Thus, all I knew about Richfield was that white chicks who took on stereotype accents came from there. I would later wind up working with another white woman from Richfield whose Instagram was ninety percent black people, so…
It’s like this: I believe in a gray race, that we should all be screwing each other until all our grand kids are coffee-colored. I don’t believe in compartmentalizing and blockading race and culture and, privilege checked, I understand how easy it is for me, a white dude, to say that. So I really shouldn’t turn a skeptic eye toward the white women of Richfield, especially knowing two of them and their actual backgrounds.*
But, for real, talking “black” is pretty offensive and I still cringe when I remember that I had sex with that person.
Don’t give me that look. I was once entangled with a Randian libertarian. That shit was way worse.
ANYWAY!!
I was looking to get myself a passport and it turned out that the closest passport office for which I did not need an appointment was in Richfield so I biked down there, paid the hundred ten beans for the passport and the fifty some odd processing fee and then I left Richfield city hall and I stopped, turned around, and asked the nice white lady at the information counter, “Hey,” I pointed at my helmet, “I’ve got a bit of a haul ahead of me and I was wondering if there was somewhere around here I could pick up a spot of lunch.”
She looked off to the side briefly and then lit up, clearly this was the information request she was looking for. “Do you like locally grown ingredients?”
“Absolutely!”
From there, she sang the praises of this joint just a couple blocks from city hall, Local Roots. She suggested I try the turkey and brie and told me it came with a blueberry or a blackberry mustard (she couldn’t remember which) and recommended that I get that on the side because when she got it, they put it on too heavily. She told me they had a patio. I could bring my dog. She really repped for them and I think they owe her a check.
So I go there and I look up at the menu board and this friendly lady at the register asks if she can help me and I tell her I’m just looking at the board. OK, let her know when I’m ready. OK, thay-
[whistle from The Good, The Bad, The Ugly]
Oh. There you are. Reuben.
Or, rather, what they call “Pastreuben” because it uses pastrami and now I have to ask everybody to stop. Look, one variation on one ingredient - corned beef and pastrami are the same cut of meat, just prepared differently. One is brined, the other is cured - does not warrant changing the name. You know what a pastrami Reuben is called?
A fucking Reuben!
I know I’m a purist about this kind of shit but corned beef versus pastrami is not a sandwich altering choice. Like we all know it’s supposed to use Russian dressing, when was the last time any one of us bitched about thousand island? Not ever and that’s because it’s basically the same thing. Oh, sit down. We’re talking about salad dressing, not the Gaza Strip. One tiny variation does not flip the whole sandwich. I can support the name Rachael for the use of turkey, however, because it’s a completely different animal.
Then there are instances like that warehouse district deli whose name we dare not speak that changed three of five ingredients to the Reuben and still called it a Reuben. Sorry, but a pastrami & Havarti with mustard and coleslaw on pumpernickel rye is not a Reuben. That’s a Randall or a Regina or something.
Alas, today I’m not fucking around with a Reuben because I am not biking a Hobbit’s journey back home with a bellyful of sauerkraut sloshing in my guts and this lady at Richfield City Hall became very animated when recommending this sandwich, the way my mom gets when she recommends Army of Darkness.
My mom watches only two movies, this and The Goonies.
That and why would I want to try yet another Reuben? Let’s change it up. Let’s not be so predictable. Recall about a week back I had a hankering for biscuits and gravy and I was like, “Woah! A Reuben! Sure has been a long time!”? Yeah, can we not do that every fucking time? That would run the risk of this fucking thing being rebranded Reuben Bully and it’s bad enough that the title as it exists right now hardly makes sense. If I had to explain to my mom that I wrote something called Sandwich Bully, I’d have to spend at least three minutes on the title - and count a hundred eighty seconds, tell me how long that shit feels - and I came up with the title either when I was in that weird place between sleep and wake or on the toilet. I can’t even remember how I came up with it, there’s no way I could explain it, and then to change it to something that sounds like a low budget late eighties / early nineties indie film? No.
What? You don’t - ? What do you mean you don’t see it? Reuben Bully sounds like Henry Fool, you don’t see that? Oh, now you do? OK, good.
I order the sandwich I was recommended, gal at the counter asked if I want some bullshit, some greens, or some other bullshit on the side and I opt for the greens and would I like anything to drink?
Well, the doctor this morning didn’t bust my chops on my drinking but he totally did and then I can’t have sugar anymore…
Yeah. No fat, no salt, no sugar, and I’m not allowed to have a drink anymore to cope with the fact that I will never experience flavor again. He even gave me this funny fucking look because I copped to eating potato chips once a week with my GF. Potato chips. Once a week. I wish I was making that up but no. He gave me a funny fucking look for eating fucking potato chips once a fucking week.
I ask her what they got for sody pop and she says, “Coke, Diet Coke, La Croix… That’s it.”
Seeing as how La Croix tastes like shit - Oh, shut up, it does, too! - I opt for the Coke. Tell my doctor I took it with food.
As I wait for my food, I peruse the rest of the menu board. They’ve also got a Cuban that reads legit and a pulled pork sandwich topped with coleslaw which is ironic because one of my homegirls texted me about “kholeslaw” right about that time (inside joke, I’ll tell you when you’re older) and there’s a muffaletta on the menu, too. Pretty much all of the lunch items look legit. If they had a sampler platter, I might have dared to take that on.
Now, the part you’ve been waiting for, the part you always wait for, the part that justifies my numerous off-road digressions: How the fuck was the sandwich?
The turkey was roasted and seasoned properly, it had a freshly sliced mouthfeel to it and the salty tang striding atop the umami notes. Nothing overpowering in the savory department. The blueberry mostarda - not mustard - was applied just enough to provide a sweet accent, like a bow on top of that brand new Sega Genesis with 16-bit “Blast Processing” sitting under the Xmas tree. The baguette was soft and airy, the crust powdery and giving, unlike other baguettes that send shrapnel every time you think about picking them up off the plate.
Pero la estrella real de esta telenovela Mexicana** que abarca varias generaciones acerca de los salarios del pecado en un contexto de intriga política que satiriza las costumbres sexuales*** would be the Brie, particularly in the saltwater flavor of the intact bits of the rind (not the rind itself, think like the whitish bits of the watermelon). It was smooth, it was creamy, and the briny notes that sat on top almost made me want to say “fishy” when I first tasted it. The bread made sense as the delivery vehicle for this cheese and I believe that the turkey was also a support player for this. I’m just bummed that I’m finding really good cheeses after I realize I’m lactose intolerant. I mean, it’s OK. I can’t have ice cream anymore and I wasn’t really eating a whole lot of that but chances are the doctor’s going to take the fucking cheese thing from me, too…
The greens? They were fine. They weren’t what I showed up for. I didn’t care for the dressing.
But this turkey & brie with blueberry mostarda? I feel like I got my money worth but I’m not in Richfield all that often so it’s hard to say when I’ll go back even if their sandwich menu is legit. The lady at the Richfield City Hall Information Desk gave a solid recommendation. Give them your money.
* White girl who did “the voice” has a black step-dad which still doesn’t justify her doing that. Former coworker just doesn’t hang out with many white folks thus there aren’t many of them on her Instagram.
** I needed no help with that part.
*** I went to Google translate for the rest of it, though.
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