One recent rainy Saturday, I took a drive out to Jersey in search of something new and exciting for lunch. I have found that the working-class communities of North Jersey—little downtowns with a diverse population, a mix of old and new—are the perfect area to search for all things delicious and under-the-radar. My destination for the day was Elizabeth, a city of some 125,000 directly across the bridge from New York City. It’s a perfect example of this kind of community: its downtown is gritty but charming, dotted with beautifully preserved old-school Italian butcher shops alongside eateries opened by and patronized by newer immigrants. A world class hot dog joint, Tommy’s, is a few doors down from Peruvian and Cuban restaurants, an Italian sausage shop rumored to be the inspiration for The Sopranos’ Satriale’s, a Latin-American Smoothie stand, and a long-standing Portuguese bakery. It’s both old-school east coast and a veritable outdoor international food hall with nary an Edison bulb in sight.

The only challenge is where to eat, what to focus on. It’s painful to walk by Tommy’s—probably in my top 10 hot dogs in the world—without picking up double Italian stuffed with fried potatoes, but today I’m here for the Venezuelan pizza shop. Pizza Market & Arepas is a colorful little corner spot that’s been on my list for a while, as “Old School Pizza Shop Repurposed By New Immigrants” is my current favorite category of restaurant. You see these cross-cultural neighborhood spots all over the tri-state area these days, newer arrivals cranking out both their local grub and their homeland’s cuisine, with all sorts of fusion things in between, either on purpose or completely by (delicious) accident.

Not all of these “accidental fusion” places are great —I’ve driven hours out of my way for Colombian Poutine and Indonesian Fried Chicken that were made carelessly or just didn’t work—but I had a good feeling about this place. It looks just your average-looking corner pizza joint, but as I pop in, it is decorated with Venezuelan flags, and a couple tables of families and construction workers in for lunch, all eating the more Venezuelan fare—not a pizza slice in sight. Pizza isn’t always the thing to get at these places. We’re here to dig deeper into the menu—arepas, of course, but also “baked hotdogs”, pepitos, and something called a “Venezuelan Club Sandwich”.

The namesake arepas are really good, the stuffed-corn-cake cachapas even better, but not anything I’d never seen before. The mysterious club sandwich was unavailable, so they suggested the Pepito instead. And so out comes this monster sandwich, looking like all my North Jersey South-American sandwich dreams come true. They start with a standard medium hoagie roll, but somehow mold, shape, and stuff it beyond the realms of possibility, rolled tightly in wax paper into a perfect tube, landing on the table looking more like a burrito than any hoagie or torta, but really unlike anything I’ve ever seen: wild layers of shredded lettuce tucked behind pink ham and wrapped around warm chunks of cooked chicken and strips of steak. Look around some more and there’s a fried egg, a pile of crispy french fries, avocado, and pink and green sauces coating every surface. Holy mother of God. But is it good? Of course it’s good. Think the best Torta or Cubano you’ve ever had, jazzed up with some Venezuelan love, and crossed with a California-style carne-asada-french-fry burrito.

Read More from Hawk’s Illustrated America

It is true that we are in the age mutant gimmick sandwich for Instagram, and I agree that this trend is boring. But the Pepito is more than that. What makes this sandwich sing is the dance between the toasty bread, delicious meat, crispy fries, rich egg, creamy avocado and sauce, it’s just good. One word of warning: this thing is a mess. Keep it rolled into the wax paper as long as possible, or you’ll end up eating most of it with a knife and fork like I did.

The post The Venezuelan Sandwich of our Dreams Is from…New Jersey appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to Hawk’s Illustrated America, a monthly series following illustrator Hawk Krall’s journeys through the back roads of the U.S. in search of our country’s most obscure and delicious regional specialties.

The Pennsylvania countryside does strange things, especially if you’re off the main highway. You’ll drive for hours on winding roads, with nothing but fields, silos, and Amish buggies for miles, then bam, you round a bend and wind up in a strip mall. The sports flags switch from Steelers to Eagles, and suddenly you’re back in civilization.

AJ’s Quick Stop lies right on this invisible line that separates the Philadelphia area’s greater food culture from the rest of the state’s. And it does a hoagie-cheesesteak hybrid that reminds you of a fundamental truth: When it comes to sandwiches Philly does it better than anywhere else. Sorry New York, Chicago, Jersey, and Los Angeles. It’s not just the sandwiches themselves, but the culture surrounding them, which is more entrenched and enriched in the Philly area than any place in the country.

It’s a nondescript place, a barn-shaped building near the woods with a gravel parking lot. Little more than takeout counter with a single table next to a soda cooler, it looks like one of those little places on country roads that you always pass by but never visit. Inside, the shop looks like nothing more than a pizza joint. But sandwich obsessives whisper about AJ’s as a place to find delicious oddball sandwiches well worth a detour.

“What are you looking for, a slice? A sandwich? Where you from?” one of the counter guys asked, instantly sniffing me out as a non-local. After settling on ordering a ‘Sicilian Godfather’ hoagie, they launched into an unprompted oral history of the business. Next thing I know, he peels a beer off of a six pack and hands it to me and the cook, and we’re toasting 9% IPAs (from their personal stash) while my sandwich gets made.

As I’m waiting, a steady stream of locals roll through, all of whom the counter guys know by name, high-fiving and shaking hands. “You ever been here before? You’re in for a real treat,” they tell me, as the counter guys pass him a beer too. Where am I? Did I die in a car accident and wind up in backroad cheesesteak and free-beer heaven?

“We get our bread from Conshohocken Bakery,” the counter guy goes on. It’s the sort of detail most proprietors won’t divulge until you’ve called and emailed them 17 times. The bakery’s 30 miles from here—way outside the normal distribution and cultural influence radius—and legendary for its tomato pie and sandwich bread. “How the heck do you get it all the way out here,” I ask. “We pay a guy to haul it in from Philly every day, delivers here and a couple other spots! Best bread in the world.”

The Sicilian Godfather is a magically layered thing. Deli meats and cheese go on the hoagie roll, which is then warmed in the oven. The cook then cooks shaved steak, pepperoni, and more cheese on the grill, folding the cheese into the meat and chopping it on the grill with some real Philly technique, and slides that on top of the toasted base as it comes out of the oven. The multiple steps are a genius way to get around the dried-out edges of over-tossed grinders, and while the sandwich is reminiscent of the Philly-area Schmitter, it’s unique enough to be its own thing. And it’s glorious: abundantly cheesy and savory but with distinct elements that all add to a greater whole.

The counter guys hand me another beer.

AJ’s also has full pizza menu, and oddball concoctions like bacon-wrapped hot dog rolls, but the sandwiches really are the star of the show. They’re a testament to the versatility and liveliness of Philadelphia’s sandwich culture—full of local tradition, cooked with practiced technique, and innovative enough to keep you excited.

And this is just on the back roads.

AJ’s Quick Stop
1270 Ridge Road, Pottstown, PA
(610) 469-6960

Hawk Krall is an artist, illustrator, and former line cook with a lifelong obsession for unique regional cuisine, whose work can be seen in magazines, newspapers, galleries, and restaurants all over the world. He focuses on editorial illustration, streetscapes, and pop-art style food paintings.

