In the barren wasteland of the Twin Cities, Ohio boys like Kafe Nasty and myself have bemoaned the dearth of properly made Italian subs, with the exception of Marino’s* at 22nd & Johnson up in Nordeast and that’s deep Nordeast. Another fifteen blocks and you’re in Co-Heights. Do you know how much you’re asking from me?
And then, one day, realizing that my Reuben game had been ssllooww, I Googled up “reuben 55401″ and up pops B*wiched or however they spell it and I was all, “No,” and then I seen this place a block over from the B, a place called C McGee’s Deli. I figure I’ll look at the menu and one of the first things I saw was The Italian Grinder, described thusly:
ham, salami, pepperoni, provolone, lettuce, tomato, pepperoncini, italian dressing, crushed red pepper on a hoagieYou see that? Do you see that? NO MAYO. Sure, it has lettuce but it has no mayo. There’s no sandwich slaw on this. This begs for investigation.
So, C McGee’s (there are worse names) is deep Warehouse District, on Third St, up by Club Jager (there are no worse names), on a cobblestone road so rattly-assed and ill-maintained that the chain on my bike jumped out of the gears. It’s also located in a converted multi-use warehouse (natch) and seems almost hidden. But once you get in the building and look through the windows, the place is jumping. For real, every table but two was full and the only reason they had empty tables was because there were a couple to-go motherfuckers like me. So, if you take a place, hide it off the main drag, further hide it in the middle of a multi use building, and still pack it in? They had my faith.
Like, no, seriously. The faith I used to have in my Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ? Sorry, Hay-Seuss. You been downgraded before I even placed my order.
Just kidding. I gave up my faith in Catholicism the first time I saw ALF. Have you seen ALF? ALF got bare jokes. And life lessons.
ANYhoo, I was torn between the Italian and the Reuben all day until I decided to go in for the exploratory research and do the Italian. One must know. One must discover. And fortune favors the bold (as I was once told by somebody who liked my joke about Pokemon Go at the Holocaust Museum).
And Kafe Nasty decided that his job was more important than a sandwich (that’s some little bitch shit, Kafe), so it was up to me.
I went in, ordered an Italian sub and waited. Noted that the cashier bore a slight resemblance to Angela Bettis (And, for real, why hasn’t Angela Bettis been in, like, every movie?) while also trying to remember Angela Bettis’s name, and paid for my sandwich, got my sandwich, and biked back to the office along Washington.
Got into the office, opened the little 100% recyclable material box, found my sandwich wrapped in wax paper, unwrapped it, and my damn dick got hard.
First of all, ton of ham. Second of all, big, visible, neon yellow pepperoncinis. Goddamnit, this thing looked like sex on bread. And it was Italian, which meant my lover had an olive hue -
What!? Look, goddamnit, I refuse to give up the xenophobic food jokes. The minute I do that, I let the Republicans win and I’ll be goddamned if I normalize this administration, OK!? Now, where was I?
Well, there was nothing left to do but put the thing in my mouth already. So, impressed by the looks but having been let down before by every last sandwich shop in the Twin Cities (except you, Marino’s, we’re good), I hesitantly bit into the sandwich and god. damn. It was real. It was a real Italian sub. I had found it. I had bought it. I was eating it.
Flavor game: On point.
Ham game: On surplus.
Hoagie bun game: On Carmichael.
They weren’t fucking around with mayonnaise and trying to tell me the shit was aioli. They weren’t trying to sell me on some sweet basil infused raspberry vinaigrette. They weren’t putting jalapeños on them shits and calling it a “Spicy Italian”. They didn’t up-charge me 50¢ for oregano and call it “Italian seasoning”. No. They did that shit right. So right that I can forgive the presence of shredded iceberg lettuce and the absence of sweet red onions. Normally, I would threaten to cut somebody for omitting the Tropea onions but, bruv, it’s been over a goddamned decade since I’ve had “the real thing”, I have to forgive some offenses.
Provolone, of course… People tell me I have to have smoked provolone or buffalo provolone to have a real good provolone. It took me eleven years to find a person to put together the right ingredients or even the reasonable substitutions for the right ingredients for a legit Italian sub, I think I’m going to face greater difficulty finding just the right cheese by itself. And it’s not that provolone is inherently bad, it’s just that the stuff out here doesn’t taste like anything. It was there on my sandwich and I didn’t even realize it. As far as ingredients on the sandwich go, it had as much personality as the lettuce.
The tomato slices were thick and juicy, appeared to be fresh cut and solid, not mushy and soft like every other sandwich shop in the Twin Cities (except you, Marino’s). The salami was salty and savory, the pepperoni was spicy and was a shade of red usually reserved for a second degree burn. (DON’T Google that, just believe me: It’s fucking red.)
[sigh]
(You fucking Googled that, didn’t you? Way to spoil your appetite. Look, sometimes, it really is better if you just listen to me.)
It had all the vinegar sour, mild pepper and sausage spice, and meat umami required to make a legit Italian sub. Every other sandwich shop in the Twin Cities (except you, Marino’s) is on notice: This is how you make an Italian fucking sub. This is the fucking way. You think I’m playing? This place doesn’t even have a store front. They are located at the functional dead end of a shittily-kept street with a sign over the wrong door of the building they are located in and they do things so right that they pack the place like a sardine canister. It’s not because the staff sing Neil Motherfucking Diamond at the top of their lungs (they do). It’s not because the tables are stocked with Trivial Pursuit cards (they are, the way Harvey’s used to do). No. It’s because they get shit right - flavor-wise and portion-wise - and they charge really reasonable prices for what they sell you. You want a bit of context? Go over one block and get charged double for the goofed up nonsense that B*wiched will look you right in the eyes and tell you is a Reuben. They have a store front. They have three times the space. But you ready for real talk, son? They have only a third of C McGee’s patronage at the same time of day.
I can not stress enough how legit (and how simple it is to be legit in the first place) C McGee’s is. They are going to get my money again.
* Marino’s sub has Genoa salami, capocollo, provolone, meatball, topped with onion, lettuce, tomato, Italian dressing.
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