Hey
Food Porn
I've always taken the simple sandwich for granted -- even the 'special' sandwiches have always had a 'been there, done that' appeal. But for some reason, as I've been traveling through India, the sandwich has become the star in my episodes of food porn.
Not just any sandwich, mind you, my cravings have centered around the submarine variety. The thought of shredded lettuce, dripping with oil and vinegar, has become one of the leading players of my fixation. Its crunchy texture and moisture impregnated slivers send shivers down my spine. Shredded lettuce is like happy, wet confetti, bursting from the seams and folds of toasted, crispy bread. There's always a bit left over at the end, too, what some might call, 'sloppy seconds'.
I haven't forgotten the allure of thinly sliced onions and tomatoes... and condiments, oh yes! Mayonnaise, mustard, oil and vinegar, all working together like a well chosen cast of extras who do their job well for the sheer love of the work rather than pursuit of the spotlight or public acclaim. Condiments are the unsung heroes of the sandwich. They put the 'OOH' in ooze and the 'AAH' in 'I love it' (well, when said with a southern accent, that is -- and who doesn't love to break into a southern drawl now and then)...
Let's not forget about the cheese, as those of us who count calories often shamefully do... I'm talking about the moldy type of cheese, the kind created by nature and time... and I like cheese of all colors, I don't discriminate when it comes to my sandwich. I'm speaking of firm cheese, cheese without stage fright -- not the liquid, processed, white cheese found all over India. That stuff will clog you up -- there's no worse crime than to 'fake it' where cheese is concerned.
I've saved the best for last, of course, and that is the meat. And boy do I love meat! I haven't had much of it in India. Sure, it's possible to find chicken in most places, all but the holy towns of pilgrimage, which are purely vegetarian. But chicken is boring, even at home where I only have it every now and then. No... I'm talking about big, bold flavored meat with hard-to-pronounce Italian names. I'd spell them out here if only I could say them in the first place... Benjamin says I sometimes call them out at night when I'm sleeping, but I think he's pulling my leg.
So it was to my great joy, today, to discover a Subway sandwich shop in Delhi. Of all places in the world to find a good, meaty sandwich, I thought Delhi, in name alone, should be it. Not that a Subway sandwich could measure up to my submarine fantasy. Subway, in fact, gets a 'G' rating in comparison to the sandwich of my submarine dreams.
But it was better than nothing.
I clapped my hands when I looked at the menu board. I was hoping for a 'BMT' and there it was, in all its three-lettered-glory. Those of you who know Subway know of the 'BMT', all but the vegetarians I should say... it's a sandwich based on the principle that all sandwiches should have no less than three types of meat. I've never exactly been sure about what 'BMT' actually stands for, but true meaning aside, to me the 'BMT' means 'By-God, Meat's The-way-to-go'.
Gazing at the sandwich fillings through the sneeze-proof glass window, I was dismayed to see that the lettuce was not shredded. I heard a loud popping sound. The noise came from the invisible bubble over my head labeled, 'fantasy item #1'. No matter, all the other items to be stuffed into the warm embrace of my italian-style bread were there: meat, cheese, green peppers, jalapenos, olives, onions, tomatoes... And of course, the swingin' condiment family was eagerly awaiting its turn to join the party.
I ordered the 12-incher.
My intentions were to go easy on myself and get the 6-inch sub... As Indian food has become tiring after 2 months and the Western-style fare is mediocre at best, my appetite has almost disappeared... But as soon as I heard Benjamin say, "Gimme the foot long," my decision was sealed in gluttonous glee. "I shall get the 12-incher, too!" I cried out. My eyes said, "No," but my lips said, "Yes, Yes, Yes!"
Our moment of love was nothing but a sham.
The sandwich was a big disappointment. There was no 'ooh' and 'aah' about it. I finished the first 6 inches, but that was because I was dedicated to my cause and well, yes... a little hungry. But I could not face the full brunt of the second half. The sub just wasn't that good. My expectations were low to begin with... as I said, Subway is rated 'G' in terms of the sandwich I'd been fantasizing about for so long.
As with all Western-style food in India, the sub was not quite right. The mayo was too sweet and the meat, well, the revelation that the ham was actually made of chicken and the salami was made of lamb was a big let down. Why they called it a 'BMT' is beyond me -- a name like 'CL' would have been more appropriate, it would stand for Cham and Lamboni, clever marketing names for chicken-ham and lamb-salomi.