The post The Backroads Pennsylvania Sandwich Shop Making Amazing Philly-Inspired Cheesesteaks appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to Hawk’s Illustrated America, a monthly series following illustrator Hawk Krall’s journeys through the back roads of the U.S. in search of our country’s most obscure and delicious regional specialties.

Call it Floribbean food: the unique mix of Southern and Caribbean coastal cuisine you only get in Florida. Cuban sandwiches, grouper tacos, and Cuban-Sicilian tomato pie are all alive and well down here, distinct from anything else in the South, with South American and Italian-American influences for good measure. Plus a bounty of fresh local seafood that comes together in sometimes ridiculous but often incredible ways, much like the state of Florida itself.

Over the past few years I’ve gotten to know the Tampa area and its many Floribbean dockside spots. There are frozen drinks, crab fries (take fries, add crab, and something creamy to sauce it), and smokers in parking lots cranking out of smoked mullet fish for dip.

Many of these restaurants do great work, but for a real taste of local culture, you have to head inland and truck along the endless expanse of gritty, triple-wide highways lined with vape shops and strip malls, where the locals actually live.

Now an antique tradition even in its home state of Florida, this fall delicacy of gently smoked oily fish is well worth seeking out

This is where you’ll find real-deal Cuban, Spanish, and Colombian food, along with some Chinese-Peruvian fusion for good measure, and of course Casper’s BBQ, a shack on the side of the road that fits this column so well it almost seems like I dreamt it up. I first hit Casper’s on a quest for the state’s best smoked fish dip, and boy I found it, and a whole lot more.

On a nondescript stretch of commercial highway on the outskirts of St. Petersburg—between a dollar store and a trailer dealership—you’d miss Casper’s if you weren’t looking for the boats and smokers scattered about the property. Skip past the darkened entrance and follow the signs and yard decorations to a small hut towards the back, where you’ll find proprietor Dan Cantera (a.k.a. Casper) holding court and serving barbecue and smoked fish. An array of menus for fish, barbecue, catering, specials, and sandwiches is dizzying, so do what I do and ask Dan for the lowdown on what’s good that day.

On my recent visit, that meant ribs, assorted smoked fish, and smoked cabbage—a delicious and unexpected recipe Dan picked up from an old hunting buddy. But the real star of the show is the that fish: local amberjack, mullet, salmon, or whatever Dan has caught lately, smoked and served whole, or chopped up and mixed into the local delicacy of Florida fish dip.

Locals may take Florida dish dip for granted, but I’m obsessed with this smoky, creamy wonder. It’s reminiscent of Jewish whitefish salad but decidedly Florida, made with mayo, relish, or even Miracle Whip, and served with saltines, hot sauce, and ideally an ice cold beer. Dan’s is the smokiest, creamiest, and most generally excellent version I’ve had.

Dan is especially proud of his smoked salmon, available whole, sliced, or as a dip. “We only have white fish down here [in Florida],” he explains. “I never saw a red fish until I went up north. But the northerners that come down love it, I can’t keep it in stock. Up there they do a cold smoke, but mine is different. More of a Southern thing.” The salmon is great whole—flaky, smoky, and rich—but it really sings as a dip, whipped into a pink, almost mousseline-like substance, dotted with celery, and gracefully seasoned.

“Casper” entered the steel business after college, and worked the job for 25 years with a group of friends who hunted and fished during their down time. They developed a weekly tradition of raging parties every Wednesday where everyone brought their catch of the week and downed beers while Dan cooked it up—venison, ribs, fish, whatever.

Over the years, Dan perfected his technique at these weekly feasts, reading up on barbecue every chance he got, and trading recipes and tips with locals, other hunters, and barbecue enthusiasts. His current recipe for baked beans, spiked with just a touch of smoked pineapple, came from an old timer at the local Elks Lodge. They are wonderful.

The steel business is a dangerous one, and after several of his friends died on the job—and then also, tragically, his wife—he left to join the food industry, selling pulled pork and burgers from a truck outside the local Motocross track.

Known as a local barbecue and smoking expert, Dan was soon offered a job running the smokehouse of Graham’s, a 40-year-old small produce market that just happened to be located on the grounds of Dan’s grandparents’ former home. For a couple years he cranked out smoked mullet and amberjack dip for the market’s take-out business, and when the business closed a few years later, they offered Dan the run of the entire building, and Casper’s BBQ was born and built into what it is today: six smokers on-site for everything from ribs to whole smoked fish, bring-your-own turkeys on Thanksgiving, and of course several varieties of delicious Florida fish dip.

“People ask me what style of barbecue I do,” Dan says. “Is it Memphis? Carolina? I always tell ‘em, ‘T&E BBQ. Stands for trial and error!’” He’s a pitmaster with a style all his own, borrowing from various Southern styles, local Florida culinary traditions, and tips he picks up from fellow smokers.

That extends to the wood he smokes with. “For the regular barbecue it’s pecan or oak,” Dan notes, “but for the fish I use mangrove whenever possible.” According to Dan, Mangrove is the original wood used by Tampa Bay fisherman to smoke fish. “The old school guys would smoke it right on the beach at night,” a nugget of knowledge he picked up from a 70-year-old mullet fisherman. Mangrove is native to Tampa Bay but legally protected, so it’s hard to come by unless you have a mangrove trimming license. Dan’s got a guy for that of course, a loyal customer and friend who keeps him supplied.

Dan is similarly loyal to his customers. As we talk he can’t stop expressing gratitude for them and the network of pit folks and fishing buddies that helped turn his hobby into a thriving business. He also attributes Casper’s success to his daughter, who runs his Facebook page and does promotion for the business.

Despite the off-the-beaten-path location, Dan has a loyal following among locals and vacationers alike. “October to April is really our busy season down here” he says, telling me a story of a guy from Maine who calls in his order over the phone and drives straight to Casper’s from the airport. “Ribs and a whole smoked salmon, takes two slabs with him in a suitcase. One time he brought me a whole Maine lobster and I threw it in the smoker. Outstanding.”

Casper’s Express BBQ
5745 54th Ave N, Kenneth City, Florida
(727) 776-5596

Hawk Krall is an artist, illustrator, and former line cook with a lifelong obsession for unique regional cuisine, whose work can be seen in magazines, newspapers, galleries, and restaurants all over the world. He focuses on editorial illustration, streetscapes, and pop-art style food paintings.

The post Blink and You’ll Miss One of the South’s Best Barbecue Joints on a Florida Highway appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to Hawk’s Illustrated America, a monthly series following illustrator Hawk Krall’s journeys through the back roads of the U.S. in search of our country’s most obscure and delicious regional specialties.

Fall River, Massachusetts is food mecca of sorts, but not in the way you may expect. There are no sleek coffee shops or modern-rustic restaurants in this sleepy, somewhat rundown fishing village. But there is a wealth of hyperlocal delicacies: chow mein sandwiches, chourico rolls, hot weiners, “marinated” hamburgers, Syrian meat pies, and linguica bakery pizza.

