Honey's Hype

Sabrina's is totally my spot for brunch. It's in my favorite neighborhood, the service is almost always great, and brunch menu is diverse enough to accommodate any degree of sweet or savory I desire. This also means that I have to give myself a little nudge to check out other places. Morning Glory is also in the neighborhood and has great pancakes, but there is a host/server who works there who is just fucking rude. It's beyond me how such a dick remained employed there for so long. It's solely his potential presence at that diner that keeps me away from it. Green Eggs is a pleasant place, but I was never really wowed by a meal I had there, though I plan on giving them another shot soon.

So, let's leave the neighborhood. I found myself venturing to NoLibs yet again with Sunny Ali and our boy Imran. Our destination was Honey's, a brunch spot so popular that it remains packed throughout the week, leaving the beer intensive eateries of the neighborhood empty by comparison. I had been hearing Honey's come up in food conversations for ages. Lot's of 'Oohs' and 'Ahs' from the scores who have been satiated by their fare. What kept me from it, aside from the alleged crowds, was the possibility that a friend of a girl I once pissed off worked there. Having allowed a sufficient latency period by now, I thought I'd go for it.

There wasn't much pork in my breakfast. Just the side of 'handmade honey dean sausage' which looked more like it was made using feet. A dry, crumbly, crusty little slice of overdone sausage to accompany an absolutely mediocre example of buttermilk pancakes made with berries and walnuts. I would have much sooner opted for any kind of Slam at Denny's for half the price.

One of two things happened here. Either I just happened to get one of the few bad breakfasts doled out by this local favorite, or the gears of hype are running on fuel comprised mostly of bullshit. Right now, I'm feeling the latter explanation, seeing that Sunny's chicken fried steak wasn't looking too hot, and the only worthy meal on the table was Imran's bagel and lox, which can't really be attributed to the chef.

Am I wrong? Let me know if you think I should give Honey's another try.

Hot Dry Sausage from Claudio

I cheated, once. It was Christmas of 2008, and I was spending it in a more Christian way than ever before; with a family of Catholics. Not that there was anything particularly Catholic about these Catholics. It was Christmas with the Hardys.

Joe Hardy is my old friend and, as some tabloids have suggested, my favorite. When we first met, I learned that he didn't like to be called anything other than 'Joe' by his friends and 'Joseph' by his elders, so naturally, I've called him 'Joey' for the past eight years.

Joey invited me to spend Christmas eve with his family, as I was to be trekking to my aunt's nearby the following day. My family has never been too big on Christmas, aside from it being an occasion for us to gather and irritate each other. Perhaps all other families in the world, including the Hardys, spent Christmas the same way. But there was a far more festive spirit in the air, and their varying gradations of British accents brought a sense of correctness to to the setting.

At the time, I lived right in Philadelphia's Italian Market. As a token of my regard for the Hardys and the ever-so-slight mutual loathing underlying the love that has kept me and Joey friends for so long, I decided to bring a token of my gratitude in the form of some hot dry sausage from Claudio. I felt it to be a fitting gift in that I would be unable to eat it, and so would have to ask them how it tasted, to which they would, bound by courtesy, tell me it was delicious. I would then spend my life obliviously believing that this tube of sodiumized animal meat tasted great, never knowing the true answer. This was my aim, but I thwarted it myself after a couple of drinks on that first night. In front of me sat a plate piled with slices of the links, and around me sat the Hardys, talking about most un-British things in their accents.

I was contemplating eating on of those little discs, hard. It went on for about ten minutes. I stared at it, sipping my drink, bending my eyebrows like hermetic kung fu master sizing up his newest pupil. Finally, I leaned forward and with an inward "Fuck it", I grabbed one and threw it into my mouth. This was immediately followed by my eyes darting around to make sure no one just notice the Muslim eating pork. It was, indeed the perfect crime, unless of course god was watching.

I forgot about this incident until just recently, when I was in Claudio buying olives and cheese. Along with a wedge of brie and some olives stuffed with almonds, mini jalapenos, gorgonzola, and anchovies (yes), I got a turd-looking sausage that I suddenly realized I'd purchased before.

Suddenly, there was an adventure more important than all the ones that came after it. The real first time I willingly ate pork; it had to be revisited. Arriving at home, I fixed myself a plate of cheese, olives, and...I couldn't do it. Not yet. I had to be in the perfect state of mind to recall everything I felt at the time. This was to be a jolt, and I had to prime myself for it. A day passed, then another, until the olives were gone and there was just a bit of cheese left. Finally, I was ready, and I fixed the originally intended plate, the only substitution mini dill pickles instead of olives. I threw a slice of sausage into my mouth.

