Chicago’s “it” chef, Rick Bayless, has opened his first new restaurant in 20 years, and wouldn’t you know, it’s a sandwich shop.  The master of authentic Mexican cuisine has already earned his place among the nation’s most acclaimed chefs, but in opening Xoco, Chef Bayless wanted to offer the simple, fresh, affordable flavors reminiscent of Mexico’s street vendors.

Excerpts from the Chicago Tribune’s review:

It may not occur to all of Xoco’s customers that they are feasting at the most scrumptious bully pulpit in town. It may not immediately register that the jamon torta, made with Iowa La Quercia prosciutto, Wisconsin Otter Creek organic cheddar and a sourdough bread custom-developed by Labriola Bakery in Chicago, represents anything beyond a really tasty ham-and-cheese sandwich. But it will eventually.

Most tortas are baked to a crusty finish in a wood-burning oven. The bread is bolillo, a slow-fermented sourdough-like Mexican bread. A few tortas are made in a panini press, using a very similar but flatter bread called telera. The telera-made tortas are more crispy than crusty, as in the Cubana torta, a variation on a classic Cuban sandwich that’s so delicious (helped by fresh avocado and chipotle mustard) it outshines the real thing.

Among the wood-baked tortas, the woodland mushroom version, with its garlicky notes and Prairie Farm goat cheese, is sensational, as are the pepito, made with Tallgrass Beef shortribs, jack cheese and pickled jalapenos, and the excellent cochinita pibil, a pork torta served with a lethal habanero sauce on the side.

Chef Bayless is a vocal advocate for locally-sourced, sustainable foods and conscientious business practices.  He is a prolific blogger, tweeter, TV star and now, sandwich-maker.  Sandwiches are the vehicle through with great foods can be offered at lower prices, where people can experience new flavors without overdrawing their checking account.  And when a “can do whatever he wants” chef thinks so too, we get all warm and fuzzy inside.

Rick Bayless’ low-key Xoco delivers affordable excellence [Chicago Tribune]

They call it the ćevapčići- a traditional Balkan sandwich, that consists of several types of grilled minced meat and spices. Popular street-food in Eastern Europe, this flavorful little number has also made quite a name for itself as summer festival street-food here in Chicago. As noted on the cheeky banner hanging above the meat stand, this ćevapčići- pronounced “che-vap-chee-chee,” is a deliciously crafted combination of 1/2 part cow, 1/4 part sheep, 1/4 pig, embarrassing amounts of garlic, and well-seasoned with salt and pepper, topped with a generous amount of tangy, boldly-textured (and colored!) red pepper and eggplant sauce, served atop a grilled pita. I believe the sauce- which was mildly overpowering but so tasty I didn’t mind- is a unique Americanized accompaniment, as my research on traditional Balkan ćevapčići noted yogurt, onion and even cottage cheese as toppings. Next time I order it, I may ask for the sauce on the side- like, a whole jar of it- to better taste the unique ćevapčići blend on this round, and then bring home the tangy goodness for some plain old burgers that could use the extra love.

I encountered this particular gem at a street festival in Wicker Park over the weekend, and am certainly glad I did so at the BEGINNING of summer, as I haven’t found a restaurant in town that has it as a staple menu item, so I get the feeling it truly is “festival food,” as fleeting as summer here in Chicago. Apparently, it has a cult-like following in town, having overheard such loving heckles while awaiting mine, such as the “man-bear-pig,” and “I get mine with 1/8 kitten,” among many various acknowledgments of its unique blend. To this I say, call it whatever you like, cause I’m calling it damn, frickin’ delicious.

Yes, there’s a hot dog under there. Folks, this is a Chicago Dog: boiled all-beef (most favorably, Vienna brand) served atop a poppy-seed bun, with (ready?) yellow mustard, chopped raw white onion, “Nuclear” green sweet-relish, a dill pickle spear (mine’s hidden in the photo), chopped or sliced tomato, hot peppers, and celery salt. NO ketchup.

All the aforementioned fixins’ come standard, and in my experience, most folks opt for ‘em all to get the authentic experience and certain challenge that ensues. They’re not easy to wrap your mouth around, and tend to fall apart as you might imagine, but luckily it is perfectly acceptable to pick every last fallen morsel up with your fingers (no onion left behind). The history is uncertain, but like many other cheap-eats is attributed to an innovative Depression-era sandwich connoisseur, who in this instance, found a way to fit a days-worth of veggies onto single bun.