Even in this culinary twilight zone, where American lunch counter cuisine mixes with New England seafood and influences from China, Greece, Portugal, and the Middle East, one particular oddball dish stands out: the legendary hot cheese sandwich.

Know this: A hot cheese sandwich is not a grilled cheese, as the bread is not toasted in a pan. Nor is it a cheese sandwich as you and I know it. Here in Fall River, “hot cheese” is a custardy, semi-liquid product that looks a little like scrambled eggs. Said product then gets placed on a burger bun and handed over to you. It’s delicious, and Graham’s Hot Dogs is the place to get it.

“People think it’s mashed potatoes,” laughs owner Linda Seidl, who runs Graham’s with her son. “The base is a sharp cheddar cheese. That’s all I can tell you!” It’s served like a hamburger, on a soft bun, topped with either Coney Island-style meat sauce or a combination of mustard, onions, and relish.

Imagine sharp, salty cheese grits without the grits, maybe fortified with a little whipped cream or butter for structure, and you can appreciate the beauty of hot cheese, or “chopped cheddar” in Fall River lingo. It’s satisfyingly oozy but doesn’t run all over the place, and it’s firm enough to support toppings usually ladled over a hot dog.

Graham’s also spoons the cheese goo over hand-cut fries along with their Coney sauce, and offers it as a topping on burgers and hot dogs. But the classic hot cheese sandwich—the original formulation, the way god intended you to eat it—is by far the most popular. It’s one of the top sellers on the menu, and the one that draws fans from all over. “It’s most popular with older people,” Linda explains, “usually with just mustard, onions and relish.”

Today in Fall River, Graham’s is a hot cheese legend, but it isn’t the originator of the concept. “We stole it,” Linda says with a laugh. “There used to be hot cheese carts all over downtown that sold the sandwich,” and it became a staple of every Coney-style hot dog shop in the area, of which there are many. Linda laments that only four or five decades-old hot dog joints remain. Still, most towns way larger than Fall River would be lucky to have one.

Graham’s opened in 1962, by the original Graham who started with a menu of Fall River standards like Coney dogs, fried seafood (still popular, especially during Lent), chourico, baked beans, and of course the hot cheese. Linda’s in-laws bought the business two years later (it’s unclear what happened to Graham) and it’s been in the same family for decades. It’s a funky little place with old photos of JFK and cats on the wall, and a line of classroom-style desks for solo diners alongside some tables. The hot dog grill sits in the sidewalk-facing window to draw in passers by.

There’s more to the place than hot cheese. The Coney dog is good; getting it topped with the baked beans is better. True to Fall River’s multicultural melting pot, Graham’s also does a dog made of local Portuguese sausage that you can get chopped with fries. There’s also something called a whimpy burger—another semi-forgotten Fall River specialty that consists of a marinated burger patty that’s braised for hours with onions and gravy until it’s fall-apart tender. Almost everything at Graham’s is homemade.

You could spend a week’s worth of meals eating your way through Graham, appreciating delicious regional spins on hot dogs and burgers. But there’s nothing like their glorious hot cheese anywhere else on Earth. Try it with relish, try it with Coney sauce, try it on some fries. Just don’t pass by Fall River without experiencing the magic of hot cheese.

Graham’s Hot Dogs
931 Bedford Street, Fall River, MA
(508) 678-9574

Hawk Krall is an artist, illustrator, and former line cook with a lifelong obsession for unique regional cuisine, whose work can be seen in magazines, newspapers, galleries, and restaurants all over the world. He focuses on editorial illustration, streetscapes, and pop-art style food paintings.

The post Every Small Town Should Have a Hot Cheese Sandwich Joint appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to Hawk’s Illustrated America, a monthly series following illustrator Hawk Krall’s journeys through the back roads of the U.S. in search of our country’s most obscure and delicious regional specialties.

The cult of Ferri’s Pizza has members everywhere. “People come from Shamokin, Towanda, Athens, Philly, Reading, New York, and New Jersey,” say owners Billy and Janice Ferri. “Potato pizza has even been shipped by a customer to his brother in Kodiak Island, Alaska.” The Pennsylvania restaurant and coal mining museum has a giant map on one wall where people stick a pin to show where they came from. Many cluster around Pennsylvania and the Northeast, but the pins dot all over.

And yes—potato pizza. You can only get it during Lent. It’s one of the best pizzas I’ve ever eaten. And it’s the core of Ferri’s cult following.

“I only go to Ferri’s during Lent,” my buddy Shawn told me. Every year he does a three-hour drive from Jersey to pick up five or ten boxes of potato pizza. “It’s an interesting spot in the middle of nowhere. A coal mining museum, a women’s gift shop, and great food all in one place.”

For those that don’t know much about northeastern Pennsylvania culture (NEPA, in local parlance), a dish called “pierogi pizza” sounds like gimmicky stoner food. Despite Shawn’s years of insistence, I’d never paid it much attention. But last year I happened to be driving through NEPA in early spring and received what must have been the tenth email from Shawn telling me to go. So I went.

The potato pizza turns this year on March 1st. Don’t wait like I did.

Ferri’s is in the tiny borough of Moscow, close to Scranton and 20 miles from the town of Old Forge, the self-proclaimed pizza capital of the world and epicenter of NEPA’s obscure but robust pizza culture. This area’s standard pizza style is thick, square pies sold by the “tray” (pie) or the “cut” (slice), and almost every pizzeria out here does their own version of potato pizza, a.k.a. pierogi pizza, a.k.a. “pagash.” It’s generally attributed to the region’s Polish and Italian Catholic populations, who settled there to work the coal industry, as a meatless dish to eat during Lent.

But Bill and Janice Ferri tell a different story. Their potato pizza legend starts with an old Irish neighbor who arrived at the doorstep of their Archbald location 27 years ago, with a pot of mashed potatoes and a request for pizza. They agreed, and made it for her regularly before other customers caught on and asked for the same. The Ferris adjusted the recipe over the years and so, they claim, potato pizza was born.

“Here’s what we know,” they go on. “We invented potato pizza. We had a big story air on NewsWatch 16 on WNEP TV a few years back, and the popularity of this pizza skyrocketed! After that, everyone started making it!”

You can decide for yourself who to believe. The point is the pizza’s incredible.

The rich potato topping eats more like a ravioli farce fortified with butter, egg yolks, and maybe sour cream. At least three types of onion are layered in and scattered over the cheese and and potato mix, with chives and scallions on top.

This pizza has no sauce, but it’s mounded so high with mashed potato and glistening cheese you can barely see the crust. Genteel Roman potato and rosemary pie this is not; each thick “cut” tips the scales at over a pound. Yet the crust remains magically cracker-crisp, golden brown, and slightly charred—a sure sign of serious technique behind this starchy, cheesy madness.

Ferri’s Pizza began in 1936 in nearby Old Forge, opened by Italian immigrants Francesco and Gaetano Ferri, the current owners’ grandparents. Gaetano worked the coal mines during the day and made pizza at night. They weren’t the first to make pizza in Old Forge, but are credited as the first to offer take-out boxes, borrowed from a nearby dress-maker, until they moved to actual pizza boxes just 15 years ago. Back in the 50s and 60s, Ferri’s was a mini NEPA empire, boasting locations from Dunmore to Scranton. But the current Moscow shop—run by Billy and Janice for the last 20 years—is the last one standing.