Even though I'd cut off most of the rind, this thing was damn chewy, almost unpleasantly so. I wondered if this was the stuff meant to be cooked before eating. Alas, it was the same sausage I had had before. While the hot and savory curing was quite tasty, it didn't attempt to cover up the smoky taste, surprisingly similar to what I've tasted in some bacon. The flavor was disproportionately strong for the size of slice that I had eaten, and at first it was a shock to my taste buds. It only reminded me that the first time I had eaten this stuff, I was so focused on my stealth that I barely tasted it. I worked that slice over and went around the plate eating a slice of cheese and a little pickle. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by the flavors. It was a bit too much saltiness happening at once, particularly with an entirely new type of saltiness thrown into the mix. As I ate more sausage slices, I began to get used to the flavor. The texture, on the other hand, gave my jaw a proper work out, and by the time I was done it felt like I chewed a whole pack of Bubblicious for four hours.

Sausage is a good snack along with other cheese shop staples, but I'm glad it wasn't my first coherent adventure. Prosciutto eased me into pork with its relative lack of offensive qualities. I might venture to try sausage from different stores, but again, eating pork at home in my realm of comfort isn't something I'm inclined to do any time soon.

Denny's Lumberjack Slam

Bands end up at Denny's. It's not always favorable, but it is inevitable. Since my high school days of photocopying fliers in the library, bumming rides to Guitar Center, and coming up with awfully clever song titles, nights have ended at the only 24 hour spot that welcomes this type of riff raff.

Sunny Ali and myself (the Kid) found ourselves in a Denny's in Alexandria VA at 3am with the Kominas and Omar Waqar of Sarmust. We were waiting for a call from punk legend Jello Biafra that would later lead us to a late night meeting in the lobby of the Silver Spring Crown Plaza where he questioned and advised us on the burgeoning scene dubbed Taqwacore at its inception.

But anyhow, back to the breakfast. I was never able to get a Grand Slam before and would always end up watching one from behind my short stack across the table. In an attempt to bridge my former favorite with this new Adventure, I got the Lumberjack Slam; a short stack, hashbrowns, two eggs, bacon, little sausages, a hunk of ham and some toast. The eggs and toast ended up being a charitable donation to Basim Usmani. The porcine components, I kept for myself...and enjoyed thoroughly.

Maybe it was my road nourished appetite, but I thoroughly enjoyed a full strip of bacon for the first time. Through this Adventure, I learned this about myself: I don't like it crispy! The greasy strips were positively floppy and for the first time it was perfect, although it wasn't the highlight. It finally made sense to me pork is such a major part of the American breakfast. Beef and chicken are hardly agreeable morning meats, but ham fits in perfectly somehow. The slightly rubbery texture contrasts with the softness of hashbrowns and eggs. Add in the rest of the pork elements and what you have before you is an amusement park of a meal. The ferris wheel is the glass of orange juice to my left.

Regarding the sausage: I'd like to conduct a blind taste test of beef and pork breakfast sausages. I was unable to identify any differences. This was a first. I was happy to note this parallel before thinking again and wondering if I've been buying the wrong Brown and Serve all these years.

Los Taquitos de Puebla's Chorizo Tacos

When I was growing up in Thailand, my mom had to struggle to get us packaged American food. Though I was rather unfamiliar, having left the US shortly after my birth, my brother had all the unhealthy hankerings of an American kid. Because of its scarcity, our encounters with such items became a welcome treat, and my mom found herself making more trips to the incredibly overpriced supermarket for expatriates on Sukhumvit.

The items she trekked into the city for were as basic as bread and milk (neither of which were an integral part of the Thai diet at the time), and as novel as canned peaches, apple juice, and Oreos. In her quest to inspire an appetite in her two skinny, gangly sons, she brought home something she had loved in the US: Tacos. We treated that family pack of Old El Paso taco fixings like a regular trip to Pizza Hut (in Thailand, Pizza Hut is an actual restaurant and not simply a purveyor of circular garbage like it is in the US). Of course, the good folks at Old El Paso led us to believe that hard shell tacos were authentically Mexican. It wasn't until I came to the US, and even then not until I ventured past Taco Bell, that I discovered what a real Mexican taco was like...and I was disappointed.

