The thing about being half-Irish is that it's typically not a good idea to go outside unless it's overcast, foggy, and two thirty in the morning and even then "outside" means "near a window". Case in point... Well, hold on.
It's like this: I am a noted t-shirt man. And being a half-Irish t-shirt man results in an annually recurring farmer's tan and I'm goddamned sick of that so, being thirty eight years old and in reasonable shape, I have entered my sleeveless t phase, meaning my tan comes all the way up to the collarbone. Or it will, once the Neapolitan ice cream look of my arms goes away. See, I spent an hour and a half out on the bike on Friday resulting in a lovely rose hue on my shoulders and then I spent two hours on the bike on Saturday which made it even goddamned worse, meaning I was in no fuckin' mood to sit down and write about sandwiches, Andrew.
So I'm writing about Clancey's turkey sandwich with everything on it today and I have to wonder if I'm a bad person because I've never had one of their sandwiches before or if y'all a bunch of pricks because y'all never told me about Clancey's. You know how I had to find out about Clancey's? Through an Eater* article. Like a basic bitch.
Anyway, I get to Clancey's in Linden Hills, making this the first Linden Hills entry, I order the turkey even though that roast beef looked like it would make me cream my jeans but, you know, health shit, and the lady behind the counter asks if I want everything on it and I say yes because why not?
Now I know you want me to tell you what's "everything" and here again is another hurdle:
Clancey's makes, you could say, one sandwich. There are no bánh mi, cheesesteaks, Cubanos, Italians, Reubens**, no. Clancey's is a butcher shop that happens to offer a sandwich and you just pick out the meat you want on it. That's about it. They pile on the veggies and condies and you either roll with "everything" or ask them to hold a thing or two, I guess.
BUT nowhere on the website or the menu board do they list what everything is so, even though I can guess pretty closely at what all was on there, I'll just go to - goddamnit - Heavy Table and quote them:
baby Swiss cheese, mayonnaise, spicy stone-ground mustard, raw grated horseradish, pickled jalapenos, roasted sweet bell peppers, thinly shaved red onion, lettuce, and — only when the season is right — local tomatoes
The only thing that article misses was the oil and vinegar I saw them douse the sandwiches with but I guess I got there when the season was right because I had tomatoes on that little mug.
And because Clancey's isn't a deli so much as it's a butcher shop that hooks you up with a sammy, I had to find somewhere to eat this thing and I got myself a spot on a bench at Bde Maka Ska and sat down and watched these dudes practice tight-rope walking while a big white pooch stared at my turkey sandwich.
And that turkey sandwich? It was tangy and bright and refreshing, it was creamy and crunchy and crisp. Everything on this sandwich worked well with everything else however I'm a noted horseradish man and I could have used a lot more horseradish. The Swiss didn't really stand out that much, either. But the turkey, holy shit. Savory roasted turkey thinly sliced and piled on this thing.
And while you might think the real teenage cheerleader by day, amateur detective by night, armed with only her magnifying glass, flashlight, and library card, sworn to an oath of vigilance by her school's student news paper editor who doubles as her handler until she's dragged deep into the very real life or death stakes of uncovering corruption on the city council level that may leave her emotionally and physically scarred for daring to uncover the truth about the diversion of the city's water supply to aide in the gentrification of the mostly foreclosed area of town and she still has to study for midterms would be the pickled jalapeños but no, it's the roasted sweet bell peppers which, along with the mustard and tomatoes, played sweet notes against the tang of the jalapeños and mayo. They really stood out, really made this sandwich worth the thirteen fifty. If you ask them to hold anything on this sandwich, promise me it's not the peppers.
Oh and they had this nineteen twenties sounding drink called Moxie that sounded like some shit Steve Buscemi would have drank on Boardwalk Empire.
It just tastes like if RC made a root beer.
Without reservation or hesitation, I insist you give them your money.
AFTER THAT I decided to head up to Hazel's Northeast to try their Rachael, because it's an hour bike ride away, I'd have worked off the sandwich by then, and I wanted to give y'all motherfuckers a two-fer, even though none of you love me enough to tell me about Clancey's.
I got to Hazel's and I walked in and I asked the lady at the counter if I could get a Rachael to go and she said they were on their brunch menu. I was all, "Oh! I'm that early," and thanked her and I turned around, went out to get my bike, restart up my podcast (I was listening to Junk Food Dinner) and my phone said it was two o' fucking clock. Two o' clock. Brunch. Two o' clock. OK. I mean, I get that the holiday weekend*** goofed up a lot of small business hours (Marino's was closed this weekend) but brunch at two o' clock? You can't have brunch at two o' clock. Fuck me, the word itself is a portmanteau of "breakfast" and "lunch". Like the latest you should serve brunch is eleven o' clock. (AM, smartass.)
But, OK, no Rachael for me.
You got a problem with reading about one sandwich instead of two, take it up with Hazel's.
* I was reading Eater because Friday I saw that Be'wiched was closed, like closed closed and I wanted to know what was up (and it turns out this was old news). And as much as I made them a running joke in our hallowed pages because of that fucking pickle cup - and, yes, that pickle cup pissed me off because I'm paying fifteen sixteen bucks for your sandwich, you can spare a whole-assed spear - it sucks when somebody who took a chance has to close down their dream and their livelihood.
** I had the folks at the Forest today make me a Reuben but with deep fried cod and a remoulade instead of corned beef and thousand island. I called it a Rhonda because of A Fish Called Wanda but in keeping with the R theme of Reuben and Rachael.
*** I took Friday off because it just didn't make much sense to me to take a day off and come back in for one day before the weekend. And then everybody at the office kept asking me what I was going to do with my day off like I need some sort of justification for taking it off. Motherfucker, I'm going to drink a few Harvey Wallbangers and get a fucking sunburn, that's my justification.
I really just thought to request the time off in May because I knew there were only so many slots that my boss was going to let go for that day (and they went to me, Susan, and Nicole who I never talk to). I think our other coworkers were pissed off at me or something for not going somewhere or doing something on my "vacation" which is what they kept calling it. I biked over fifty miles and stargazed until two in the morning over a couple Red Stripes. Kiss my ass.
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