Another piece of the Ferri’s puzzle is the coal mining connection. Before you even get to the pizza counter you pass through makeshift anthracite coal museum, Historical mining paraphernalia covers the walls. Hip cocktail lounges would kill for this collection of weathered old signs, photos, and legit mining machinery, but these artifacts are rescued from abandoned coal mines that Billy explores in his free time.

“We grew up in the small coal mining town of Old Forge and both of our grandfathers worked in the mines,” Janice explains. “Billy is the first generation in his family not to be a coal miner and just to have the pizza business.” “I was sick of the jar of peppers and the boot of Italy,” Billy adds.

Even if you’re not particularly fascinated by coal history, it’s done in a fun way that truly adds to the eccentric charm of the place. They also play coal mining videos on multiple televisions in the dining room, although the Ferris’ daughter Sabrina, who also works in the shop, got bored of the coal videos and started putting on classic 80s movies.

Ferri’s is worth a trip for more than just potato pizza; their pepperoni, which is boosted by clumps of ground pepperoni scattered among the crisp slices, is a genius trick for a mindblowing pizza all its own. They’re also known for specialties like hot wing (a NEPA standard), and monthly specials like Reuben- and Thanksgiving-themed trays.

But nothing beats the potato. The Ferris explain that for 40 days and nights of Lent, they go through a literal ton of potatoes; there’s an endless cycle of peeling, soaking, cooking, and mashing them around the clock. One customer special-orders 20 unbaked trays of it so he can freeze it for the rest of the year. After tasting the Ferris’ work, I can see why.

Ferri’s Pizza
106 Church Street, Moscow, PA
(570) 842-3130

Hawk Krall is an artist, illustrator, and former line cook with a lifelong obsession for unique regional cuisine, whose work can be seen in magazines, newspapers, galleries, and restaurants all over the world. He focuses on editorial illustration, streetscapes, and pop-art style food paintings.

The post You Need to Join the Cult of Pennsylvania’s Potato Pizza appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to Hawk’s Illustrated America, a monthly series following illustrator Hawk Krall’s journeys through the back roads of the U.S. in search of our country’s most obscure and delicious regional specialties.

A lot of people don’t get tomato pie, the hyper-regional, served-cold, thick-spongy-crust-pizza-bread more commonly sold out of bakeries than pizzerias. But for those of us who grew up with it, it’s a magical thing: a masterful balance of pillowy dough, slightly sweet sauce, and a savory dusting of parm or romano cheese, best eaten cold out of the box, maybe even on the hood of your car.

Growing up in the Philadelphia area, tomato pie was one of those things that was just always around, and everyone had a strong opinion about who made the best. Later in life, I was shocked to learn that what I called tomato pie was virtually unknown across the country, save for a few scattered regions like central New York and parts of New England. Tomato pie is seemingly everywhere and nowhere; I’ve tried it in Delaware, New Jersey, and 90-year-old bakeries in the mountains of northeastern Pennsylvania. I’ve had “pizza strips” in Rhode Island (virtually the same thing, but cut into strips), and oddball variations like Florida’s Cuban-influenced scachatta, a specialty of Tampa.

After a lifetime of eating it, I can honestly say the tomato pie at Roma’s, an out-of-the-way sausage shop on an industrial strip of Utica, New York, is the best I’ve ever had.

For such a simple product, tomato pie is made in wildly different ways across the country. Some doughs are thick and almost undercooked. Others are charred and blistered, which is delicious, but takes away a bit of the definitive sponginess that differentiates tomato pie from a Brooklyn grandma slice or Sicilian pizza. Sauces vary from savory and herb-centric to some so sweet they’re rumored to contain grape jelly.

Roma’s crust is nice and thick, with a nice crispness, but not charred or oily. It’s still light and airy in the middle, with just enough sponginess, but not raw or doughy in the least. And the sauce is incredible, layered on thick—half an inch in some spots—where lesser bakeries slap on a layer so thin you can see the dough underneath. Roma isn’t shy with the “shake cheese” either; the mix of Romano and Parmesan liberally covers every slice.

Like a lot of the best spots down my way, Roma Sausage & Deli looks more like a warehouse than a pizzeria, on a semi-industrial strip of rust-belt Utica. It’s half retail store, half commercial sausage purveyor, with a line of delivery trucks outside. They sell a standard variety of Italian-American products, with the bakery counter on one side, where boxes of the magical tomato pie are stacked 25 high, ready to be instantly passed into the hands of waiting customers.

This is not a pizzeria; there are no tables or chairs. The only dining option is al fresco, on the hood of your car (not an uncommon sight in front of Roma), because if you open that box before you get home, there is no way you are not eating a slice of that beautiful tomato pie.

Maria Broccoli, who runs Roma with her husband Steven, gave me a rundown of the shop’s history. Steven grew up in a meat packing family and spent most of his life in the food service business before branching out on his own with Roma in 1999. It started as a sausage maker and distributor for the Utica region, but two years later branched out into bread and baking as well, and decided to add tomato pie to the repertoire. As Maria puts it, tomato pie has “been around [the Utica area] forever,” and the business took off like crazy.

Maria also filled me in on what makes Roma’s pie so special. Rather than relying on a standard recipe, Steven did his homework; experimenting with different doughs, sauces, and techniques for about a year before settling on what he thought made the best tomato pie. Lesser pies can feel sort of haphazardly thrown together—not a shocker for a product that was likely originally just a use for scraps of dough and extra sauce. But Steven perfected a fairly complicated process for the dough that involves specific proofing times and several separate trips into the oven. The sauce is also tweaked to shine at room temperature and stand on its own as the main flavor of this simple product. Roma doesn’t distribute their tomato pie to other shops or retailers like a lot of bakeries do. They don’t deliver or ship. The only way you’re getting it is by walking in the door.

Even in tomato pie hot spots, people don’t know much about its history or where it first appeared in the U.S. I asked Maria if she knew who made the first in Utica, and she laughed. “I have no idea” she said, but she did point me toward Oscungizzi’s, which started making five-cent slices of tomato pie in their basement in 1910, but now is more of a pizzeria that serves hot “upside down pizza” (square, with cheese under the sauce, a related but very different product that we also have here in Philadelphia).

My theory has always been that tomato pie is an American version of Sicilian sfincione, a similar flatbread sold on the streets of Palermo at room temperature, dusted with breadcrumbs and anchovy. Swap a few ingredients but keep the general sense of thrift and you have a simple, cheap street food staple of the Italian-American communities of the early 20th century.

Regardless of exactly how tomato pie got to Utica, Roma cranks out their stellar version like there’s no tomorrow. The shop often runs out before closing time at 4:30, and long lines form during holidays and sporting events such as the Super Bowl.

Maria says they are looking into a way to ship their tomato pie all over the country. “We get TONS of requests for this on Facebook,” she says. “But we would only do it in a way that would maintain the integrity of the product. Keeping the quality is the most important thing.” They are also looking into some T-shirts for fans, much easier to ship than food. Maria also stresses that anyone coming in for tomato pie should try their sausage. They do standard hot and sweet italian, as well as a Sicilian sausage made with provolone cheese and red wine. I tried both when I was there, and they are indeed delicious. One more reason to head back.