And I thought the worst crime of all was 'faking it' with cheese...
Not just any sandwich, mind you, my cravings have centered around the submarine variety. The thought of shredded lettuce, dripping with oil and vinegar, has become one of the leading players of my fixation. Its crunchy texture and moisture impregnated slivers send shivers down my spine. Shredded lettuce is like happy, wet confetti, bursting from the seams and folds of toasted, crispy bread. There's always a bit left over at the end, too, what some might call, 'sloppy seconds'.
I haven't forgotten the allure of thinly sliced onions and tomatoes... and condiments, oh yes! Mayonnaise, mustard, oil and vinegar, all working together like a well chosen cast of extras who do their job well for the sheer love of the work rather than pursuit of the spotlight or public acclaim. Condiments are the unsung heroes of the sandwich. They put the 'OOH' in ooze and the 'AAH' in 'I love it' (well, when said with a southern accent, that is -- and who doesn't love to break into a southern drawl now and then)...
Let's not forget about the cheese, as those of us who count calories often shamefully do... I'm talking about the moldy type of cheese, the kind created by nature and time... and I like cheese of all colors, I don't discriminate when it comes to my sandwich. I'm speaking of firm cheese, cheese without stage fright -- not the liquid, processed, white cheese found all over India. That stuff will clog you up -- there's no worse crime than to 'fake it' where cheese is concerned.
I've saved the best for last, of course, and that is the meat. And boy do I love meat! I haven't had much of it in India. Sure, it's possible to find chicken in most places, all but the holy towns of pilgrimage, which are purely vegetarian. But chicken is boring, even at home where I only have it every now and then. No... I'm talking about big, bold flavored meat with hard-to-pronounce Italian names. I'd spell them out here if only I could say them in the first place... Benjamin says I sometimes call them out at night when I'm sleeping, but I think he's pulling my leg.
So it was to my great joy, today, to discover a Subway sandwich shop in Delhi. Of all places in the world to find a good, meaty sandwich, I thought Delhi, in name alone, should be it. Not that a Subway sandwich could measure up to my submarine fantasy. Subway, in fact, gets a 'G' rating in comparison to the sandwich of my submarine dreams.
But it was better than nothing.
I clapped my hands when I looked at the menu board. I was hoping for a 'BMT' and there it was, in all its three-lettered-glory. Those of you who know Subway know of the 'BMT', all but the vegetarians I should say... it's a sandwich based on the principle that all sandwiches should have no less than three types of meat. I've never exactly been sure about what 'BMT' actually stands for, but true meaning aside, to me the 'BMT' means 'By-God, Meat's The-way-to-go'.
Gazing at the sandwich fillings through the sneeze-proof glass window, I was dismayed to see that the lettuce was not shredded. I heard a loud popping sound. The noise came from the invisible bubble over my head labeled, 'fantasy item #1'. No matter, all the other items to be stuffed into the warm embrace of my italian-style bread were there: meat, cheese, green peppers, jalapenos, olives, onions, tomatoes... And of course, the swingin' condiment family was eagerly awaiting its turn to join the party.
I ordered the 12-incher.
My intentions were to go easy on myself and get the 6-inch sub... As Indian food has become tiring after 2 months and the Western-style fare is mediocre at best, my appetite has almost disappeared... But as soon as I heard Benjamin say, "Gimme the foot long," my decision was sealed in gluttonous glee. "I shall get the 12-incher, too!" I cried out. My eyes said, "No," but my lips said, "Yes, Yes, Yes!"
Our moment of love was nothing but a sham.
The sandwich was a big disappointment. There was no 'ooh' and 'aah' about it. I finished the first 6 inches, but that was because I was dedicated to my cause and well, yes... a little hungry. But I could not face the full brunt of the second half. The sub just wasn't that good. My expectations were low to begin with... as I said, Subway is rated 'G' in terms of the sandwich I'd been fantasizing about for so long.
As with all Western-style food in India, the sub was not quite right. The mayo was too sweet and the meat, well, the revelation that the ham was actually made of chicken and the salami was made of lamb was a big let down. Why they called it a 'BMT' is beyond me -- a name like 'CL' would have been more appropriate, it would stand for Cham and Lamboni, clever marketing names for chicken-ham and lamb-salomi.
And I thought the worst crime of all was 'faking it' with cheese...
posted by Cheryn at 11:05 PM
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