Let’s get this out of the way first: We did not go to Cole’s, Cole’s doesn’t open until 5pm, that’s not how sandwich shops work. Also: it simply ain’t the original.
A few times in this Summer of Sandwich, we’ve referred to the notion of balance. It’s not exactly part of the Unified Sandwich Theory©—it’s more an occasional corollary. By balance we mean that sort of generic thing food writers talk about all the time—a sort of harmonious checklist of taste and texture like when, you know, that rat makes really good ratatouille. For a sandwich, this would mean something like a savory and salty protein, a creamy or fatty mouthfeel component, a bread that’s both absorbent and crunchy (and maybe a touch sweet, or sour, or yeasty, or nutty, or more), something acidic, some veg that adds crunch, maybe a little heat if you’re into it, and that’s about it, really.
But there are potential problems with seeking out balance, with rewarding the existence of balance with praise and adoration. One is: it’s predictable. A true grail quest does not begin with a map to the grail—that’s no quest, it’s an itinerary. Another is: imbalance can be a singularly wonderful thing.
And dips, well—they might be the most imbalanced of all sandwiches. But that imbalance is historical: the dip is likely the original sandwich, a few pieces of sliced roast slapped into a split roll while our friend the Earl tried to bluff his way through the night. You might add a piece of cheese, but it’s not necessary. Maybe a slather of mustard or horseradish. Nothing else, though. The bread certainly needs to be sturdy. A true dip should not come with a side of jus, believe it or not—that’s not how the original French dip is served—because, of course, a sandwich dip is one-handed. So: you dip the meat in the jus, maybe, too, the inside of the bread, and you put the meat on the roll. So the meat is the star…and usually it’s boneless ribeye or sliced roast (leg, shoulder, choose your cut). If you like fairly plain meat? The dip is your friend.
If you don’t? Move along.
Wednesday August 4: Tony’s Famous French Dips
986 E 2nd St Pomona
We began Dip Week!© at Tony’s, a local-to-us place … and Tony’s is pretty damn good. We got the simplest offering, a $9.45 beef dip. We didn’t see it assembled, as we called ahead to pick it up on a fairly non-descript block in Pomona. We were there about half an hour before closing, and three women were working behind the counter, and they seemed entirely plused (not nonplused) at seeing us, as they more or less ignored us. That’s cool. We got the sandwich, drove home, opened it up, and … yum. The beef had clearly been heavily peppered—that’s a good thing—and the bottom bun was slightly wet but still holding together. They’d added a cup of jus on the side which, when tasted by itself, was pretty bland. But that didn’t matter: the dip was basically a peppered beef bomb. If you like that, you’d be hard-pressed to do better than Tony’s.
- Overall Balance/Taste: +1 point
- Quality of Ingredients: +1
- Bread:
- Integrity:
- X-factor: Pomona!!!: +1
Overall: +3 points, or a perfectly tasty Pat’s Philly Cheesesteak (wit-out)
Thursday August 5: Anderson’s Custard
Buffalo, NY
Our next Dip Week!© stop was on Thursday: we flew to Buffalo! Seriously!* We’re doing this for you, of course, and when one amongst you informed us about a Buffalo sandwich specialty, we just had to fly cross-country.
That specialty: beef on weck. (*Not seriously. Goldbely.)
What is weck? Let’s go to Wikipedia! “It is believed that a German baker named William Wahr, who is thought to have immigrated from the Black Forest region of Germany, created the kummelweck roll while living in Buffalo, New York. Wahr may have based the kummelweck roll on a special loaf left as a ceremonial offering for the dead known in Swabia as Schwäbische Seele, which is a thin roll resembling a baguette that is topped with salt and caraway seeds. The sandwich’s creation is estimated to have taken place some time in the mid-19th century, according to a butcher in Western New York. A local pub owner is said to have used the roll to create the beef on weck, with the thought that the salty top of the roll would encourage his patrons to purchase more drinks. The kummelweck roll (sometimes spelled “kümmelweck”), topped with kosher salt and caraway seeds, gives the sandwich its name and a distinctive taste. Kümmel is the German word for caraway, and Weck means “roll” in southwestern German dialects.”