Roma Sausage & Deli
2029 Bleecker Street, Utica, NY 13501
(315) 792-1445

Hawk Krall is an artist, illustrator, and former line cook with a lifelong obsession for unique regional cuisine, whose work can be seen in magazines, newspapers, galleries, and restaurants all over the world. He focuses on editorial illustration, streetscapes, and pop-art style food paintings.

The post Never Tried Tomato Pie? Then Get Yourself to Utica Right Now appeared first on Saveur.

Our roaming correspondent Hawk Krall has been busy this year. Sussing out frybread tacos in Utah. Exploring the gas station fried chicken scene of Virginia. Hunting down the very best place to get a keema-spiced vegetarian cheesesteak in Pennsylvania. (Yes, it exists in a strip mall pizza joint in Philly, and you want one.)

On their own, each of these roadside finds is a regional specialty well worth a visit. Put them together and you have a kaleidoscopic tour of all the weird wonders of American eating, the perfect rebuttal to every time a snobby French person has said Americans don’t appreciate good food. Map these places and start planning a road trip. The highway’s waiting.

Southwick, MA: The Best Damn Doughnut Shop America Doesn’t Talk About

Mrs. Murphy’s, the 40-year-old shop with a cult following and amazing crullers, doesn’t get much attention outside its home town of Southwick. But in a town of less than 10,000 people, the shop goes through thousands of pounds of flour a week. Why? “These doughnuts transport you to that emotional holy doughnut place at first bite.” Read more »

Salt Lake City, UT: Frybread, Meet Taco

“Part Native American, part Southwestern and Tex-Mex, part state fair-style deep-fried joy, frybread tacos are an oft-overlooked, sometimes controversial, and insanely delicious example of a regional American food born from cultures accidentally coming together.” They’re also a dish fraught with cultural baggage, as no food represents the poverty-stricken oppression of America’s native peoples like frybread. But at this Salt Lake lunch spot, one Mexican-Pueblo family is reclaiming it to make something beautiful. Read more »

Ybor City, FL: The Beauty of Cuban Bakery Pizza

You’ll only find scachatta—the room-temp, thick-crust, chorizo-enhanced Sicilian-style pizza—in Florida, where Cuban and Italian bakeries and breads intermingle, often in the very same space. Bakeries selling pizza and pizza-like breads is a far-ranging but little discussed American tradition. Here’s why it’s worth paying attention to it. Read more »

Hackensack, NJ: Italian Sandwiches for Tony Soprano

The sandwich triangle of North America lies between New York City, Philadelphia, and North Jersey, and Cosmo’s, a barebones place where every customer looks like a Soprano’s extra (the shop lies very close to many of the show’s filming locations), makes some of the best Italian heros you’ll find anywhere. “As with many iconic foods most associated with New York—even when those traditions are dying out there—the Italian hero thrives in Jersey.” Read more »

Everywhere, NJ: A Guide to the Hot Dog Capital of the World

New Jersey is also the center of the hot dog universe, with more fanatics, hometown heroes, and regional styles than anywhere. Here’s a guide to understanding the local tubesteak culture all across the state, and a case for why the best “Texas” wieners don’t come from Texas. Read more »

Roseland, VA: Gas Station Fried Chicken You Need in Your Life

A middle-of-nowhere gas station and convenience store serving incredible fried chicken? But of course. Such places are, it turns out, something of a thing in the South, so much so that many have let their standards slip to coast on their newfound fame. But not at Mac’s. “It’s the kind of place where, if they’re working on a fresh batch of chicken, they’ll direct you away from the ones sitting in the warming tray so make sure you get a taste of their best work.” Read more »

Philadelphia, PA: The Fusion Sandwiches of Philly

In the city of cheesesteak and roast pork, a new breed of hoagie is drawing on the cuisines of immigrant populations to produce some utterly unique, shockingly good meals in the most unexpected of restaurants. “Think Indian egg hoagies. Middle Eastern and Korean cheesesteaks. Puerto Rican-style Italian roast pork.” Here is where to get them all. Read more »

Raymond, NH: The Best Clam Chowder in New England

The Pines Seafood House, on a regional New Hampshire highway in the middle of nowhere, does some singularly spectacular seafood: lobster, clams (fresh and fried), and of course clam chowder. “I’ve eaten a lot of chowder in New England, but none like what they make at The Pines. It’s rich, but from an inconceivable density of seafood, not cream or starch. No fishy funk of frozen or sketchy product. A judicious amount of potato. No thickeners; just pure seafood (okay, and plenty of butter that floats to the top in little droplets) like lobster, shrimp, whole-belly clams, haddock, and scallops, plus something the shack cryptically describes as ‘chowder milk.’ This is the kind of chowder that gets people to line up to buy it by the gallon.” Read more »

Newport, RI: A Rhode Island Diner Education

Bishop’s, a train car diner originally from Swansea, MA before it was hauled over to Newport, is the epitome of the New England diner, with standout crisp-edged johnnycakes, Portuguese-inflected sausage and egg sandwiches, and tall frosty glasses of coffee milk. It’s also home to what may be the most amazing meet cute we’ve ever heard about, a story you have to read to believe. Read more »

Easton, PA: The Great Hot Dog War

A report from the front lines of a decades-long Jersey/Pennsylvania family fued over the rights to Jimmy’s, the name and brand beyond a century-old hot dog stand that gave the town of Easton a hot dog style to call its own. Here’s what happens when good sense and good manners are thrown out the window in search of frankfurters, fame, and a squiggle of mustard. Read more »

Read More: The Best of 2016

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Welcome to Hawk’s Illustrated America, a monthly series following illustrator Hawk Krall’s journeys through the back roads of the U.S. in search of our country’s most obscure and delicious regional specialties.

In the endlessly fascinating world of New England regional food, the tiny state of Rhode Island has an especially outsized supply of culinary oddities. Try “gaggers” (hot dogs). Or coffee milk (think chocolate milk but with coffee syrup). Or clamcakes, crisp little clam doughnuts. Rhode Islanders seem determined to confuse and delight the rest of America with their food, and if you want a front row seat to Rhode Island eating at its finest, pull up to the counter of Bishop’s 4th Street Diner, an old chrome-plated honest to goodness train car diner on the fringes of Newport.

The train car diner—a freestanding structure shaped like a railway car, with an open kitchen, long counter, and a few booths along the opposite windows—is a dying breed. Most these days have expanded to include larger dining rooms, or disappeared altogether. But Bishop’s is the real deal, the walls covered with bric-a-brac and the seats packed with locals chatting in thick New England accents.

Bishop’s menu reads like an all-star lineup of Rhody specialties: chourico, johnnycakes, “stuffies” (stuffed clams), Portuguese toast, coffee milk. If you’re confused about what any of those things mean, you’re not alone—neither did I until having a meal at Bishop’s. But it’s all excellent, the kind of under-the-radar roadside food find that people like me dream about.

