California Club
Club sandwich with avocado and sometimes sprouts.
Club sandwich with avocado and sometimes sprouts.
The California burrito moves French fries off the plate and into the tortilla as structure, a grease sponge San Diego turned into its civic answer to the Philly cheesesteak.
Wisconsin finishes its burger with butter meant to be tasted: Solly's has melted it over patties and stewed onions since 1936, Culver's toasts it into the bun, and state law still sides with the cow.
The brisket point, cubed and run through the smoker a second time into sticky, bark-heavy meat candy on a bun. Kansas City's most coveted cut, once given away free.
The Whopper runs on a machine built to fight its own fire: fat drips onto flame, smokes back into the meat, and risks a flare-up every patty. James McLamore invented it in Miami in 1957 for 37 cents.
A single breaded chicken fillet tossed in Frank's RedHot whisked with butter, the Buffalo wing emulsion, on a soft bun with a swipe of blue cheese dressing. The 1964 Anchor Bar sauce, on bread.
Fried strips tossed in the cayenne-and-butter emulsion of the Buffalo wing, laid end-to-end down a sub roll with blue cheese on the bread; a Western New York pizzeria specialty.
At a Central Texas barbecue joint, the brisket sandwich is a counter cut made portable: post-oak-smoked beef sliced to order, plain white bread, pickles and raw onion, sauce kept on the table.
The New York deli brisket is cooked in water, not smoke: a wet oniony braise sliced soft onto seeded rye with mustard, the delicatessen's reading of a cut Texas sends through fire.
Central Texas smoked brisket on thick-cut white bread buttered and griddled until rigid: the bread choice that survives where a soft slice would dissolve.
A soft flour tortilla folded around loose scrambled egg, bacon and papas, or chorizo, or bean and cheese, ordered by the dozen at a Texas taqueria before dawn.
A pounded beef cutlet, breaded, deep-fried, and drowned in marinara on an Italian roll, with giardiniera cutting the richness. Chicago's South Side counter sandwich.
A pork loin cutlet pounded to the width of a plate, breaded and fried until it hangs inches past its bun. Indiana's sandwich, eaten from the bare overhang inward.
The Sheboygan bratwurst is cooked twice, simmered in beer then charred over coals, and laid two to a buttered hard roll. Ordering a single is treated as an error.
Cajun boudin is a soft link of pork, liver and seasoned rice, squeezed from its casing onto soft white bread in the gas stations and meat markets of Acadiana. The rice-sausage of southwest Louisiana.
Any cold cuts on a hero roll with lettuce, tomato, onion, and dressing; varies by bodega.
Ground beef chopped apart on a bodega griddle, fused with melted American cheese and onion, scooped onto a hero with cold lettuce, tomato, and mayo: the East Harlem chopped cheese.
Cut a ripe tomato and time it; within minutes it runs. The BLT is built against that clock, four parts with nothing to hide behind, best the instant it is made and declining from there.
The Southern biscuit sandwich is decided by the bread: cold fat cut into soft-wheat flour, baked into tall peelable layers, split warm, and filled with country ham, sausage, fried chicken, or egg.
Beef birria (chile-braised beef) in a corn tortilla dipped in consommé fat, griddled crispy, filled with melted cheese, served with conso...
The birria burger carries quesabirria's consommé into a hamburger: the bun griddled in chile braising fat, a cup of red broth alongside to dip each bite, a smash patty under slumping Oaxaca cheese.
Oak-smoked brisket on soft white bread with a cold bottle of Big Red beside it: the San Antonio meat-market plate where the bright red cream soda is half the order.