Today, you can get a great Chicago Dog on nearly every block in town, but nothing quite pays tribute like ordering one up at a ballpark- Wrigley Field in my case, and while the Cubs got destroyed by the Dodgers, this bad boy certainly made the game worthwhile. And, in fairness to the whole city of Chicago, I’ll be attending the White Sox game next week and will in the interest of research, of course order one up there to see how the South Side Chicago Dogs compare. Something tells me I won’t be disappointed.

Southern BBQ, outside of Savannah
Despite the talk about urban multiculturalism, the most complex culinary unions in this country were in the rural south, where Afro-Caribbean slaves and European landowners entwined their open-fire cooking techniques and native ingredients into “plantation”-style cooking.  There is probably no better example of this hybrid than the all-day affair of barbecue, arguably America’s most distinctively regional food.

There are about a zillion places to get barbecue in the south and probably just as many opinions about where and why. I relied on the advice of Steven Raichlen (grilling expert and author of many books, including BBQ USA which features a 500 year national timeline and was also a great help to me about Memphis barbecue for another Travel + Leisure story) who told me that as cultish as barbecue has become, it was also the country’s most democratic form of cooking: slaves may have cooked it, but landowners staged it, and if you look at history you will see great pit masters from diverse backgrounds.

(NOTE: It has been several years since I was here.)
At the Pink Pig (also Raichlen’s suggestion), barbecue continues its everyman reputation except this time every “man” is Rita Thomas, the coifed and cultured pit master. A former nurse who inherited the restaurant from her brother, Thomas believes in running a family business—Mom behind the register, son over the cutting board: “My Daddy always had a smoke going.”

Out back, she opened the door of the pit, letting me get a whiff of spice-rubbed Boston Butt roasts (actually the upper portion of the pork whole shoulder), smoking over a combination of oak and hickory. The result was a sandwich of hand-chopped meat with silky interior and crispy edges on a delicate, almost sweet dinner roll, accompanied by a trio of sauces:  Original Honey Mustard, Low Country Fire, and a spicy vinegar and mustard combination, Gullah Spice (rooted in the distinctive community of heritage rich and reclusive West African-Americans who live on the semi-tropical sea islands of South Carolina and Georgia).

Later that night, when I pulled my tee shirt over my head, I smelled that smoke pit all over again. Not in that reeking “morning after” way. But a fragrant mist with the power to conjure up memories, like a fine perfume.

Cubano, Miami
With a similar back story to other port sandwiches, the Cubano was reportedly designed to feed workers—in this case, Cuban cigar factory workers transported to southern Florida (particularly in Key West and Tampa) in the late 1800’s. However, it was the late 1980’s before I had my first Cubano, just about the time Chef Norman Van Aiken was shaking things up with something he called “New World Cuisine” (although it seems commonplace now, there was an exciting newness to his combination of local Latin and Caribbean flavors with traditional European techniques) and drawing young chefs from all over the country. The hours were long, the nights late, and the sandwich, the Cubano.

Miami is a nocturnal city—especially in the stretch known as “Little Havana,” where the Cubano is a vital part of the late night landscape.  In the same fashion as other iconic regional sandwiches, a Cubano starts with the bread: an 8-inch roll typically made with lard, which accounts for its lightness. (Many places make a smaller version on sweeter bread called media noche or “midnight” sandwich.) There’s typically a slathering of butter under the sugar-cured Bolo ham and Swiss cheese. But the real flavor is delivered by slow-roasted marinated pork (lechon asado), always cut by hand. That tiny dagger of tanginess needed to pierce the richness of the fillings is supplied by thinly-sliced pickle and its juices. After spending time in a plancha (or press) to toast the bread and warm the ingredients in their own steam (flattening the sandwich by about 1/3), the Cubano is cut the diagonal to deliver the most possible melted cheese in ratio to the bread.

The next two locations don’t qualify as “ports.” But I include them in my map trace because each represents a “soft” boundary, where cultures drift into each other and instinctively intertwine. And although hamburgers and tacos aren’t technically considered to be “sandwiches,” each falls in line with the notion that multiculturism finds its natural home within some sort of bread.

