Love . . Actually

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Of all the things that are too short, I don’t happen to think life is one of ’em. Coffee breaks are too short. Shirts too. Kit Kat bars? Definitely too short. And Vera Farmiga nude scenes . . much too short.

But the idea that tacos dare trespass our gullets on a Shakespearean tragedy level of infrequency? That there is wronger than a Trump cabinet appointee. On a Deepak Chopra big motion picture level of depressing, in fact. Soooooo . . . me and Linds B did a thing tonight. We fixed up a night out that actually rhymed, with taco.

And we did this tasty thing, without trying.

We hit the 511 Cafe, which is a cute little ditty of a jukebox corner joint that’s tucked into the top shelf of Lancaster City’s kitchen cabinet. Just enough of an out of the way locale to be worth all the fun. The 511 was one of our more beloved memories back inside a time when food searches meant something. As in, Cuban sammy something.

So after sitting down and shaking off the cold weather with a round of funny anecdotes, our waitress made the scene to warm things up in Longfellow cursive. Her name was Pixel, and that should’ve told us everything we needed to know about the evening. I mean, besides being one cool ass name, she brought game.

So me and Linds ordered up our friendly drinks, because . . priorities.

Linds B got things running with a rum and coke. I ordered up a pint of Rogue Dead Guy Ale. And then we threw down a couple more twisted anecdotes and we quibbled over what app to belly dance to. And our quibble went something like this.

We went with zucchini sticks. And Tuesday night was fitting swiftly into its side pocket definition when Pixel let loose with her Lit Chick mad skill set when she re-purposed “Taco Night” in such a way that . . hell, I ain’t seen nor heard of such a bargain since five dollar matinees went extinct.

If you read our blog on any kind of regular, then you are probably down with the fact that our “Search for the Tastiest Taco” thing never got off the ground, seeing as how we are smack dab in the middle of a place that doesn’t rhyme with the left coast. We do savory and sweet just fine in these environs, but tacos? Not so much.

Linds refused the taco come on, seeing as how she ain’t easily taken to sweet talking now that she’s in love. Me? I was saying yes this way . . .

After which, Trump’s wall seemed but a Jack Skellington wet dream to the ‘What Have We Here?’ lunar step we done took. Because the filet was blackened to an extraordinarily sexy bit of spice, pepper and lime whose sole purpose? Was to get me pregnant.

We done got vindicated on a night that had nothing to do with food searches. And so it happened that we were duly inspired by the swift and earnest lever of coincidental fever that led us to a joint that ended up talking us into starting up a brand spanking new food search.

Our rules, this next time.

Because life ain’t too short, so long as you bring the flavor.

 

 

 

 

Doomed Journeys, Beer Logic and Stealing Home

Fuck Tacos

Remember that “Tastiest Taco” challenge me and Linds were supposed to embark on several months back? Yeah well, fuck tacos . . that’s what happened to that challenge.

Because, Cuban sandwiches seem to drop out of the sky in meat and potatoes Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Tacos? Not so much. Our doomed journey began with a mutual friend’s suggestion that we check out a dive bar he frequented. The lead seemed solid enough, and the beer specials were friendly. So we showed up on “Taco Tuesday”. As per the definition, it means that the establishment created a holiday just for tacos. Which means there should have been ample amounts of said tacos on the premises. SO many tacos that if you drew up satellite imagery, Pennsylvania would look like one big fucking taco from space.

Okay, maybe I’m being just a tad bit hyperbolic. But was it too much to ask that we might shake loose a taco or several on a day that was designated as ripe with the little buggers?

Beers First

We put in our drink orders first, because . . priorities. And besides, the first rule of taco eating is to always be hydrated. And I know, I know . . alcohol tends to have the opposite effect. Which is why you have to drink more of it.

It was a good thing we had our drinks when the horrible truth came down.

“We’re out of tacos . . ” The waitress informed us, as if it was no big deal that we weren’t going to be able to warm our taste buds in tortilla blankets. It would’ve been akin to saying Wednesday lost its hump or Saturday Night lost its fever. The Shakespearean tragedy of it all was lost on her.

Tacos Cardio

Top Five Thoughts on “We’re Out of Tacos” Night? . . sure why not.

5- Is it scientifically possible to ‘run out’ of tacos if you’re a restaurant? I mean, you can run out of tortilla shells . . but if you’re a restaurant and you ain’t got any of the other basic ingredients to a taco? You’re probably out of business.

