C. McGee’s, 13 February 2017

C McGee’s in the Warehouse District nailed the one thing no other place in the Twin Cities has nailed: The Italian Sub. Seeing as how I was originally looking for a Reuben, though, and that I vowed to give them more of my money (and you should, too), I went back today and picked up the Reuben.
I’m going to skip over the elaborate clown-y horseshit I usually get into because I detailed a lot of that in the last review. Quick recap though: It’s in a multi-use warehouse at the dead end of a fucked up cobblestone street and the sign is over the wrong door. Still, they manage to pack the place (even today, Monday) because the food is good, the portions are generous, and the prices are fair. The recipes are simple, basic, focused on what it is exactly that makes a dish the dish that it is and what tastes good about it. Nobody’s trying to validate a three and a half dollar price hike because they stew their campari tomato halves in an Anaheim chili and sake-infused au jus overnight before going in the bruschetta-aioli spread or whatever the fuck, no.
So, let’s break down the Reuben.
It’s a Reuben. Corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese, thousand island (And they call it “1000 island”, not “Russian dressing” because, for real, you think Russian people are eating thousand island? I don’t.) (And that’s based on the one Russian gal I boinked so, not a huge sample size.) on rye bread.
Did you see any dumb bullshit creeping into that sandwich? I didn’t. And that’s why it’s a damned good Reuben. Among the best Reubens I’ve had? Eh, close, I’ll say that. It’s wwwaaayyy better than Lund’s (goddamn, that thing was fucking gross), it’s better than Caffrey’s (fuck a Caffrey), it shits all over Arby’s (unless you live in a place where you would never know what a Reuben was if it weren’t for Arby’s, don’t eat an Arby’s Reuben). It’s hard to compete with Kramarczuk’s or Northbound’s Reubens, and I’ve had Black Forest’s Reuben so many times that I’m desensitized to it though it was once the pinnacle for me. C McGee’s is up there, though.
The corned beef has got a smokey quality to the usual savory flavor and is layered on the sandwich in bunches of thin slabs but the sauerkraut, of which their is a surplus, dominates the overall flavor. The Swiss was melty and stringy and complimented the corned beef more than the sauerkraut. To be honest, I could’ve used more thousand island. It was there, I could see it, but I had trouble locating it in the flavor. The rye bread was not a fancy Jewish New York bakery marble rye. No. This bastard was the kind of rye your mom used to buy your dad. Brown, like dark brown, like fucking Russian ass dark brown ass rye ass brown. Also? Spongey. So, the opposite of the rye bread your mom used to buy your dad.
Like I tried to preach last time: It’s easy to be legit. Just follow the KISS rule: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Another sandwich joint that shall go unnamed uses Havarti instead of Swiss, mustard instead of thousand island, and some sweet pickled cabbage instead of sauerkraut on their Reuben. That’s three out of five of the ingredients altered. That’s sixty percent. You can’t change sixty percent of a thing and still call it that thing, it is no longer that thing. Even changing from corned beef to turkey, a mere twenty percent difference, warrants calling it a Rachael or, if you got kicked in the head by a mule as a child, a “Turkey Reuben”. (Sorry, C McGee’s, I know you call it a Turkey Reuben but I got an issue with that. It’s a Rachael. It has a name. The name for that sandwich is Rachael. And even Kafe Nasty pointed out that you named your turkey & pepper jack Reuben a Rebecca. How come that one gets a name but the Rachael is a “Turkey Reuben”? I don’t want to be the guy to start screaming “Misogyny!” in a fucking sandwich review but, uh, yeah, that’s either some patriarchal bullshit or just a ggllaarriinngg clerical error that I’m sure you could fix.) Even when the name in the name is the same, it’s preceded by a the name of the variant and that’s just for one out of five things changed.
Also, let the record show that, this Thanksgiving, I’m going to serve Rachaels. You’ll all remember to remind me, right? OK, good.
Nobody at C McGee’s is trying to blow your mind with fancy imported nonsense that takes an extra ten seconds to say in the name. It’s straightforward and tastes great and they deserve your money.