Green Chile Cheeseburger, New Mexico
Although they are practically non-existent in the rest of the country, you can get a green chile cheeseburger just about anywhere in New Mexico. Now a green chile cheeseburger is not some gimmick, like when a French chef stuffs a burger with foie gras and viola, a hundred dollar lunch. Ever since Sixteenth Century Spanish Conquistadors led settlers along the El Camino Real (the first European road in North America, stretching from Mexico City to Santa Fe), this land has been part of the Mexican frontier, and on it they grow more green chiles (the state’s top cash crop) than anywhere else in the country. The standard bearer is the fleshy Hatch green chile, available fresh in season or fire roasted, peeled and fresh-frozen in their own juices.

As to the actual burger, without becoming all Proustian about it, here’s how I got mine. I was sitting in the Tasty Freeze in Tularosa, New Mexico, eating fried green chiles out of a white paper bag, when the woman behind the counter—who introduced herself as Debbie—said since I liked them so much, maybe I should try her sister Linda’s green chile cheeseburger. Two hours later, I was sitting at the counter of the Airport Grill in the Alamogordo Airport (located near the Air Tanker Base of the Lincoln Zone Dispatch Center for wildfire control) doing just that: enjoying Linda’s tender, oversized burger topped with a few spoonfuls of diced fire-roasted green chiles secured by a dome of smoothly melted white American cheese, set upon on a 5-inch diameter bun.

Fish Taco, San Diego
The fish taco is a link to the lobster roll (Maine) and fried clam sandwich (Connecticut), probably created when some hungry guy wrapped the catch-of- the-day in bread as a way to produce a heartier meal. It’s nearly impossible to pinpoint the exact day any regional sandwich makes its first appearance. But Ralph Rubio (founder of Rubio’s Fresh Mexican Grill) has a fairly good idea about the modern fish taco, tracing the convergence of cultures—Californian, Mexican and surf—in his own life to 1973.

Rubio was on one of his annual San Diego State University Spring Break surfing trips to the Baja Peninsula. He remembers the beach-shack fish tacos he got there for 50 cents as “crave-able,” a feeling he says he didn’t get from other foods. In 1983, Rubio opened his first walk-up stand in a converted Orange Julius on Mission Drive in San Diego and caught the wave. When I spoke with him for the Travel + Leisure story in 2004, he was twenty-one years into his venture, with 150 regional stores and over 50 million fish tacos sold. Here’s how Rubio built his business from the ground up.

- six-inch corn tortilla (heated on the grill)
- beer-batter fried fish (Rubio’s uses Alaskan Pollock—a mild white fish—and gets an extra crispy crust)
- crema blanca (light mayonnaise with a touch of yogurt for smoothness and tang)
- blended salsa (basically the same ingredients as salsa fresca, but smooth—not chopped)
- shredded cabbage (provides the crunch and won’t wilt like lettuce)
- squeeze of fresh lime juice

Banh Mi, San Francisco
Working up the coast to Saigon Sandwiches in San Francisco, you’ll find the banh mi, an interesting example of a double immigration sandwich.

The baguette-style roll (lightened with rice flour) emerged during the French colonization of Vietnam. But the Vietnamese who migrated to the United States following the Saigon evacuation in 1975 brought the sandwich to us. Banh mi means bread (you must specify the filling) and those who short hand this relatively new sandwich as a “South East Asian hoagie” undervalue the distinctive flavorings, like sweet red pork barbecued pork sprinkled with slivers of lightly pickled cucumber and carrot seasoned with jalapenos and cilantro.

The increasing popularity of banh mi parallels Vietnamese immigration: Hawaii, the West Coast, and eventually working its way across the country to gain a foothold in the East. But the sandwich is still far from main stream. The best banh mi remain in their own ethnic neighborhoods, usually in small storefronts. Years ago, I got my first taste at Saigon Sandwiches where two surprises awaited. The good one: (at the time) the bahn mi was less than three bucks. The other: The counter women took orders from every person in line and made all the sandwiches at one time.