4- We should have been gifted free beer for the regrettable inconvenience.

3-We went on a taco challenge and ended up on a taco diet.

2- If you run out of tortilla shells? Compensate with flat bread and corn chips . . close your eyes and bon apetit!

1- As a result of this ordeal, I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch Nacho Libre even once. That. Is. Sad.

 

The dive bar was strike one, after which there were another couple strikes in there somewhere . . it’s been a while now. The doomed challenge was not limited to restaurants, either. When I offered to make tacos for my kids, they turned them down. After which I realized I might never eat a taco again.

Sooooo, the winner of our Tastiest Taco challenge was . . . .

Yeah . . I know. But here’s the thing. You know what you get when you ask for a taco at Taco Bell? A fucking taco, that’s what!

At this point, you’re probably asking, ‘Hey Sorryless peeps . . so what’s the next food challenge’? To which we reply, there ain’t one. We’re gonna stick to erotic food stories with no specific main character from now on. We shall simply rejoice in the glory of food as we bang the shit out of it. How much more poetic can you get?

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Fast forward to our latest jaunt . . . it was a dive bar, because we’re consistent with our culinary delights. Imma be the provocateur and give up the money shots. I ordered the wings with Chesapeake Bay sweet spice sauce. It was hot and sticky sweet as per the Def Leppard method of doing business. A promising opening act . . .

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The pit beef sammy on a kaiser roll was played up on the restaurant’s website as if it was last meal delicious. Sorry but, if that was my last meal I’d skip dinner and buckle up for hell. I picked at it before deciding as to whether I would dive in and it proved dryer than Jason Bateman’s humor, so I decided I would try and revive it with some culinary surgery when I got home and chowed down on my side of onion rings instead.

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The girls ordered gravy fries, which is a tasty combination of super foods- essential to a long life . . for your cardiologist. In Quebec, they add cheese curds and call the stuff ‘poutine’, because they’re so much more sophisticated than us ‘Muricans.

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The girls got the cheesesteak with bacon crumbles on the side since Linds ain’t the biggest fan of bacon. It got me thinking. Imma order a side of bacon crumbles everywhere I go. Yes, especially Starbucks.

This particular establishment shall remain nameless for a couple reasons. For one thing, we ain’t got much of anything good to say about the place. The food was just ayt and the service was horrible. As I was packing up my sammy to go, I joked with the girls that I should take the plate as a parting shot.

“Take the plate Marc, please . . take the plate,”

As per Ali’s orders, I stuck the plate in my Styrofoam container and made way for the door. Let the record state that Ali was the mastermind of this heist, and I . . the unwitting accomplice. I come from a broken home and I never had a male role model growing up. Unless you count Pat Riley.

I don’t know if this will become a thing, but in the event it does, we might try our luck with tacos again. I really don’t give a blessed fuck about the tacos, but I do loves me some Fiestaware.

 

 

 

 

Food (For Mindless) Thought

Last Supper

We all justify our shit.

Some of us do it for sporting reasons, as we don’t want to let our opponent (us) sense our weakness. Because that is, after all, anathema to any competitive endeavor worth suiting up for. And self analysis isn’t simply a sport, it’s a collision sport . . sprinkled in therapy bills.

Take for instance, my diet. Which isn’t a diet in the ’30 day bikini body’ sense. Shit, I haven’t been on that kind of diet since I had a full head of hair and still listened to heavy metal.

If you haven’t tried Kit Kat Dark, you ain’t in love with dark chocolate the way I am. Because I am currently doing the nasty with this sexy thing, once a day. Times several more. And it’s the fates conspiring against my girlish figure, I’m telling you. . . . it’s the fates!

Kit Kat

I’m talking diet as per my daily nutritional intake. And I use ‘nutritional’ more loosely than Jenna Jamison uses a movie scene, with every bit of that wicked dollar bill buttah and jam. And as with JJ, when I’m good I am very good. But when I’m bad, you best call Homeland Security . . because shit just got a little too real.

This here interlude is totally the fault of Q, who texted me with some serious 411. Seems I was wasting my time watching the Steelers game whilst The Last Waltz was kicking up on TCM. And so I went there and learned me all over again how Eric Clapton has always had that innate ability to be the coolest cat in the room. And mind you, he ain’t make the scene of any room that wasn’t already full of ’em. Even so. And especially when this happens.

