
When is an Italian beef NOT an Italian beef?
The answer:
When it is served at a pancake house! Last year I was nursing a hangover from a party at the SciFi convention Inconjunction. Eric (Ferret Bueller/Agent Amish) was also nursing a hangover. Neither of us had much to eat, so we decided to go out to breakfast. The closest breakfast place was Blueberry Hill Pancake House. While studying the menu, I noticed that they had an Italian beef listed. I wasn’t remotely hungry for one at 10AM, but I did file away the memory so I could go try it sometime. Today I decided was the day. Hopped in the car and drove to the east side, Washington Street exit. As always, ordered the Italian beef. There was no question of dipping; they have no concept of dipping. There was no question of giardiniera; I’m not sure they would even know what that is. The sandwich came out (after a really bad salad with tons of croutons). The bread was stale. It was of poor quality and wouldn’t have remotely held up to
Hopped in the car and drove to the east side, Washington Street exit. As always, ordered the Italian beef. There was no question of dipping; they have no concept of dipping. There was no question of giardiniera; I’m not sure they would even know what that is. The sandwich came out (after a really bad salad with tons of croutons). The bread was stale. It was of poor quality and wouldn’t have remotely held up to broth, which it had none. The giardiniera, if you want to call it that, consisted of pepperoncini’s stuck to the sandwich with toothpicks. The beef was, to my best guess, roast beef warmed either under a heat lamp or under an armpit.
It was foul. It should come as no surprise that I give this sandwich a half star out of five. I assure you, the half star was awarded totally out of sympathy.
~Anthony Macabre Lillig