Italian Beef and the Borinquen Restaurant, both in Chicago
Moving east to Chicago, you come across another sandwich which is distantly related to Philadelphia’s hoagie (and thus, the Muffaletta): the Italian Beef. Unlike the hoagie’s layering of cured pork meats and cheese, the Italian Beef is the bountiful product of the city’s Union Stockyards—beef so thinly sliced it resembles a meat mille feuilles—topped by another sort of “salad,” called Giardinera. I got mine from Al’s # 1 Italian Beef at its landmark Taylor Street location.

The lineage of the Italian beef sandwich is impeccable.  Anthony Ferreri, a turn-of-the-century sandwich peddler who sold his wares from vendor trays (like those used in baseball stadiums) and also catered “peanut weddings” (for Italian immigrants who couldn’t afford more) begat Al and Frances Ferreri who opened a small curbside Beef stand in 1938 (with Frances’ husband Chris Pacelli) that eventually moved to Taylor Street and became Al’s # 1 Italian Beef, (at the time I went) still run by Frances’ sons—the Pacaelli brothers.

So are the ingredients.

- Top sirloin butt: oven roasted in water with garlic and “secret” seasonings to make the flavorful “juice” in which the sandwiches are dipped.
- Giardinera: a fermented vegetable relish made with hot peppers and celery so finely shaved that the mixture simply melts away when it hits the hot beef, soaking its flavor all the way through the sandwich
- Gonnella Bread: baked under the direction of the same family since 1886; crisp-crusted and substantial enough to stand up to dipping

There are no seats at Al’s—but then you can’t really eat this sandwich sitting down. Instead, unwrap your sandwich and spread the paper out on the counter in front of you. Lean the top half of your body forward (over the counter) while tilting the bottom half away (as though you are hugging someone and want your shoulders but not your hips to touch) so the juices drip down onto the paper (missing your clothes and shoes). When you’re done, wrap the paper up and throw your mess away.

Jibarito
Just when I thought I had picked the city of Chicago clean, a chef named Randy Zweiben took me to eat a sandwich I had never seen before or since.

According to the 2000 Census, Chicago is now one of the top three centers of Puerto Rican population in this country, and as immigration patterns changed, the city sprouted a new sandwich—the Jibarito (hee-bah-REE-toh)—found in the tightly knit Puerto Rican community of Humboldt Park.

Drive along Paseo Boricua, a mile long stretch of the Division Street corridor anchored by 59 foot, 40 ton steel sculptures of the Puerto Rican flag, and you’ll pass several places advertising “La Casa Del Jibarito.” But it is Borinquen Restaurant owner Juan C. Figueroa (known as Peter) who can take credit for the success of the sandwich and vice versa, since he chalks up his recent expansion to spiraling Jibarito sales. Zweiben, who worked in Miami during that Nuevo Latino wave and knows his way around a Cubano, explained exactly how this sandwich was made.

The innovative “bread” is made from twice fried green plantains (sliced and pressed into a rough rectangular shape and brushed with garlic and oil) while the fillings rely on traditional cooking methods. (For example, the pork is slow cooked, similar to Cuban style; the chicken is fried, then pulled from the bones and chopped, skin and all.)

The Jibarito is an unusual reversal of the typical sandwich texture: creamy (via the “plantain” bread) on the outside and chewy on the inside. It is also an odd blend of old and new—the Latin heritage diluted by a layering of pedestrian American sandwich ingredients (iceberg lettuce, unripe tomatoes, American cheese, mayonnaise). Judging from the crowded tables, the sandwich is extremely popular; it is also extremely regionalized. But maybe not for long—because that’s how immigrant culture spreads in this country, sandwich by sandwich.

The sole Portillo’s in Chicago-proper has come a long way from its Villa Park, IL roots. Originally dubbed, “The Dog House,” Portillo’s began as a less-than modest hot dog stand in 1963, operating out of a 6′ x 12′ trailer without a bathroom or running water. Since then, they have exploded into over thirty Illinois locations, and have recently opened two stores in California. The modern-day Chicago location, looks a bit different than their original trailer, in fact, it’s on a whole other planet.

On this planet, a 1920s Roadster with a “Repeal” license plate hangs from the ceiling on suspension platforms, filled with a family of wax figurines- dog included. 27 employees (within view) bustled behind 4 long counter tops- and one bar. Portillo’s occupies two-stories and half a city block, and they’ve opted to fill this space with every Chicagoesque fantasy-scene imaginable. Giant sports memorabilia banners, black and white gangster photos, enormous wooden clocks, neon lights, faux Chicago flats lining the upper level complete with porches (and drunken wax sculptures passed out on said porches) and a picket fence containing diners on the seated area.