 

Take last night, for instance . . when I had sex. Filthy, dirty sex. With a platter of twice baked nachos. And the only reason the neighbors didn’t call the police is because I was plugged into the chill weather of my favorite rock band of this, that and every other time. Because when Kansas dropped vinyl, well, they were making the babies that raised my peace of mind. I’m pretty sure the boys didn’t know they were doing me that kind of solid, but hey, that’s why the cosmos wears the most righteous smoking jacket known to man and space. Because the cosmos knows its business like that. It milks sunshine out of the moon, after all.

Anyways, back to my shit for diet. I mean, really . . the fucking dreck that I put in my body should be illegal. Okay, I’m just kidding. I don’t really want to have to wait a couple days until my pain in the ass dealer gets back to me with a quote on a Jimmy Johns Italian sub that’s five times more expensive than what I’m paying currently. By illegal, I mean that it’s too fucking expensive for the body that I wish to wear. Coo?

So it’s Sunday night, 9 pm-ish. I get home, and in spite of the fact I had a late lunch, I’ve been playing defense attorney to my weak ass mentally deficient defendant whose name is Will Power . . . for most of the late afternoon/evening. So by nine o’clock, I’m hungrier than Wolf Blitzer in a blood bank.

I get home and it’s already well beyond too late for me to get civilized. So . . in lieu of a cold glass of water, a crisp apple and a prayer to Jesus . . . I fire up the oven to 350. After which I key in my pass code to the nuclear football- otherwise known as a Tupperware container, filled with loaded nachos I had created inside happier times. (i.e. Saturday night whilst watching college football). And then I commence with spilling a healthy (not) portion of that fucker into an oven safe dish, after which I stuck it inside my own personal highway to hell for fifteen minutes worth of endless regret.

Bon met Appetit. They had kids, after which Maury Povich might’ve gotten involved if my belly wasn’t incapable of having babies. And then, Jerry Springer showed up and forced me to take a box of Nestle Buncha Crunch and pour it on top of a quarter gallon (or so) of vanilla ice cream.

Which is why I run. Like, inside a shit ton of my free time in fact. Three miles at least, six miles when Jesus takes the wheel and throws a cherry on top of my endorphin Sundae. And so what if my bad romance of a diet is gonna catch up with me eventually? For right now, I’m getting away with nutritional murder.

Catch me if you can.

 

 

 

 

 

Three Days In Woodstock

Woodstock Night

Woodstock isn’t a destination, it’s a state of mind.

Every morning feels like Sunday, every afternoon like Saturday and every evening feels like church. There is a unique charm to the jagged little town built into the side of the Catskill Mountains. Its quirky architecture and funky colored Victorians tell stories without saying a word. You can lose the beaten path in a couple minutes time simply by taking a hard left or right; the side streets behave very much like channels of a forgotten sea. Woodstock is a snow globe variation of town and country as if penned by Thoreau.

After my run, Q and me made plans to see Oceans 8 in the late afternoon. We tucked in a quick jaunt to the grocery store to pick up some particulars for our evening menu. A craving for Bloody Mary grilled cheese sandwiches was prevailing, as was the need for some late night snacks to sate ourselves after cruising the four twenty. We ain’t tokers by any means, but when in Rome . . yanno?

Deer

The ride to the theater is much the same as a ride to anywhere else when it comes to this neck of the woods. It becomes a road trip, replete with rolling passages out of a Currier and Ives fever dream. The miles read like chapters in a book out of a time before progress birthed chain restaurants and every single person, place and thing became a brand.

As for the movie, welp . . here’s a quick shot review on it, because why not?

The best spin-off since I don’t remember when. Sandra Bullock and Cate Blanchett are a hot buttah get down of a dynamic duo, and their cast of characters . . I thought, were infinitely more interesting than the Oceans 11 gang. Sandra plays Debbie Ocean, little sister to Danny, and she’s keeping on with the family business by planning a rather artful heist. Cate Blanchett rides shotgun as Lou, her sister from another mister. They wrangle up a sexy as all get out posse and then, they pull off the ultimate cinematic heist. They make the Oceans franchise, theirs now.