I got the lowdown on Bishop’s backstory from current owner Nancy Bishop, who’s been running the place for over 20 years. Bishop’s began as a porcelain and stainless steel John O’Mahony era diner, built in New Jersey in the 1950s, and installed in Swansea, Massachusetts, where it was christened the Princeton Diner, until the former owners trucked it over to Newport in the 1960s and re-named it the 4th Street, in honor of a Newport street that was planned by the city but never paved.

Nancy bought the 4th Street some 20-odd years ago with her then-husband, giving it their family name. After a divorce, Nancy stayed on running the diner, where she meet her current husband, a retired colonel who was a regular customer.

One day, that regular told her about a great old diner his grandfather took him to as a kid, where he scratched his initials into a mirror with a pen knife. It turned out that diner had been located in Swansea Massachusetts, and—you guessed it—Nancy walked over to a mirror near the restroom, and there it was, his initials still carved into the diner decades later. “I’m a big believer in fate,” Nancy says. The diner and the new husband—“It was all meant to be.”

In this part of the country, close to Fall River, Massachusetts, the epicenter of America’s Portuguese population, chourico (a.k.a. shore-eetz) is everywhere. It’s a topping on pizza, meaty filler in a $3 cup of soup with elbow noodles, or the sausage in an egg sandwich, which is my preparation of choice and one that Bishop’s does especially well. Sourced from Mello’s in nearby Fall River, which drops off orders twice a week, Bishop’s chourico is sliced into thick coins that allow the casing to char just enough while chunks of paprika-stained fat sizzle out of the coarsely ground sausage.

As for the johnnycakes, these aren’t the vaguely corn-flavored pancakes you might be imagining. Light, paper thin, and crispy at the edges, Bishop’s johnnycakes are closer to crepes than anything I’ve eaten at a pancake house, and come topped with mounds of melty whipped butter. There are no exhausting doughy cores here, just thin, crisp edges with a sweet corn undertone.

Bishop’s prides itself on those johnnycakes, made exclusively with cornmeal from nearby Kenyon’s Grist that’s ground on local quarry stones from a mill that’s been standing since 1886 in neaby Usquepaug. For the full experience, wash them down with a frosty glass of coffee milk. The flavors dance to the thick accents of locals shooting the breeze.

This kind of from-scratch pride stands in stark contrast to diner trends across America. Most diners these days have long abandoned family recipes for ready-made frozen products and, faced with greater competition and narrower margins than ever, make whatever concessions to convenience they have to so they can keep the lights on. New England, though, seems to be an exception to this trend; at the very least Bishop’s sure is.

“We make as much as we can from scratch, get whole turkeys in, cut our own potatoes for breakfast,” explains Nancy, who sets the menu at Bishop’s along with a list of daily specials that include anything from fried chicken to American chop suey. “Food is really important to people in this part of the country,” she continues. “Everyone talks about where to get the best lobster rolls or johnnycakes, and people expect good food, especially in the Newport area.”

Nancy’s earned a loyal following at Bishop’s, which, despite a few appearances in diner history books and TV programs, mostly has skirted beneath the national radar. That makes the customers from Paris, Germany, and the Ukraine all the more surprising. They’re tourists staying in nearby hotels, and when they ask their concierges where they can find a legit New England restaurant experience, they’re usually sent to Bishop’s.

Hawk Krall is an artist, illustrator, and former line cook with a lifelong obsession for unique regional cuisine, whose work can be seen in magazines, newspapers, galleries, and restaurants all over the world. He focuses on editorial illustration, streetscapes, and pop-art style food paintings.

The post Rhode Island’s Bishop’s Belongs in the New England Diner Hall of Fame appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to Hawk’s Illustrated America, a monthly series following illustrator Hawk Krall’s journeys through the back roads of the U.S. in search of our country’s most obscure and delicious regional specialties.

They call them steamed, but they’re really fried,” John Fox says of the Easton-style dog.

Fox, a North Jersey postal worker, is the undisputed hot dog savant of our time. For years he’s appeared regularly in articles, in books, and on TV programs relating to the history and nuance of sausage grinds and tube-steak legends.

The Easton dog—dressed with yellow mustard, raw onions, and a pickle spear, then wrapped in wax paper so the components steam and commingle together, a kind of frankfurter en papillote—is found mostly among Delaware River border towns around Phillipsburg, New Jersey, and Easton, Pennsylvania.

New York City and Chicago may get all the attention, but Jersey is America’s true hot dog heartland. There are no fewer than six distinct regional styles of dog in the Garden State, from the deep-fried “Italian” dogs stuffed into fluffy “pizza bread” at Jimmy Buff’s to the Greek chili-topped “Texas” wieners of Paterson. Loyalties run deep here, and divisions strong—though differences in individual styles are not well known outside their home territory. Which is why I’ve asked Fox to shed some light on Easton’s claim to hot dog fame—and on the decades-long family feud that’s become an essential part of its history.

It begins with Jimmy Makris, who in 1910 opened a stand called Jimmy’s Hot Dogs on the Phillipsburg lot where Jimmy’s Doggie Stand now sits. Makris pioneered the shallow-fried, wax-paper-steamed Easton dog, and his 4×6-foot stand proved so successful that he hired some help to feed the crowds: first his nephew, John Apostolopoulos, then fellow Greek immigrant Frank Bounoutas. After Makris died in 1983, John and Frank opened a new location in a strip mall across the river in Easton, making a handshake deal to split the business 50-50. But as both men were approaching retirement age and had no agreement in writing, the question of succession got dicey.

For 11 years, Fox goes on, the Apostolopoulos and Bounoutas families fought a vicious public battle over the Jimmy’s name—all while working together side by side. Customers saw “yelling, cursing, and derogatory comments.” Local media reported on threats of violence that required the police to intervene. When a protracted lawsuit between the families couldn’t be resolved, a judge put the business up at public auction. Loyal Jimmy’s customers, fearing it might close forever, waited on hours-long lines for a final taste. In the end, out of spite as much as anything else, Frank Bounoutas bought the business for over four times its appraised value of $80,000, cutting the Apostolopoulos family out completely.

The lines today aren’t quite as long at Jimmy’s Doggie Stand, but on this sunny Tuesday, it’s impressively packed. The Phillipsburg Jimmy’s Hot Dogs stand shuttered in 1990; a few years ago, Sophia Malatos and her husband, Nick, brought it back to life. They have no relation to either the Apostolopoulos or the Bounoutas clans but know them both through the Greek Orthodox community.

“So now there’s two Jimmy’s,” Fox says, waiting for a dog. Someone in line notices John’s T-shirt (Tommy’s Doggies, another Jersey favorite) and asks, “Have you been to the Easton Jimmy’s? It’s the real deal, the original.”

Sophia Malatos joins us at a picnic table on the edge of the Delaware. “We put onion in our oil and cook in a cast-iron pot,” she says. “That’s a little thing we’ve always done here.” The fry job on the hot dog is gentle, nicely crisp and salty with a juicy pickle and soft bun; three perfect bites.