Luckily, the beef sandwich for which I came, has remained intact, despite the, er, improvements to the physical space. Famous for both Italian beef with giardinera and jus dip, as well as the classic Chicago dog- hot dog on a poppy seed bun with Chicago-specific fixin’s, I opted for the Italian beef to judge it as a potentially worthy challenger to Al’s Beef in which on many levels it just did not compare. The beef was good, the jus was great, but the space was dizzying and had a bit too much “cheese” for my liking.

Next time I’ll get mine to go; Or, honestly, I’d probably just go back to Al’s.

Portillo’s Hot Dogs
100 W. Ontario Street Chicago, IL 60654 (Google Map)

Sometimes, two forces come together with just the right amount of seduction, and the unlikely elements fuse, erupting in a climax so intense that even the most staunch nihilist will moan, “God!” in testament. I’m speaking, of course, of Borinquen’s Jibarito- a delight literally invented at the Humbolt Park nook in Chicago, which has been satisfying- no- thoroughly pleasing, regulars and pilgrims on happy tabletops for 15 years. Borinquen’s jibarito is what would happen- well, what DID happen- when the sensuality of Puerto Rican cuisine penetrates Chicago comfort food, in a most alluring yet effortless embrace.

The magic is in the smooth but textured, moist but crisp, warm, fried plantains that lie firm on bottom and top, teasing you to ask, “bread who?” with every wet-mouthed bite. The signature plantains- topped with mounds of tangy garlic- envelop the spicy steak, cool lettuce, juicy tomato, creamy mayo, classic American cheese, served on a fluffy, inviting bed of arroz con gandules.

The first half I enjoyed naked- that is, without the homemade Jibara; a heavenly hot sauce where Chicago’s signature giardinera peppers tempt habanero and jalapeños to engage in the coyest of collaborations with Tabasco and cilantro. Curious as to the origin of “Jibara,” I was informed that the man who created it named it such after his adoration of his native Puerto Rican peasant women. The waitress shyly laughed and said she never understood why he did so, but given its fiery and inveigle elements, it seemed fitting as ever. My sound mind said to cut myself off after half, but that’s the thing about pleasure- it oft doesn’t rattle the head. And that second spicy Jibara-soaked half, well, it was worth the sweat.

I floated out of Borinquen feeling full, satisfied, and with a sly smirk on my face, having just committed a solo seemingly naughty act of unabashed pleasure. This time I went alone- just me and my jibarito. Perhaps next time I’ll bring a friend. I hear it’s more fun with three…

Borinquen Restaurant
1720 N California Avenue Chicago, IL 60647 (Google Map)

Somewhere on south Taylor St*, in Chicago’s Little Italy, Al’s Beef has been producing, arguably one of the best sandwiches in America since 1938. A sandwich so noteworthy, that Travel and Leisure, Esquire, the History Channel and countless others, have documented its stature and sang its praises in a quite unprecedented way- as far as sandwiches go. But don’t take their word, or even ours for it- this is something you should taste on your own.

The no-frills joint is called Al’s Beef, and carnivores descend in droves to order Al’s Famous Italian Beef sandwich. The room itself can’t hold more than 15 or so folks, and don’t hold your breath for a seat, because this spot is counter space and standing room only. An overriding “get em in, get em fed, get em out” gusto, mashes with the moist, meat soaked air providing a protein-fueled surge of energy, second only to meat-sweats as far as beef side effects go.

Ordering went something like this: I’ll have the famous Italian beef, please. Large or small? Large. Hot or sweet peppers? Both. Extra gravy? Yes… And no more than two minutes later a piping hot legendary Al’s Beef sandwich was in my hands. It was soaking wet- I thought the au jus gravy would be a side boat- but the bread held up till the last bite. The homemade hot Giardiniera and Italian sweet peppers were in perfect harmony, and the beef- oh the beef. I’ve never quite had beef seasoned so perfectly in my entire life. The beef was sliced paper thin, and had that slow roasted rich, moist, juicy, perfectly salted and seasoned flavor that you only find in great Italian beef. And splurge for the fries- made fresh from raw potatoes throughout the day, they too, rank as some of the best in the nation. The Taylor St. joint offers free parking as well- a gem in downtown Chicago.