Later on, back at the ranch, we played carnival with more Woodstock festival tunes whilst I broke the seal on some Woodford Reserve. We buddied them up with some frosty bottles of brew and immersed ourselves once more in the counter culture movement that culminated in those three days of peace and music.

Right

The provocative blueprint of those sammys did not disappoint. And then I broke out a Cuban cigar, which had been gifted me by my Canadian counterpart for this three day summit. And as we sipped our tumblers into a divine rhythm on the porch, a family of deer decided to crash our party by strolling across the backyard and reminding us who really owns this place. And then a little later on, we achieved the manifest destiny of all those who visit Woodstock proper. Needless to say, we arrived at the corner of peaceful and easy, and it was a magnificent trip.

We talked about the morning, and about our planned trip to Bethel- the site of a three day festival of music and peace that would change everything. And I think we wondered, silently, whether it would be everything we’d built it up to be over our two days together.

We had no idea.

 

 

Three Days In Woodstock

Catskill Mountains

I’ve always loved running in the rain.

When I find myself inside a particularly robust storm, my arms and legs feel connected to the dense anvils of cold dust and flaming vapor that transform the skies into a heavenly spout. The basic algebra of my exertions acquaint themselves with a canvas straight out of Caravaggio’s brilliant mind and things go sublime.

The town of Woodstock is a roaming notch that slinks along the unshod terrain of the Catskill Mountains, like a draft that tickles a giant’s toes. The town was born to water and sun. It is a graceful plunge of pluck and spirit, music and rhyme. And by Tuesday morning, the feeling it engendered was quickly making us forget the other possible locales we’d tossed around previously.

Deer on Trail

For breakfast, Q and me had feasted on a sensational frittata she cooked up. Take it from me, when a girl who loves all things garden and Tuscany offers up this dish? You let her take the wheel. We talked about blogging and music and we engaged in a long standing debate as to our respective dialects. She finds my syntax to be mostly charming, but for a certain postwar (Revolutionary War . . that is) grammatical affectation. Whereas yours truly has ditched the “u” in honor of our founding fathers who kicked British ass, Q and her peeps north of the border still play by the King’s rules.

We bandied topics as we ate, revisiting our difference of opinion as to the letter “u” time and again. Throughout breakfast, to our car ride into town, to our sharp left onto Comeau Drive to a hiking trail that sits mere minutes off the main drag. No topic of conversation could chase this matter away for very long.

Stream 1

Our hike consisted of two main trails. The first trail was mostly flat with little mystery to it, and to make matters even less thrilling . . it was clearly marked. Clearly marked trails are just the slightest bit redundant when it comes to community parks. I mean, why mark them at all when you have chatterbox cell phone users and packs of moms and babies traipsing around? We were more likely to get lost in a local mall than on a trail whose ‘wilderness’ possessed a strong signal and Birkenstock prints. The real excitement came whilst exiting the trail, when Q snapped a family of deer streaking across the meadow.

The second trail provided a more worthwhile conversation for our feet and allowed us the trespass of some hilly terrain. Just like that, we’d removed ourselves from the madding crowd of cellphones and brand packs; replaced by the tranquil hum of nature’s gospel spell. The trail snaked around to a stream whose flow was a mesmerizing gallop. A brisk current strummed its timeless melody, and we skipped across rocks like schoolkids, just to be closer to that wonderful sound.

Stream 2

Of course, Q was the rule breaker who defied the “No Trespassing” sign and moved across rocks until she had gained the middle of the stream. I toed the line and searched for signs of fish bubbles along the banks. She claimed eminent domain as per her photography, and I wasn’t about to argue. Not when the letter “u” was still open for debate.

No Trespassing

By the time we arrived back at the cottage, the early afternoon had grown dusk-like. As I changed into my running gear, the skies opened up. Perfect.

I took to the road in search of a running path, and I found one about a quarter mile down the road. I turned right onto a service road that wound up and around into a labyrinth of warehouses and manufacturing plants whose sparse signage left my mind spinning with all manner of science fiction scenarios. And just when I was ready to investigate further, the first thunderclap jolted me back to my senses.

Forest

And that’s when I realized I was more than a mile from the cottage and a stone cold bulls-eye for anything Mother Nature wanted to throw my way. I calmly headed back, concentrating on the morning I had shared with Q; thinking back on our conversations and the lively mood that carried us.

