The first sign that you’re in for some capslock italicized BULLSHIT when you peruse the menu of an Italian deli is the glaring omission of the Italian sub. It’s like a Jewish deli without corned beef (or Montreal smoked beef if you’re in Canada) or a lowercase c chinese buffet without eggrolls. Something is very wrong and you’ll want to know where the cameras are hidden.
This absence is what I found among the five sandwiches on the menu for Zelino, a little Italianesque bodega sized thang hanging off of Zelo, a place that causes my wallet to shrivel like a dick in ice water. Alas, I’m in pursuit of something new, so this is where I go. I picked the roast beef.
OK, who’s keeping score? Has anybody been keeping score? I have to keep score? Shit. OK. So, at the bottom of the first, we have an Italian deli with lasagnas and meatballs and shit but no Italian sub.
At the bottom of the second, we have a Nicollet Mall address for reasons known only to some glue-huffing city planner because this place is not on Nicollet Mall, it’s on goddamned 9th. In fact, the way the place is situated, the door faces away from Nicollet Mall. I get it, they probably get the Zelo and Zelino mail all delivered to the same address but I’m not a courier, I’m looking for lunch. Put the 9th St address on the website.
At the bottom of the third, I walk into the joint after having to goddamn look for it and I ask for the roast beef to go. The nice lady at the counter said, “Oh, actually all the sandwiches are in the cooler.” Now, again, she was cool. I’m not sure she gets to wear a chef’s whites when she didn’t actually, you know… make the sandwich. Maybe she did but, uh… Yeah, every deli I’ve been to, I know I’m in for a ten minute wait because they’re making my sandwich right now as opposed to ahead of time.
After three innings, we have an Italian deli with no Italian sub, an address that, for functional purposes, is on the wrong street, and the sandwiches are pre-packaged. Why am I still going through with this?
At the bottom of the fourth - EIGHT FUCKING DOLLARS!?!?!? I can get this same goddamned sandwich at Cub for $2.49
And then there’s a tip slot on my debit card receipt. I’m not an asshole but I’m not made of money and, like I said, it’s not like they made it right there. It was in a cooler. I tipped two bucks. That’s still twenty five percent. Don’t @ me.
Get it back to the office and sit down with it. Look it over. It’s as advertised: Roast beef, cheddar, arugula, onion, horsey mayo on a ciabatta. I tuck into this motherfucker and, hand to god, I am corrected.
There are many reasons why this little motherfucker is eight goddamned dollars, and let’s start with the Cy Young Award Winner of this true no-no: The roast beef. It is not Sysco.
This is pillowy, thin, delicate, sliced-that-day and piled and I mean piled on red-as-a-baboon’s-ass rare roast beef. It is savory, blood-metallic, lightly seasoned to accentuate the beef’s flavor rather than mask it. I know I eat a lot of Arby’s but I do know what real meat is and I do know the good stuff from the just OK stuff and I’m telling you, comrade, this is the exquisite stuff.
Let’s talk about cheddar. Let’s talk about how it’s not just nacho cheese. Let’s talk about how good Irish cheddar will have bold notes of milk fat and subtle hints of allium sharpness. Some cheddars from our neighbors in Wisconsin possess these traits. Good cheddar, the kind you pay an extra dollar or two per pound for at the deli counter, while not meant for a sandwich, will have irreplaceable presence on one. The tag team between this cheddar and roast beef? Hell, the creamy fatty umami of this cheddar serves as a bedrock atop which the rare beef can really come out.
The ciabatta seemed more of a structural requirement to hold things together, it had a neutral flavor compared to the meat and cheese. It was the Martin Swope of this sandwich.
The arugula provided some nice crunch and snap but not a lot. The red onion, I’m guessing, was there to accentuate the cheddar’s high notes, like a piccolo for a flute or a violin for a viola. A little layering of sound.
The horsey mayo? I could tell it was there but I like a lot of horseradish so I could have used more of that. Otherwise it was fine. I’m not going to bitch about a six ounce sandwich that was easily ninety percent high quality roast beef not having enough horseradish. I will say, however, if given the option for a freshly made sandwich, I’d ask for extra horse.
