Meat Me in the Middle
There will be blood (sausage)
This week, we fall under the spell of sandwiches and relish again in the magic of mayonnaise. We also welcome Guest Gulletier, Jessica Daly to the table.
Blood, Oats & Irish Rome
One of my favorite restaurants in New York City (and possibly the world) is Lord’s, owned and overseen by London-born chef Ed Szymanski. The restaurant serves an almost satire of traditional British fare with names that delight me. There I’ve tried Welsh rarebit (cheese sauce on toast), Eaton mess (artfully destroyed sugar meringue), hen with something surprisingly wonderful called ‘bread sauce’ (actually, self-descriptive), scotch eggs (an entire soft-boiled egg ensconced inside a meatball), tripe2 (innards; unappetizing to think deeply about, but very cozy to consume), and black pudding. Black pudding – for those of you who, like me, were until recently uninitiated (content warning: vampirism) is a sausage made out of pigs’ blood, warming spices, and oatmeal. Don’t even get me started on how Brits seem to call all their food pudding. Another essay, for another time.
Have I mentioned I’m a vegetarian? If this sounds confusing based on the carnival of meat-centered dishes mentioned above, it boils down to this: I’ve developed a philosophy a friend of mine recently coined ‘When In Rome Vegetarianism.’ When I feel that there’s a unique culinary experience worth having, I’m comfortable breaking with the veg, and engaging with that experience. Technically, this should be called ‘When in Rome Omnivorisim’ (the word before the ‘ism’ refers to things that you WILL eat), but we’re going to accept the fallibility of language in this case and go with the term that really isn’t, but *feels more correct.
My ‘When In Romes’ this year have happened exclusively (accidentally) in service to UK comestibles. Besides my once quarterly Lord’s visits, I also ate haggis3 during a traditional Scottish Burn’s Night Supper4 this past January. And in February and March, I traveled to Ireland to participate in an artist’s residency.
The residency, which took place on a farm in Wexford, called Cow House Studios – was utopic (truly a life changingly wonderful experience) but also very healthy and very isolated. After about a measly week of pure living, my fellow residents and I craved noise pollution and a place to buy crap. We decided to chip in and split a $100 round-trip cab ride to the nearest village, Enniscorthy. While there, we were instructed to check out a restaurant called Dusty Boy, known for its toasties – which despite sounding adorable/culinarily intriguing are the UK equivalent of a panini.
Dusty Boy, in the barely-a-village Village of Enniscorthy, was bright and contemporary looking, with a chic gift shop on the first floor and a wall-to-wall windowed dining area on the second. After some deliberation and a conversation with a friendly stranger who had a cursory knowledge of Irish Gaelic – I purchased a souvenir plaque that said ‘act ar dtús, tae’ (but first, tea.) And then proceeded to scan the toastie menu trying to find what sounded like the most Irish possible option - something I could not experience at home. I landed on a brie, cranberry sauce, sourdough, and black pudding sandwich. Go hard or go back to America, folks. And then, just to firmly dig my heels in on human contradiction, I ordered an oat latte to go with it.
The sandwich, when it arrived, was unspectacular. Could’ve done with more cranberry to cut the creaminess of the brie – had they added enough brie in the first place (they didn’t.) But the black pudding itself was pleasant. It was cozy, and dappled with bits of oats - like a weird, meaty, sedimentary casserole. There was something comforting and distinctly un-blood-like about the taste. I didn’t regret my choice. Aside from being genuinely into the sensorial adventure of trying new foods, I also do these kinds of things as a personal fear factor. And as sometimes a vain game with my own ego. By engaging with this tiny bravery, I get to feel an out-of-proportion self-satisfaction. As if I had taken an ice plunge or dared myself to hold a plank for three minutes.
Before leaving the residency and flying home to New York, I spent a few days in Dublin dedicated to doing Tourism Stuff. I rounded out the trip with an excellent meal at a fancy Dublin gastro-pub called L. Mulligan Grocer. L Mulligan is known for being cool (Sharon Horgan happened to be there the night I dined, sitting a few tables away from me) and for their optional beer pairing recommendations that go along with every single menu item. However, the main reason I was there was to sample a food experience I have not been able to get my hands on yet in the US; a vegetarian scotch egg. When the egg arrived it was perfect; warm and jammy – just like the one I had gotten at Lord's in NYC. However this time the outer shell was faux meat.
