Sandwich Eater’s Chronicle: Real Beef, Real Cheese, Please

Posted: September 11th, 2012 | Filed under: Sandwich Eater Chronicle | No Comments »

Some food choices simply don’t make sense.

I’ve never understood, for example, Mexican Pizza.

Pizza is Italian. (Okay, there are those who say it really originated in Greece, but I for one am not buying it.)

And Mexican, is, well, Mexican. (Unlike chop suey which most folks think is Chinese, but was really invented in San Francisco. Okay there are those who say it really does come from the Motherland, but I for one am not buying it. Which is to say, I’ve got some shtick going here, so work with me, please.)

Thus I take the firm position that beans and guacamole on a pizza simply isn’t part of the grand design of things. Calling it incongruous would be understatement.

That you might posit ingredients you’d want in a burrito on top of pizza crust is fine. Just give it a name worthy of its geographical and national diversity. Like, say, burrizza, or some such.

You get my drift.

* * * * *

At this juncture, I feel compelled to unload the burden of a situation from my youth. When I was 12 or so years old, my dad and his buddy, who owned the store next to my parents’, sent me down the street to bring them lunch. Corned beef sandwiches.

The waitress, obviously from a different ethnic background than my family or the owner of the deli, asked “What type of bread? White? Rye? Pumpernickel?”

“White, I guess.”

A few minutes later, the owner of the deli scurried out from the kitchen, and in a loud voice just short of a bellow, asked, “Who ordered these corned beef sandwiches on white bread?”

“Uh, I did.”

“What’s your name son?”

I sheepishly answered.

“You been Bar Mitzvah yet?”

“No, not yet. But soon.”

“Who are these sandwiches for?”

“My dad and his pal Joe.”

“Well, I’m making them on rye bread. Here’s some advice: Don’t ever order a corned beef on white bread again.”

* * * * *

All of which is prelude to a sign that seemed so totally cockamamie, I had to pull my car over to make sure it said what I thought I read.

It’s in front of the Dairy Kastle, a funky soft serve ice cream and sandwich place that sits cattywampus at the corner of Bradley and Eastern Parkway.

“Vegan Chili Dogs,” it read.

A smile ensued. Vegan chili dogs. How curious. How strange. How, well, it must be said, wrong.

I’m sure the folks at Dairy Kastle mean well. Perhaps they’re courting the veganista student population from U of L around the corner.

But I gotta ask: Vegan Chili Dogs? What’s the point? Is it all vegan? Tofu dogs? Soy cheese? Seitan chili?

The day after I saw the sign, I happened to run into my favorite vegan, John Borders, in the grocery store parking lot. John is a fundamentalist vegan. An advocate for the movement and its health benefits. Plus he’s a hell of a chef.

Even he broke into a smile at the absurdity of the idea of Vegan Chili Dogs

Wonder if he’s ever made a vegan burrizza?

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