Sophia and Nick never worked for the original Jimmy’s, but they’re well versed in its history, thanks in part to an amazing collection of memorabilia gifted to them from a local historian. That includes photos going back to the 1900s and a newspaper interview with Jimmy Makris, chronicling how his business survived an accidental stabbing, plus an improbable series of fires, floods, runaway trucks and trains. Sophia says she has no dog in the Apostolopoulos-Bounoutas fight. “We all work for each other’s business, and then some go out on their own to build something to pass down to their families. We only want everyone to have success.”

We cross the river and stop in for more research at the Jimmy’s in Easton. No one from the Bounoutas family is at the stand when we arrive. Later, by phone, they turn down all my requests for comment. The furthest I get is a quip from Polly Bounoutas: “Me and my husband, Frank, have been here 25 years. We have only hot dogs, chips, and chocolate milk, that’s it. What else do you want to know?”

Back home in Philadelphia, I finally manage to get James Apostolopoulos on the phone. James is John’s son—Jimmy Makris’ grand-nephew—a 25-year veteran of the original Jimmy’s Hot Dogs and the only living blood heir to a family legacy that he’s now been ousted from.

“The business was meant to be passed down to the next generation,” Apostolopoulos says. “The Greeks have always been like that.”

As for Jimmy’s Doggie Stand, he’s quick to stress that the Malatos family have “no connection to the original business,” but he doesn’t have hard feelings. “Everybody needs to make a living.”

Which is why he’s recently been scouting locations to open a hot dog stand of his own. Even if he can’t use the Jimmy’s name, he plans to serve the original family recipe because, he says, “Hot dogs are in my blood.”

Hawk Krall is an artist, illustrator, and former line cook with a lifelong obsession for unique regional cuisine, whose work can be seen in magazines, newspapers, galleries, and restaurants all over the world. He focuses on editorial illustration, streetscapes, and pop-art style food paintings.

Where to find the best in America’s true hot dog heaven

The post The Sordid Family Feud Behind the Great Easton Hot Dog War appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to Hawk’s Illustrated America, a monthly series following illustrator Hawk Krall’s journeys through the back roads of the U.S. in search of our country’s most obscure and delicious regional specialties.

Isn’t the first rule of seafood shacks that they should be on or close to the water? Even if you know in the back of your mind that your lobster probably came from 500 miles away, it’s nice to at least see a boat while digging into a lobster roll.

By that test, The Pines in Raymond, New Hampshire isn’t much to look at. Sitting on the side of a small regional highway in what’s best described as the middle of nowhere, it looks more like a roadside ice cream stand than anything like a clam shack. But here is the rare place where a sign announcing “award-winning chowder” isn’t false advertising. In a sea of New England seafood shacks, this landlocked one stands out.

Whether you’re talking hot dogs, ice cream, pizza, or diners, no place has more regional food favorites than New England. Every state—nearly every town—has its own oddball food items. People shoot the breeze about their favorite frozen lemonade stand or clam joint the way others might discuss Michelin-starred restaurants. And everything seems to tastes better in New England.

In my trips up and down this part of the country, I’m struck over and over how seemingly every random diner and divey lobster hut puts so much care into their food, something that’s a bit of a rarity back home in Philadelphia. There are probably more delicious, amazing, strange, and unique regional foods per square mile in New England than anywhere else in the country. This is especially true for seafood shacks and their barebones menus of lobster and clam rolls, chowder, and steamed and fried seafood.

I’ve eaten a lot of chowder in New England, but none like what they make at The Pines. It’s rich, but from an inconceivable density of seafood, not cream or starch. No fishy funk of frozen or sketchy product. A judicious amount of potato. No thickeners; just pure seafood (okay, and plenty of butter that floats to the top in little droplets) like lobster, shrimp, whole-belly clams, haddock, and scallops, plus something the shack cryptically describes as “chowder milk.” This is the kind of chowder that gets people to line up to buy it by the gallon.

How do they get an unthickened broth that rich? Fish bones? Juicing lobsters and clams? And how are their fried clam bellies so utterly perfect, fresh, juicy, and clean-tasting where so many others are greasy, under-seasoned, dry, and boring? I contacted the owners to ask some questions but they politely declined an interview. “We visited [saveur.com] tonight, and it is quite wonderful. However it is not what we have to offer. We are very basic, and simple.”

A good friend who’s been eating at The Pines since she was four years old tells me that “it’s a very New Hampshire ‘Live Free Or Die’ response. Can’t be beholden to any fancy big city entity.” She also points out another signature of The Pines: free food on your birthday. It’s a bit unclear how you are expected to prove this (a driver’s license?) and if you have your pick of the menu, but it’s been a draw at The Pines as long as they’ve been around.

It’s a little disappointing to not pick the brains of the Launier family, who opened The Pines in 1982 and have turned it into such a great local institution. It’s even more disappointing to not learn any of their chowder secrets. But that’s just how they want it. And to me, artfully dodging any press hype only reaffirms their cred as an off-the-grid shack with the most magical seafood chowder I’ve ever tasted.

The Pines Seafood House
171 NH-27, Raymond, NH 03077
(603) 895-4114

Hawk Krall is an artist, illustrator, and former line cook with a lifelong obsession for unique regional cuisine, whose work can be seen in magazines, newspapers, galleries, and restaurants all over the world. He focuses on editorial illustration, streetscapes, and pop-art style food paintings.

The post Does This Landlocked Seafood Shack Serve New England’s Best Clam Chowder? appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to Hawk’s Illustrated America, a monthly series following illustrator Hawk Krall’s journeys through the back roads of the U.S. in search of our country’s most obscure and delicious regional specialties.

When people talk about Philadelphia’s most iconic foods, the first that comes to mind is the cheesesteak. Second is probably the classic roast pork with broccoli rabe and provolone, or any of the many other delicious, vaguely Italian sandwiches on long rolls that bless our city. Point being: Philly is about sandwiches to its core.

But cheesesteaks and Italian-style hoagies are only the beginning. Lesser known are the city’s more globally-minded sandwiches, the natural results of Philly’s iconic foods merged with the city’s many immigrant cultures. Think Indian egg hoagies. Middle Eastern and Korean cheesesteaks. Puerto Rican-style Italian roast pork.

As a Philadelphia resident, I’ve become obsessed with tracking them down. Plenty of times I get close: a restaurant that serves cheesesteaks and beef rendang but won’t mix one with the other. And some are more disappointing than inspiring. But the sandwiches that hit the mark are incredible—not just unexpected, but pure Philly, exemplifying our city’s respect for quality sandwich bread and the proper balance of flavors you get in a roast pork and rabe sandwich. The best Philly Fusion Sandwiches are fairly simple, seamlessly fusing everything we love about classic Philly comfort food with the cuisines of the people cooking them today.

Here are six standouts to seek out.

El Punto: The Bistec Con Huevo

Way up in the Juniata Park section of Northeast Philadelphia, this late-night Dominican pressed-sandwich joint makes what may be the city’s closest approximation of a proper Cuban sandwich. But the fusion draw here is the Dominican Cheesesteak. The “El Punto Whiz” is pretty much what it sounds like: your standard Philly cheesesteak setup of shaved beef, griddled onions, and cheese product, but instead of a plain Italian roll it’s loaded onto Caribbean flatbread, slathered with butter, and pressed flat, criollo-style, like a Cuban.