I feel like I’ve found an unbeatable champion in Al’s Beef, but would welcome a worthy challenger in this category, should anyone have the chutzpah to suggest one.

Otherwise, checkmate.

*Notes: Al’s Beef is now a franchise with over 20 locations in the greater Chicago area. Unbreaded attended the original location on Taylor street for our review.

Gallery

Al’s Beef
1097 W Taylor St. Chicago, IL 60607 (Google Map)

We don’t like to discriminate here at Unbreaded, so when a sandwich chain is good, we’ll say so. Chicago-founded (and since expanded) Potbelly Sandwich Works makes the cut. Pictured above is the “veggie on wheat,” a delightfully understated sandwich with mushrooms, and three cheeses: American, Provolone and Swiss, all toasted together in a gooey mélange.

On first glance the sandwiches look uninteresting- barebones at best- but the “wall of choices” offers countless combos of condiments galore. For this trip, I loaded up on everything sans mayo and oil and doubled up on the Italian Giardenera- a mix of hot peppers and vegetables in oil – a Chicago sandwich staple.

Additionally, the humor of the throw-back themed establishment is not lost on locals and tourists alike, who can opt to “throw a dart” at the decision wheel if they’re feeling indecisive about which ‘wich to order. There is no bad choice, FYI, though according to our sandwich prep, the most popular order is “The Wreck” with “the works”- a conglomerate of Black Angus roast beef, old world salami, oven roasted turkey and melted Swiss…and that’s all before the you even get to the “wall of choices.”

A word about the photo: these aren’t exactly the most photogenic sandwiches. In fact, they’re down right sloppy, drippy, oily, and slippery and certainly don’t make for good date food. But they’re good; damn good, and that’s why Chicagoans have proudly returned to their Potbelly’s ever since the first establishment opened in Lincoln Park in 1977.

And should you fear developing your very OWN potbelly- do not fret. One of the perks of visiting a chain- with an extensive website, and therefore an assumed responsibility to provide nutritional content to patrons- is a nifty sandwich-builder-calorie-counter-thingy so you can know before you go.

So rub that belly, and enjoy.

Potbelly Sandwich Works
2264 N Lincoln Ave Chicago, IL 60614

I’m usually not a fan of redundancy; however, when it comes with avocado at $5.50 I’m willing to make an exception. Introducing the beloved, hot “Turkey, Turkey” a star born of cult Lakeview sandwich joint Panes. The sandwich packs smoked turkey breast, mounds of avocado, roasted red peppers, gooey Swiss and spicy mayo melded between a modestly named “tomato bread,” which is actually a fluffy brioche with sun-ripened tomatoes and olive oil baked in. Whew – mouthful. And man, it is.

Truth be told, I could have featured no less than ten delectable sandwiches from Panes. For the last 15 years, the family-run establishment has been baking their bread in house, and pairing intriguing ingredient combos between the slices. We’re grateful for their creativity, to say the least. Did I mention their entire sandwich menu is under $6.00?

You could say that again.

Panes
3002 N. Sheffield Avenue Chicago, IL 60657 (Google Map)

Editor’s note: Rachel Lowen is a Chicago-based sandwich fanatic who is unbreading the Windy City.

It’s St. Patty’s week- yes week- here in Chicago and everyone’s Irish. Sandwich-wise, this means corned beef is king, and when word got out that a north side pub soaks theirs in Guinness post-carving, pre-sandwich, we figured it might be worth checking out.

Enter, Mystic Celt. While the “pub” got doused with a case of the yuppies, (count the flat screen TV’s), their signature corned beef sandwich is flavor-wise as authentic as they come. The thick-cut beef nestles nicely between melted Swiss on pub-style Irish brown bread, but there definitely could have been more of it- way more. True, for a USDA “standard serving” the meat was generously heaped, but for our token St. Patty’s Day corned beef sandwich rep, we were hoping to conquer a truly-obnoxious-can’t-fit-your-mouth-around-it stack.

We recommend an extra Guinness to compensate. Slainte!

Mystic Celt
3443 N. Southport Avenue Chicago, IL 60657 (Google Map)