How was it? Compared to Tony’s, it was far less beefy—the roast beef didn’t seem to’ve been previously peppered, which muted the flavors just a bit, and the slices were carved extremely thin (and, too, were far rarer than Tony’s). Vieve liked this one better because it was less, as she says, beef-tasting. One might disagree by saying that a sandwich shouldn’t be a lesser version of itself—that, rather, it should be a more-er version of itself. To each her own.
Other notes: the jus from Anderson’s was entirely amazing—far surpassing the fairly bland concoction from Tony’s … but, oddly, the jus was entirely lost in the sandwich; to increase the beefy goodness, we had to dip each bite, which pulverized the soft weck roll. The roll itself? Great fun! The addition of caraway was a little odd in its slight licoriceness, but the crunchy saltiness gave it a welcome pretzel-bread sensibility.
- Overall Balance/Taste: +0 points
- Quality of Ingredients: +1
- Bread: +1
- Integrity: -1
- X-factor: Buffalo!: +1
Overall: +2 points, or a perfectly tasty Pat’s Philly Cheesesteak (wit-out)
Saturday August 7: Philippe the Original
1001 N Alameda St, Los Angeles
It is not “fil-eep-ayes.” Say it with me: Fih. Leap. Fih. Leap.
Of course we went here for Dip Week!©. I mean … this place is an institution. You know this. Everyone knows this. Philippe claims to have invented the French dip, and most historians think they’re telling the truth (or at least remembering the most truthful thing, which is about the best you can do). It’s an assembly-line set-up in Chinatown but a friendly one, a communal one, famous for being the first stop for folx let out of city lockup, one of the increasingly rare places in Los Angeles where you can still feel like you’re a part of a larger community, a community that’s open to everyone, places like hiking trails, beaches, Dodgers games…and that’s close to it anymore. (Not costly basketball games. Not Disneyland. Not even Grand Central Market–who has the time to wait in line for two hours to eat a sandwich from Eggslut?)
Exclusion isn’t a new trend here, though. After all, Los Angeles has a terrible history of racist policies that’s readily apparent today. (Sidenote: Can we all shift the rhetoric around critical race theory? Can we change the name from CRT and call it simply “facts”? As in: we’re teaching FACTS in school. As in, sorry—you don’t want us to teach FACTS in school? No, now, you’re saying it’s okay to teach FACTS? Oh, good. Let’s move on.) At Philippe on this day, it was true harmony. Dodgers fans together with Angels fans. Sawdust on the floor. Everyone waiting calmly in line. Most wearing masks correctly. Everyone excited to eat a simple, reassuring sandwich.
They literally carve the meat for your sandwich before your eyes.
You have a nice range of protein choices at Philippe (turkey, beef, ham, etc) and can get your sandwich single-dipped, double-dipped, or wet. I usually go for one of the latter two, but as there was a little transit involved I went with a single dip, lamb ($10.50). And it was … a lamb dip! Exactly like you’d imagine. The roll is quite good. As Philippe says, it has a lightly textured crust—as it should—and it holds together fairly well. The hand-cut lamb is slightly fatty, well cooked, full of meaty flavor. The mustard—we put some on some bites—is a snort full of sinus-cleansing horseradish and nicely cuts through the fattiness. And that’s it. Lamb slices. Bread. Done.
- Overall Balance/Taste: +1 point
- Quality of Ingredients: +1
- Bread: 0
- Integrity:
- X-factor: IT’S THE ORIGINAL!!!: +1
Overall: +3 points, or a perfectly tasty Pat’s Philly Cheesesteak (wit-out)
We’re utterly dipped out, so that’s the end of Dip Week!© Basically we think there is a place for dips in this world—it’s a nostalgic place, a reassuring place. Unfortunately, those places, the places of the “good” and “normal” past, often intersect with simplicity, narrowness, exclusion, and things far worse. We’re likely done with dips for a long, long time, maybe even forever…but we’re very glad that this city is not done with Philippe’s, which is both the least and most dippy dip place in the world.