The Revolution Will Not Be Televised: Cubano!

When the wife and I hauled our cracker asses down to sunny Florida, joining the convoy of the recently-released-from-prison whose first matter of course is always to make a beeline to the panhandle,

I had no inkling as to the depths of the culinary deprivation and food withdrawal symptoms that would be visited upon me.

Among the pet peeves I have, which include pretty nearly everything under the sun--over spoofulated wines you have to drink with a spoon, reality tv shows, Democrats, Republicans, people who claim to have been to Manchuria, contemporary country music, old people, the rich, the nouveau riche, Kraft singles--is when I hear that smoking is harder to kick than heroin. (This reminds me, add smokers, non-smokers, reformed ex-smokers, and clean air cops to my list!) Now I’m not sure where this wife’s tale started, but try going cold turkey on Chicago deep dish, pal. Then you know what pain really is.

Needless to say, that first month in Florida was a blur. All I can recall are bits and pieces from a fever dream, curled fetal in a corner of my bedroom, shaking uncontrollably with night sweats as marching bands of palmetto bugs marched up and down me.

Just when I thought I had turned the corner, I’d ask some poor register monkey for an Italian Beef, wet, with Mozz, hot giardiniera and get in return a look as if I had walked into a US McDonald’s and asked for a Royal with Cheese. And I’d be ricocheted back to Step 1 of 12.

But I’ll say it: a sandwich saved my life. Not just any sandwich, a Cubano!

After kicking around Tampa, poking my head around the city, I found that not only was Tampa replete with strip clubs (my personal favorite being the Odyssey 2001 which had a real live working spaceship attached to the club

and whose ad brags that it’s the place to go “even if you want to party with your friend who just got out of jail”, further lending credence to my theory that half the FL population has done jail time)…it had Cuban joints. Now while Chicago isn’t absent of them, they aren’t exactly abundant.

Here is what you will need for such a sandwich:
Genoa salami, roast pork, Krakus Polish ham, Baby Swiss, pickles (sliced thing, my favorite local brand is Puckered Pickle Co., Claussen, you can suck my goat!), mustard (mayo optional), and Cuban bread.

What makes the sandwich so special? One is, it helps if you’re eating it in Ybor City. Two, the Cuban bread.

And here is where I toss any shred of legitimacy to the Intraweb’s electronic wind. When I make mine, I substitute on the bread because, sadly, my area is devoid of a Cuban population. So I use a Portugese hard roll or a Bolillo roll that I hollow out the guts. Now does this make this blogger the equivalent of some hipster douchebag still wearing his Che Guevera tee?

Yes. Yes it does. Or, to put it in a kinder light, the art of substitution is just that, an art. And it’s not like I am subbing with fucking Wonder, which is made from the same material they use in Super Balls. Still…(hangs his head in shame). At any rate, the bread you use must have a crispy, flaky crust to it.

So what you do is, brown your bread on a griddle with some butter.
Layer your sandwich with your various meat products, mustard, pickle.
Then you will need a sandwich press to flatten it. This is a must.
We use a handheld anvil-shaped job and use our muscles to press to flatten it. Make sure you get both sides, too. Keep on griddle till cheese gets melty. Watch your heat so bread doesn’t burn.
But you can also go whole hog and get yourself a dedicated Cuban Sandwich Maker, or Panini one for that matter.

The finished sandwich will be torpedo/submarine-shaped. Eat while warm. Kick back, shout Viva La Revolución! loud as you can, and be grateful I was able to discover this edible treasure during my three-year adventure in Florida. If not, I surely would have ended up with a career as a drugstore cowboy. A stint in a local correctional facility. Sprung for good behavior. Whereupon whatever state I happened to be in, I’d whip out a map, and hightail it at 110 per, hell-bent for leather, straight to Florida.

“You Know How I Know You’re Gay?” One Word: Frittata

For us Chicagoites, the summer of 2009 will be remembered for its string of intelligent, groundbreaking, and classics-to-be cinematic entertainment; its record days of perfect weather; and a new area code.

The summer of 2009 also brought us a word to the lexicon we didn’t have before, 'Staycation', which, translated loosely, means: This sucks.

As a card-carrying Staycation club member, I had to create some of that ‘vacation feel’, stat!
So I enlisted my wife to set up an ad hoc omelet station in our kitchen, have her don a toque, a forced smile, and greet me with “What will you be having with your omelet this morning, Mr. Loughlin?” or “Did you get a good night’s sleep, Mr. Loughlin?” or finally “Will you be doing the snorkeling today or the parasailing?”

Not even going into my theory that the sad lot conscripted to man omelet stations have a higher suicide rate than dentists, the wife wasn’t impressed with my scheme and just shot me The Look--one half “Up yours, buddy, I’ve got problems of my own” and one half pity as you might extend to a dumb, helpless animal.

We were at the biggest crossroads our marriage had ever faced. So, having exhausted all other options, we wrote to the moldering corpse of Ann Landers.

And from the grave she wrote us back, scribbled on a scrap of parchment paper, this: frittata.

What is a frittata? Think your typical French omelet on steroids, think dense:

Frittata is not only fun to say aloud many times in a row (try it), they are a good way to sneak in Breakfast for Dinner and are a good ‘kitchen sink’ food. Here's a recipe to play with:

Ingredients:

2-3 Slices of bacon

1 TBSP Olive oil

8 large eggs

1/4 to 1/3 c. heavy cream

Leeks, if you got 'em (just a little; tender green and white parts only, thinly sliced, 1/4 cup)

Mushrooms, thin sliced, 1 cup

Broccoli or cauliflower, 1 cup, fine chop

Gruyere or Parmesan cheese; finely shredded or grated (as much as you like, up to 1 cup)Chopped herbs, to taste:

I like thyme and marjoram, parsley

4 cloves of garlic, finely chopped

1/4 tspn. pepper to taste

In an ovenproof skillet, preferably nonstick (you can make a non stick skillet ovenproof by wrapping four layers of foil around the handle), cook the bacon until crisp. Remove from the pan and set aside to cool. Drain all but 1 TBSP of bacon drippings from pan. Add the olive oil. Add the broccoli and mushrooms (or whatever veg you decide to use), and saute until soft, approx 10 minutes. Add the garlic and herbs, and cook, stirring, for 1-2 minutes longer.

In the meantime, whisk eggs with cream, pepper, and cheese. Crumble the bacon and stir in. When the vegetables are softened, pour the cream mixture into the skillet. Do NOT stir. Allow the frittata to cook over low heat, covered, until firm but not quite set in the center. Do not have your heat too high or it will make the eggs rubbery and scorch the bottom. This will take between 10-15 minutes. Preheat the broiler while the eggs cook. Broil the fritatta with the skillet 6 inches from the heat source until the top is golden brown and the eggs are set, about 3 minutes.

And just when you thought that frittata couldn’t get any more George Michael, how about a rosé to go with it? At my house, I dig out the Chateau De Trinquevedel from the Tavel region.

You want to seriously wave your wine geek flag the highest? Walk into a good local wine shop and ask to see what they have from Tavel (southern Rhone region and only AOC there devoted to rosé, meaning they aren’t allowed by French law to make any other shit there). This is a medium-dry wine and should have a nice chill to it. Not cold like a beer, but chill, like a Tavel. If you have a pool or a pond to drink it next to (We have a pool and a pond. Pond would be good for you), all the better.

And that’s what’s summer’s all about…new area codes and a little chill.