Having restored the cosmic veg balance of the universe, I paid my €32 euro check for an excellent meal that would’ve cost $120 in New York City, pretended I was personally Irish exiting on Sharon, and went out into the Dublin night to find, and cozy up to at least two last Guinness.
The Verdict: Black Pudding 6.5/10. When In Rome Vegetarianism 10/10
Name Drops: Literally; Sharon Horgan, Lord’s, Gage & Tollner, Dusty Boy, L Mulligan Grocers
Holy Schnitzel
By Kitty
Lady Delish must be cruising the deli counter because I've had tremendous luck in the sandwich department lately. On Friday morning, Herb and I participated in a corporate community service event where we crafted fresh floral bouquets and made Mod Podge journals (a dream day). I needed to carry this high through the afternoon and knew that a perfect lunch would keep our spirits soaring. We decided on the new Maven’s Delicatessen in Pawtucket.
During the weekend of their grand opening in December, I perused their menu even though I had no immediate plans to visit. (How are you all spending your time online?) The chicken schnitzel had remained top of mind since…Cut to me ordering exactly that.
Before our sandwiches arrived, a small silver pedestal dish filled with coleslaw and pickles hit the table. We crunched on a couple of half-sours and chatted with the solo diner at the table next to us. He wore a cool leather moto jacket and asked if we had ever visited the world-famous Katz’s. He ordered the pastrami on rye.
My crispy chicken was served with lettuce, pickled onion, and lemon caper mayonnaise between two thick slices of buttery, toasted challah. The mayo, which seemed to lightly tread into aioli territory, commanded my attention. Oftentimes, aioli is the one doing the heavy lifting in an otherwise boring dish, but today she was simply cheering on her teammates. Whole capers sat happily suspended in this creamy, lemony dressing, squirting out of the sandwich in all directions with each bite. It ended up on my chin, my nose, and my brand-new GAP Factory Outlet sweatshirt. There’s something special about going to town on a sandwich that makes you forget you’re in public. I can confidently say I ate that bad boy like no one was watching. Even when someone was two feet away, waiting for his pastrami on rye.
The Verdict: Mayonnaise is my muse.
Name Drops: Maven’s Delicatessen
Seduced by Soppressata
By Greg
What happens when you fall in love against your type? I found out on Saturday when we took Doug’s family to a tried and true favorite, Fellow Mountain Cafe in Hunter. I get the same damn thing every time because it's a certified slam dunk. I was happily eating my chipotle chicken salad on brioche when I suddenly became “aware” of Lea’s (Doug’s mom) soppressata sandwich sitting next to me. Something about it caught my eye; it had a presence and magnetism that dared me to stare. Salami, arugula, and pecorino were stuffed between two giant slices of baked-in-house olive focaccia. Save the bread, I don’t really care for any of these ingredients, especially the pecorino, but the glistening cross-section of stacked meats and complementary hues of the salami and arugula made it look…sexy. I asked Lea if I could sample the remaining half. She claimed she was full and offered me the rest. Trying to be polite, I cut off just a sliver. Sweet, savory, salty, and umami fired on all cylinders. I also sensed a rogue ingredient in the mix. I turned to the menu for answers—garlic confit mayo. Of course. The explosion of flavors and combination of textures fucking dommed me.
What dark art made this medley of things I detest taste so exquisite? This sandwich would have made any character on The Sopranos drool. This sandwich said sit down and shut up. This sandwich controlled my bank account now. Now that I had tasted Satan’s soppressata-flavored dick, I needed more. I shelved the shy act, manhandled the rest of it onto my plate, and gobbled the last bites.
The Verdict: The devil is in the deli meats.
Name Drops: Fellow Mountain Cafe
A special thank you to Jessica Daly, who also illustrated this week’s piece!
If you’d like to be a Guest Gulletier or illustrator, drop us a note at putitinthegullet@gmail.com
Jessica Daly is an Art Director and creative multi-hyphenate, living in Brooklyn. She received her BFA from RISD. She loves word puzzles, vocal harmonies, & weird beer.
Tripe, as mentioned, is innards.
For those keeping score, haggis is also innards – but bonus cooked inside a sheep’s stomach for additional ‘nard cred.
Burn’s Night is a national holiday in Scotland celebrating famous writer and 18th-century philanderer Robert Burns. Everyone gets whiskey drunk and recites poetry. Honestly, it rocks. I will not gatekeep that the one at Gage & Tollner, in Brooklyn is extremely fun.