The rain provided crystalline slashes across the landscape and by the time I arrived back at the entrance to the service road, I was soaked through. Having navigated my way through the relentless thicket, I felt duly inspired to loose one final mystery before my return, so I headed further down until I reached the next road. It wasn’t long before I was second guessing myself, as another thunder clap seemed to stop just short of my back pocket.

Mountain Range

I headed back, jumping small puddles and giving myself to the wading ponds that could not be avoided. I felt the density of those hovering clouds in my pores and it almost made me forget the lightning snaps, which had become more persistent now. I traversed the last quarter mile at a steady pace, and just as I was approaching the entrance to our cottage, I saw them.

A family of deer stood about twenty five yards off to my right. I stopped in my tracks and the five of us just stared at each other. We spoke not a word, and yet, we said a million different things. And in that moment, in the middle of that caterwaul of fire and rain, the universe was having its way.

Boldly.

Coming Soon: The Next Chapter in our tasty “Search” series . . .

Seeing as how the search for the perfect Cuban sandwich was such a tasty success, me and Linds B will be diving back into another “Search” series in the near future.

Our next adventure? Tacos.

Fitness Taco

Figuring out the next food choice wasn’t easy . . . there were countless hours of painstaking research that went into our decision. We conducted a Facebook poll, we asked our friends for suggestions and we even worked closely with a team of taco scientists just to make certain we had hit on the right dish. And lemme tell you, those taco scientists don’t come cheap.

In spite of the complicated process, our requisites for the next food adventure were simpler than Simon’s wardrobe. It had be a summer staple. It couldn’t be another sandwich. And most importantly, it had to pair nicely with beer. Actually, that last count is the requisite we use for just about any food. Even breakfast . . and don’t judge.

Liam Neeson Tacos

Tacos speak the language of summer love. They’re easy without being McDonald’s . . they’re simple without being bologna sandwiches . . they’re fun and they come in a variety of shapes, sizes and delicious denominations. And tacos actually pair better with beer than say . .  hypothetically speaking . . . french toast, or oatmeal.

 

The ground rules in our search for the “Tastiest Taco”? Fine . . .

1- It can’t be convenience store
2- It can be Taco Bell
3- One of the candidates must be seafood tacos
4- No Nutella
5- And definitely no Corona . . .
6- Spicy hot equals good. Spicy hot with zero flavor equals we skip the bill.
7- Number 6 . . was . . . umm . . hypothetical.
8- There will be five taco candidates
9- The Russians will not be involved
10- Unless they’re gonna help pay for those taco scientists

We shall dub the next round of food for thought as our search for “The Tastiest Taco” so as not to confuse anyone who is of the opinion that a score of less than ten means our opinion of the culinary selection left something to be desired. I’m not naming any names, but carajo! This whole first world problems deal really is a thing, isn’t it?

Pumpkin Spice Tacos

And Imma go on record as saying that by selecting tacos, me and Linds B are standing arm and arm with our peeps from across the border in a brilliantly woven message of peace through good food. Oh hells yeah Imma go on record with that one . . even if we never actually thought about it that way when selecting tacos. Still . . the latest search sounds so much more relevant when you throw something like that into the mix, doesn’t it? We’re just a couple of beer swilling ambassadors if you ask me. And . . you’re welcome.

I was asked recently how the whole Cuban sammy search came about with us. I think it had something to do with the fact that I construct a Cubano with the same sacred obligation a lot of peeps put into churchgoing. I’m pretty sure it was inside the conversations borne of my passion for the thing that we decided to go in search of a worthwhile comparison.

There is no such theological application with the taco. If the Cubano was our torrid culinary affair, then tacos will be our platonic sidekick. Which makes it the perfect followup food for us. It isn’t complicated. And in a complicated world, I’m plenty chill with a food that makes Tuesday feel like Friday and the weekend feel like a vacation.

We ain’t asking for perfection when tasty is so much more fun.

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Running the “Philly Special” in our Search for the perfect Cuban sandwich

 

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With apologies to W.C. Fields, it had to be Philadelphia.

Over the last several months, our search for the perfect Cubano saw me and Linds B make our way through a solidly righteous collection of foodie towns from Harrisburg and Reading to Lancaster and Elizabethtown. But when we decided it was high time to get back to it and finish this search, it had to be the biggest town in the commonwealth . . where football and food reign supreme.