For something bigger, get Punto’s Bisteca Con Huevo: all the elements of the El Punto Whiz plus two fried eggs, lettuce, tomato, and a variety of sauces (be sure to order con todo to get everything). All the add-ons meld together in perfect harmony, familiar but also something completely new—think a well-made hamburger with an egg on top, crossed with a Philly cheesesteak, prepared like a Cuban. Fantastic.

El Punto makes plenty of other crazy sandwiches worth ordering if you’re inebriated—a delicious myriad-meat Tripleta, double hamburgers topped with ham—but start with the Bisteca to kick things off the right direction.

El Punto
4460 Whitaker Avenue
(215) 329-2251

El Soto: The Mexican Hoagie

Philadelphia’s Mexican population has boomed in the last couple years, resulting in a cornucopia of legit Mexican food options in a town that where real tacos were once fairly hard to find. One of the newer developments are hybrid Mexican pizzerias and corner stores that serve legit tacos and tortas alongside Philly staples like cheesesteaks and pizza. It’s almost inevitable for some avocado or al pastor to make its way onto a slice of pizza or hoagie, either privately, for the employees in the back, or officially on the menu.

Over the years I’ve tried a multitude of Mexi-Philly fusion hoagies and “tortas bisteca con queso” (think steak, Oaxacan string cheese, jalapeños, and pineapple, on a seeded hoagie roll) from these sorts of places, but El Soto is hands down the best: more carefully put together, and built on Sarcone’s beloved bread, crustier and sturdier than some of the cheap, no-name soft rolls used at the other spots.

My favorite sandwich, with Mexican jamon, mild slabs of half-crumbled queso fresco, creamy avocado, shaved iceberg lettuce, and chipotle mayo, is actually known as the Torta Enojada. It’s sort of like a guilty-pleasure Wawa ham hoagie slathered in mayo, but on better bread and with better ingredients. The comfort-food bells of a classic Philadelphia hoagie still go off in your head, but the flavors are distinctly Mexican.

El Soto Grocery
1500 Tasker Street
(215) 278-7831

Saad’s Halal: The Chicken Maroosh

On the outskirts of Philadelphia’s University City neighborhood, dorms and bars starts to co-mingle with the long-standing African, Middle Eastern, and Islamic communities of West Philadelphia, you’ll find all of the above coming together at Saad’s Halal. Saad’s started out as lunch truck in University City, eventually expanding to the brick-and-mortar location that seems to be jam-packed around the clock with a unique (and very Philadelphia) mix of Muslim families in full garb, drunk college bros, and maybe a handful of vegetarian crust punks chowing down on falafel. Just as important: the food’s fantastic.

Saad’s halal cheesesteak is a serviceable rendition of the classic, but you’re really here for the signature “Maroosh” sandwiches. The chicken sandwich is technically called Shish Tawook Maroosh Way, in homage to a restaurant in owner Saad’s home country of Lebanon, but everyone just the sandwich orders by its street name: Chicken Maroosh. Chicken cheesesteaks in Philly are often a bottom-rung meat situation, but Saad’s is juicy and delicious, marinated with Lebanese spices before cooking. It gets put in a lightly toasted hoagie roll and topped with white garlic sauce, tomato, curly parsley, and spears of Lebanese pickles for good measure.

Saad’s Halal
4500 Walnut Street
(215) 222-7223

Porky’s Point: The Puerto Rican Roast Pork

A bit of an old classic of the Philadelphia Obscure Sandwich Circuit, Porky’s Point has long been a favorite of the city’s food writers, but it’s probably unknown to most people outside of Philly, and just too damn good not to include on this list. It’s pretty far outside of most Philadelphians’ dining radius—far north of center city in a heavily Latino neighborhood blessed with a plethora of amazing Spanish and South American restaurants. There’s a bootleg Porky Pig mascot, a parking lot filled with tricked-out cars blasting reggaeton, and nowhere to sit or eat save a narrow stainless steel ledge, but the pork sandwiches are on par with the best of the city—tender, juicy, perfect.

Porky Point started as your standard Italian-owned roast pork and cheesesteak stand a few decades ago, but as the neighborhood changed, the food (and clientele) slowly shifted to almost all Puerto Rican. The crispy bits of skin on the roast pork (“WE DO NOT SERVE LEAN PORK,” proclaims a hand-written sign) are optional; get them. And get it all on a long Italian roll covered with a rich, spicy tomato gravy, more like Caribbean barbecue sauce than marinara.

Porky’s Point
3824 North 5th Street
(215) 221-6243

Koja Grille: The Korean Cheesesteak

The idea of a Korean cheesesteak isn’t unique to Philadelphia, but with a strong Korean community and food scene, Philly’s game is strong. Koja is a Japanese-Korean-American fast food favorite up near Temple University that was a huge hit when it first opened five to six years ago, and it’s still going strong. The griddled beef is especially tender, dripping with a gochujang-spiked marinade mixed with melted cheese. Koja’s sandwich is also topped with sautéed onions and green peppers, and served with chopsticks, giving the whole thing a kitschy takeout vibe. Grab an order of kimchi on the side and add it to your sandwich to gild the lily. If I lived up here I would eat this twice a week.

Koja Grille
1600 North Broad Street
(215) 763-5652

Little Sicily Pizza II: The Egg Keema Hoagie

Little Sicily Pizza II is the crown jewel of the Philly Fusion Sandwich. It doesn’t look like anything special: a late-night pizza joint with take-out beer in a gristly shopping center near the highway. So you need to know about the secret menu.

I don’t mean “secret” like “wink wink, please spread this all over the internet.” This is the real thing: something the restaurant’s Indian cooks started making for themselves and family and friends. The only fusion sandwich that’s actually printed on the menu is listed as Spicy Chicken Cheese Steak, Spices Of India, but the full off-menu roster includes at least five or six different sandwiches, all ridiculously delicious and devoid of any pretension.

The secret sandwiches start with fresh garlic and ginger, green chiles, lime juice, and Indian spices added to sandwich meats (or-non meats), then get topped with American cheese. There are beef and chicken tandoori cheesesteaks, a Bombay Club (a spicy vegetarian club sandwich), and the Egg Keema hoagie: eggs scrambled with American cheese, onions, spices, a hit of tomato, and a dusting of green onion and cilantro. The finished egg mixture is tucked into a soft hoagie roll and doesn’t look like much at all. But it tastes like nothing you’ve ever eaten, and you’ll want to down five in a sitting. Paired with a pile of masala fries and a cold beer from the cooler, it’s Philly cheesesteak heaven for the modern world.

Little Sicily Pizza II
1608 South Christopher Columbus Boulevard
(215) 465-8787

Hawk Krall is an artist, illustrator, and former line cook with a lifelong obsession for unique regional cuisine, whose work can be seen in magazines, newspapers, galleries, and restaurants all over the world. He focuses on editorial illustration, streetscapes, and pop-art style food paintings.

The post The Hunt for Philadelphia’s Strangest, Most Delicious Mashup Sandwiches appeared first on Saveur.