By the end of the game, Zelino has won. It looks like a little sandwich but wait five minutes after you eat, you’ll realize you’re full. And considering what they can do with roast beef, imagine what they could do with an Italian sub. I’d pay for that.
This absence is what I found among the five sandwiches on the menu for Zelino, a little Italianesque bodega sized thang hanging off of Zelo, a place that causes my wallet to shrivel like a dick in ice water. Alas, I’m in pursuit of something new, so this is where I go. I picked the roast beef.
OK, who’s keeping score? Has anybody been keeping score? I have to keep score? Shit. OK. So, at the bottom of the first, we have an Italian deli with lasagnas and meatballs and shit but no Italian sub.
At the bottom of the second, we have a Nicollet Mall address for reasons known only to some glue-huffing city planner because this place is not on Nicollet Mall, it’s on goddamned 9th. In fact, the way the place is situated, the door faces away from Nicollet Mall. I get it, they probably get the Zelo and Zelino mail all delivered to the same address but I’m not a courier, I’m looking for lunch. Put the 9th St address on the website.
At the bottom of the third, I walk into the joint after having to goddamn look for it and I ask for the roast beef to go. The nice lady at the counter said, “Oh, actually all the sandwiches are in the cooler.” Now, again, she was cool. I’m not sure she gets to wear a chef’s whites when she didn’t actually, you know… make the sandwich. Maybe she did but, uh… Yeah, every deli I’ve been to, I know I’m in for a ten minute wait because they’re making my sandwich right now as opposed to ahead of time.
After three innings, we have an Italian deli with no Italian sub, an address that, for functional purposes, is on the wrong street, and the sandwiches are pre-packaged. Why am I still going through with this?
At the bottom of the fourth - EIGHT FUCKING DOLLARS!?!?!? I can get this same goddamned sandwich at Cub for $2.49
And then there’s a tip slot on my debit card receipt. I’m not an asshole but I’m not made of money and, like I said, it’s not like they made it right there. It was in a cooler. I tipped two bucks. That’s still twenty five percent. Don’t @ me.
Get it back to the office and sit down with it. Look it over. It’s as advertised: Roast beef, cheddar, arugula, onion, horsey mayo on a ciabatta. I tuck into this motherfucker and, hand to god, I am corrected.
There are many reasons why this little motherfucker is eight goddamned dollars, and let’s start with the Cy Young Award Winner of this true no-no: The roast beef. It is not Sysco.
This is pillowy, thin, delicate, sliced-that-day and piled and I mean piled on red-as-a-baboon’s-ass rare roast beef. It is savory, blood-metallic, lightly seasoned to accentuate the beef’s flavor rather than mask it. I know I eat a lot of Arby’s but I do know what real meat is and I do know the good stuff from the just OK stuff and I’m telling you, comrade, this is the exquisite stuff.
Let’s talk about cheddar. Let’s talk about how it’s not just nacho cheese. Let’s talk about how good Irish cheddar will have bold notes of milk fat and subtle hints of allium sharpness. Some cheddars from our neighbors in Wisconsin possess these traits. Good cheddar, the kind you pay an extra dollar or two per pound for at the deli counter, while not meant for a sandwich, will have irreplaceable presence on one. The tag team between this cheddar and roast beef? Hell, the creamy fatty umami of this cheddar serves as a bedrock atop which the rare beef can really come out.
The ciabatta seemed more of a structural requirement to hold things together, it had a neutral flavor compared to the meat and cheese. It was the Martin Swope of this sandwich.
The arugula provided some nice crunch and snap but not a lot. The red onion, I’m guessing, was there to accentuate the cheddar’s high notes, like a piccolo for a flute or a violin for a viola. A little layering of sound.
The horsey mayo? I could tell it was there but I like a lot of horseradish so I could have used more of that. Otherwise it was fine. I’m not going to bitch about a six ounce sandwich that was easily ninety percent high quality roast beef not having enough horseradish. I will say, however, if given the option for a freshly made sandwich, I’d ask for extra horse.
By the end of the game, Zelino has won. It looks like a little sandwich but wait five minutes after you eat, you’ll realize you’re full. And considering what they can do with roast beef, imagine what they could do with an Italian sub. I’d pay for that.
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