot> ¼ cup distilled white vinegar> ½ tsp kosher salt> 2 Tbsp sugar> 3 Tbsp mayonnaise> juice of half a lime> sriracha hot sauce> ½ takeout Peking duck> two 8-inch sections of ba-guette, sliced lengthwise but not separated, toasted> 1 small cucumber, cut into long, thin planks> 1 cherry pepper, thinly sliced> 1 red onion, thinly sliced > 6 sprigs fresh cilantro

METHOD> Combine the carrot, vinegar, salt, and sugar and let stand for at least 30 minutes or up to a day in advance. Strain thoroughly before adding to the sandwich.> Combine mayo, lime, and sriracha to taste. Set aside.> Pick the duck-leg meat into large chunks and thinly slice the breast. If the duck needs to be reheated, preheat the oven to 375 degrees and put it in a shallow baking dish, removing when the skin recrisps. > Spread the mayo on the baguette and layer the duck, cucumber, carrot mixture, peppers, and onion, and then sprinkle with cilantro. Makes 2 sandwiches.

NEW ORLEANS

INGREDIENTS> 2 cups cornmeal> 12 oysters, drained of liquor> 1 cup buttermilk> 3 strips thick-cut bacon, sliced thinly widthwise> 1 large shallot, peeled and sliced thin> ¼ small head of green cabbage, sliced thin> ½ green apple, peeled and diced > 1 Tbsp apple-cider vinegar> 2 Tbsp unsalted butter> 4 brioche buns, split in half and toasted

METHOD> Lightly dust a large

plate with cornmeal and set aside. Coat oysters in the but-termilk, and then dredge them in cornmeal and ar-range on the plate, lightly dusting with more cornmeal. Refrigerate up to an hour before cooking.> In a large pan over medium heat, sauté the bacon until light-ly crispy. Add the shallot and let it sweat for about 1 minute. Stir in the cabbage and ap-ple and cook un-til everything is ten-der, about 3 to 5 minutes. Season with salt, black pep-per, and vinegar.

Set aside at room temperature.> Over medium heat, add the butter to a large sauté pan and swirl until it be-gins to foam. Work-ing in batches, add the oysters and cook until golden brown on both sides (about 2 minutes per side), adding a little extra butter as you go to keep the pan from becoming dry. Trans-fer browned oysters to a paper towel and season with salt. > Split and toast buns and layer them with slaw and oys-ters, lightly pressing down the top half of the bun to seal.Makes 4 sandwiches.

B E E F O N W EC KBUFFALO

In the 1880s, a German tav-ern owner combined slow-roasted beef and horseradish on kummelweck—rye bread topped with caraway and pret-zel salt. His creation went on to garner some powerful fans. “Hillary is a good friend of ours,” says Charlie Roesch, owner of Charlie the Butcher. “She comes all the time. ‘I need my weck, Charlie,’ she says.” 1065 Wehrle Drive; 716-633-8330; charliethebutcher.com

T H E PAST R A M I O N RY ENEW YORK CITY

A stroke of genius by an Eastern European immi-grant in the late nineteenth century: the queen of sand-wich meats is rubbed, cured, smoked, and steamed, and then piled high on rye bread and served with pickled to-matoes and half sours. Katz’s version is still the best and most intense one around. 205 East Houston Street; 212-254-2246; katzsdelicatessen.com

T H E C L A M RO L LNEW ENGLAND

Like the oyster po’boy, the ge-nius here lies in taking some-thing soft, cold, and wet and transforming it into something crispy, hot, and moist, and then serving it on bread banal enough to get out of the way. The rolls at the Clam Box in Ip-swich, Massachusetts, are the ones to beat. 246 High Street; 978-356-9707

T H E I TA L I A N : P O R K , P ROVO LO N E ,

A N D B RO C C O L I R A B EPHILADELPHIA

The broth of the roasted pork butt mingles with the li-quor of the bitter greens and helps melt the cheese. There are great ones all over town, but Tony Luke’s are the biggest and the porkiest. 39 East Ore-gon Avenue; 215-551-5725; tony-lukes.com

T H E LO B ST E R RO L LNEW ENGLAND

Whether you get it with mayo or butter, the key to a great lob-ster roll is the quality and dis-tribution of lobster. At Red’s Eats in Wiscasset, Maine, they mix the tender knuckle meat with claw and tail meat, then lay a tail on top and serve it with melted butter and home-made cocktail sauce. 41 Water Street; 207-882-6128 Research by Jessie Kissinger and Josh Ozersky. Francine Ma-roukian and Tony Aiazzi are cofounders of the Workshop Kitchen, a Philadelphia-based culinary development team.

FREESTYLE SANDWICH AND THE GUY BEHIND YOU IN LINE WENT, “HEY, THAT SOUNDS PRETTY GOOD” AND ORDERED THE SAME THING WAS SO MUCH MORE GRATIFYING THAN YOU’D LIKE TO ADMIT. “HERE, I MADE YOU A SANDWICH” IS AS PURE AN EXPRESSION OF LOVE AS YOU’LL EVER HEAR. ≥

Like all soft-shell-crab sandwiches, my first soft-shell-crab sandwich was a pretty fked-up looking sandwich. I was in just another waterside restaurant in Baltimore, but that sandwich was almost like some-thing out of science fiction, a dish served in the cantina in Mos Eisley. Even when breaded, soft-shell crabs—blue crabs that have been caught just after they’ve molted—remain unapologetically crabby. And as I stared at those legs dangling out between the halves of a fresh warm roll, I had this supremely conscious thought: This is our version of eating insects. But because I pushed through that thought, and because crabs are better than lobsters, and because soft-shell crabs, tender and sweet, are better than hard ones, and because a great local sandwich is better than just about anything else, that delicious deep-fried sea bug on a bun will forever skitter around in the part of my brain reserved for the things I will never forget. —CHRIS JONES

T H E SO F T-S H E L L C R A BA N N A LS O F M E M O R A B L E A M E R I CA N SA N DW I C H E S

A bun of finely spun bleached flour, as

soft as a cloud. Nest-ling inside it: a concen-trated package of salti-ness and juiciness and beefiness—one whose

craggy brown surface is blanketed by a rich and viscous layer of cheese. When you ask for a burg-

er, wherever you go, that is what you’ll get. It’s the conqueror, the col-onizer, the ultimate arti-fact of American indus-try, the Model T of food.

—JOSH OZERSKY

In the original, deep-fried oysters are dressed with lettuce, tomato, mayo, and pickles and served on New Orleans–style

French bread, which has a slightly crisp crust and cottony interior. In our take, the oysters are panfried rather than deep-fried to keep the mess under control, set on a bed of warm bacon and apple slaw, and served on a toasted brioche bun.

THE BURGER

THE UNITED STATES OF

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