You know what really whets my wet sandwich appetite? WET SANDWICH ANECDOTES. The story of Guy’s first encounter with a gravy-drenched Italian Beef Sandwich goes something like this …
He was in an airport in Chicago and found an Italian beef stand. The guy at the counter noticed Guy’s last name on his credit card and gave him a hard time because he’s of Italian descent, but had never had an Italian beef sandwich, which isn’t exactly fair since Guy’s last name is “Ferry” in real life and since no one who doesn’t live in Chicago knows what an Italian beef sandwich is.
Then everything gets worser.
"My mouth is watering just remembering what happened next. With that first bite of salty wet beef [winces], soggy bun [whimpers], hot pepper, and the crunch of vinegary, sweet, and salty giardiniera, I thought I was going to die [emboldened by him, not me — I was busy breaking out in a cold sweat, then vomiting]. I engulfed the whole thing, then went back for another [no!]. As I unwrapped the second sandwich on the plane [NO!], the aromas wafted out, and let’s just say my fellow passengers experienced some major sandwich envy.”
I’m gonna g’head and guess there’s a 75 to 85 percent chance Guy mistook looks of horror and disgust for looks of sandwich envy.In fact, I bet the person sitting immediately beside him was so “envious,” they spent the rest of the flight locked in the bathroom, feigning illness and reading US Weekly. It should be against TSA rules to bring anything with “aromas” that “waft” onto a plane. Especially meat sandwiches that are wet and are being “engulfed” by a man who’s already filled with and covered in a previous sandwich’s gravy.
Hi. I currently live in Chicago. So, I happen to know what an Italian Beef Sandwich is. Come closer and I’ll tell you what it is, but only if you promise not to tell the Italians or the Chicagoans that I said it … IT’S A FRENCH DIP WITH PICKLED PEPPERS ON IT. Shhhh. Our secret. You guys are my best friends.
Hey, look. The ingredients. OOPS. And I already lied about you guys being my best friends. Charles Shaw is my best friend, obviously …
The recipe called for top round roast, but I bought bottom round roast instead. I’m not sure what the difference is, but two and a half pounds of the bottom kind cost roughly seven dollars, so I don’t care what the difference is. The recipe also called for Guy’s own homemade giardiniera (which, if you’re not familiar, is a pickled condiment with peppers and other things), but I let someone else home-make it for me, assuming that person lives in Dell’ Alpe’s jarred, pickled shit factory.
So, after the meat was browned in a pan, it was baked in an oven with all the broth and wine and onions and things. And I did a really good job. Look.
Then I kept doing a good job …
Then the slappity slabs go back into the au jus gravy (au ju crazy?) and then from the gravy to the bread. And then the bread gets more gravy and jarred peppers and pickled things.
This post is just an e-resume for a job at Guy Fieri’s new pukehall in Times Square, btw.