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If you’re not from the state, you just don’t understand how unfair it is that Philly has been subject to typecasting more often than Will Smith (Shout out to West Philadelphia on that one . .). The real deal truth is that cheesesteaks are nothing more than a starting point. Because this town can hold its own with any city under the flag it made famous when it comes to offering up a wide array of culinary choices.

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Our first stop was Reading Terminal Market, where we ran into Joe Nicolosi, the head chef at DiNic’s Roast Pork. This city institution got some much deserved national cred when it was featured on an episode of Man vs. Food with Adam Richman, and shortly after that appearance it won the honor of “Best Sandwich in America”. (If you ain’t seen the MVF clip, you can find it here.) And so we had to go a few rounds with this heavyweight champion sammy: the roast pork with sharp provolone and broccoli rabe. After which I cursed the handsome devil who runs the kitchen for creating such a diabolically delicious piece of love that hurt so good and left us feeling as if maybe . . just maybe, our food run had peaked before the main event.

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After a quick Google search, we set our coordinates for Cuba Libre Restaurant and Rum Bar. It was a twenty minute walk to Old Town, during which time Linds and me talked about everything but sports. We strolled past Independence Hall, drank in the city sounds and made small talk with a cute little pixie by the name of Iris who dealt up some serious 411 on the ASPCA.

Cuba Libre

Finally . . we found ourselves in the clutches of sweet Libertad, and when we walked inside the place, it felt as if we’d navigated ninety miles worth of ocean trespass and had landed in the heart of old Habana. We were seated next to a staircase whose ascent might have leaned into stars of a long lost time when an island nation was the resort of choice for many Americans. The interior was an argumentative cascade of modern and classical architecture dressed in vibrant island colors.

And then it struck me as to what this little mission of ours had stood for from the get. Our search had been a humbly romantic nod to a time when patience and roots held sway and songs bred revolutions and islands swam on earnest tides. And so we kept to the charter by ordering up a couple of classic mojitos and El Cubano.

The open air setting worked backup to the pulsing beat of Latin classics that bounded off the walls while wicker fans provided a wonderfully percussive remedy for a couple of B-side travelers with the finish line in their sights. And then our server broke it all down with a plateful of artful prowess. Peels of crunchy plantain done up as if by Dali, with our perfect Cuban sammy selection doing the straight up salsa right in our faces.

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The Cuba Libre blueprint is an homage to where the Cubano first laid down roots in Ybor City, Florida: Sour orange marinated pork loin, Genoa salami, ham, provolone and Swiss with a yellow mustard-pickle relish. This rich and glorious past was brought to the present and pressed between a couple pieces of locally baked bread in such a way that the late, great Celia Cruz would’ve most certainly approved.

The Verdict

For the record? I’m pretty sad that our search has come to its conclusion because man . . . it was a time. Soooo, Imma take a moment before I give you the mostly predictable results.

Promised “Moment” . . .

Thank you for reading these installments. Really and truly . . thank you! We’ve made some great memories, had some great food and most of all we have enjoyed the feedback we have received on this via Facebook and WordPress, as well as our families and friends. And not to put one of those peeps on the spot, but Dale over at A Dalectable Life is gonna keep this tasty train going. You can check out her first installment here

I guess the only intrigue that remains is whether or not we gave Cuba Libre’s sammy a perfect score so here it is boys and girls . . .

The pork was succulent with tangy notes of decadence thrown in for good measure. The salami was a welcomed bit of spicy throwback to the original standard. The ham was sweet and savory, and the Swiss was a pelt of luscious melt with provolone rocking it in the new old fashioned way.  Even the yellow mustard-relish worked surprisingly well, helping to bring everything together. And when you press all these savory selections into a small boat of bread baked fresh in Philadelphia proper? It would seem a slam dunk certainty that we went all Bo Derek on this puppy.

Alas, we are notoriously tough graders and so we had to deduct for the provolone and the relish since they are newcomers, and thus . . . not original ingredients. But 9.5 out of 10 is nothing to sneeze at. In fact, it makes the Cuba Libre version our Search winner.

And it really did have to be Philadelphia. Because there’s a dignity that runs in stride with the brawny scrum of this town that gives it its unique flavor. From the moment you crash its gates, you understand the complicated history that goes into making anything that’s worth it.

So here’s to life, liberty and delicious pursuits.