Kurt Vonnegut once claimed that the two great original American contributions to the world are jazz music and Alcoholics Anonymous. While I think his analysis of the issue is prescient, I can't help but feel that the Cuban grinder from the Wurst House at 43rd and Baltimore should be third on the list.
Now I'm obviously overstating the case somewhat; baseball, judicial review and the Star Wars trilogy at least deserve careful consideration to be included in this triumvirate of Yankee inventions. Still, I pull for the Cuban because it is -- to put it bluntly -- a sandwich that can change your life.
It is just one of many bread-bound creations that can improve the whole tenor of your day, and it's about time somebody took time to chronicle some of the best near Penn.
If the Wurst House's version of the Cuban is any indication of what cuisine is like on that island to the south, it's about time I started getting a little closer to my buddy Fidel. If this sandwich was in every shop in Havana, it would boost Cuban tourism even more than that whole Buena Vista Social Club thing ever did.
Served on a hoagie roll, the Cuban begins down low with a layer of condiments, lettuce and melted Swiss. On top of that the folks at the Wurst House pile a kingly mixture of steak, ham, other chopped meats, peppers and hot sauce.
Naturally, this heart-slowing concoction looks like hell, but once you start scarfing it down, you'll forget all about that. The grinder is more than spicy enough to grab your attention, but it doesn't overpower. It walks the perfect tightrope that all bad-ass sandwiches must.
It's at least a meal-and-a-half, and once you're done, you'll feel like having a cigarette -- I've successfully quit the cancer sticks, but even I am strongly tempted.
To be honest, the Cuban should not be ingested if you only have 45 minutes to give it. Recovery takes time, so it's a perfect choice for a lazy Saturday evening with friends.
Lesson one: sandwiches bring people together.
The Cuban is a distant cousin of Philly's most famous delicacy, the cheesesteak. Anyone who's worth knowing and has spent time in this city has their favorite steak, and I am no exception.
Although not as glitzy as Pat's or Gino's, George's food truck offers up a fantastic, if slightly whimsical rendition of this region's staple.
Located on 32nd Street between Chestnut and Market on Drexel's campus, George's is a double-wide food truck operated by a friendly middle-aged couple. It's hardly ever empty near lunchtime, but you probably won't ever have to wait as long as you would at a truck on Spruce Street.
The mushroom cheesesteak is fit for the gods. Tender and flavorful, the sandwich boasts enough grease to challenge its paper wrapping, but not enough to stain your pants. They make sure to pop your steak into the oven just long enough to crisp the roll, putting a welcome bow on a pretty package.
If you have a while in between classes, the walk over to Drexel provides a nice break and a nicer mid-day meal.
Lesson two: sandwiches make for a relaxing lunch.
There are many reliable sandwich providers nearby: Lee's often does the trick, and Grill Master down on 17th Street offers a fine cheap meal. But they come up short of the grandaddy, Koch's, out on Locust.
The piled-high Penn Special and ever-reliable Corned Beef Special occupy the lion's share of my orders out there, but every once in a while I prove unable to suppress my urge for a straight-up tongue on rye.
The thought of an all-tongue sandwich may conjure of grotesque images in some, but it brings back pleasant childhood memories for me, memories of my Grandma slicing the tongue nice and thin after dinner then making me a hefty rye sandwich with the leftovers the next day.
Lesson three: sandwiches can be memories.
Having come to the end of my discussion of doughy delicacies, I realize that I have provided the vegetarians among us with zero options. This upsets me -- I admire those who have the moral conviction to refrain from meat.
But despite the occasional pangs of conscience I get as a carnivore, I couldn't cut it a a veggie. After all, if Armageddon ever came, I wouldn't want my last freakin' sandwich on Earth made with cucumbers and bean sprouts.
That, and Hitler was a vegetarian, and I don't like Hitler.
Will Ulrich is a senior Philosophy major from the Bronx, N.Y.
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