Something about the authentic soft shell taco didn't give me the same satisfaction as the build-your-own hard shell experience my mom had created for us. As I experienced more and more authentic Mexican food, I found that it used some of the same spices found in Thai cuisine (cilantro, hot peppers, etc) but in far less appealing series of homogeneous preparations. Never did the suggestion of Mexican food meet an exuberantly positive reaction from my taste.

When I discovered the wonders of Philly's Italian Market years later, I found that there was a growing presence (albeit not a welcome one in the perspective of the entrenched Italians) of Mexican establishments. It was the first time I'd seen a Mexican diaspora with a concentration of restaurants, and I damned my previous notions regarding the cuisine and started anew.

La Lupe was my early favorite, although inconsistency in food quality (particularly the sometimes perfectly mushy and sometimes impossibly dry plantains), increasingly shitty service and price increases on the menu led me to abandon this standby for Veracruzana just up the street. Gradually, I found myself tiring once again of the various forms of tortilla-meat-beans.

It was a small squad of unusually boisterous attorneys that urged me to venture into the wonders of Mexican pork at a newer joint on 9th street called Pueblas, or 'Black Awning Joint' for ease of reference. My old friends (and likely my future legal council) Tony, Niev, and Jon noted that my blog was lacking in the true Mexican dish of chorizo tacos. On a beautiful day in South Philadelphia, I set out to fill the void.

I walked into an empty Pueblas and ordered from a menu filled with animal parts. I ordered the chorizo tacos with a side order of scallions. Waiting in the tiny orange table area, I perused the photography on the walls, pictures from Mexico and of Mexicans in Philadelphia, dressed in indigenous garb, celebrating, parading, cooking in kitchens, sitting on stoops, gathering, laughing, and before I got to the end of the series, my food was ready. To my order, I added two little glass bottles of Coke (unfortunately the American variety sweetened with high fructose corn syrup and not sugar). With the spoils of my journey in hand, I scampered home.

The tacos were very basic, the diced and cooked chorizo laid out on top of three overlapping taco tortillas with a single fried scallion to top it off. My side order revealed a dozen more of these green onions. I squeezed the limes provided over everything and began. The first bite revealed a texture not unlike ground beef, but far chewier and more pleasing. The slightly rubbery portions of the chopped sausage mingled with a purely meaty texture to completely eclipse the tortilla, which was simply a vessel for the filling. The combination between the inherent saltiness of the sausage, the added peppery hotness and the tartness of lime completely zapped any potentially off-putting pork flavors. Once again, dry sausage made it happen. Chorizo beat the crap out of most beef tacos I've had (although I'm still partial to beef tongue tacos).

As I ate, I periodically bit into a scallion. It's preparation left it crunchy in all its layers, making it one of the most pleasing cooked vegetables I've had the pleasure of biting into. My teeth cutting through each layer as I bit down and the explosion of sour-salty flavor that followed is a sensation that could, on its own, bring me back to Pueblas on a regular basis.

I was finally satisfied to have tried some real Mexican, and this category of food has risen out of obscurity in my mind. I'm excited about the prospect of all the great Latin American traditions of pork. I'll have to trek out to the Barrio soon.

Fado's Irish Breakfast - Happy St. Patty's Day!

Tom told me I was missing out, but it didn't look like it from where I was sitting. In a little restaurant just off the main drag of the Temple Bar district in Dublin, I watched his hangover woes disappear from across the table. He braced himself for the joyous meal and began prodding the tray of oddities laid out in front of him. Meanwhile, the old Irish man serving us brought me my meatless breakfast, little more than eggs and toast. Tom looked up momentarily and, with a mouth full of what appeared to be both black and white pudding, let out a cackle that pierced my whiskey smashed ears. I weakly lashed out by telling him that his breakfast looked like eight different kinds of animal shit laid out on a lunch tray. As always, he returned with a quip that left me stutter-laughing, and continued devouring the least appetizing pork dish I've ever seen.

If you remember from earlier posts, this is the same Tom that I was with in Rome, the one that fed me that first sinful bite. In the summer of 2007, we clobbered our way through five European cities, beginning and ending in Dublin. He influenced my pork eating with a two pronged attack; inflating my temptation, and ridiculing my falterings. Needless to say, it worked and Tom hasn't made any statements of encouragement since, at least in regards to my eating pork. That is, until two days ago when he reminded me of the upcoming Irish holiday and the breakfast that complements it.

I'm not sure where to go for Irish food. Edibles hardly seem to be the focus of most Irish establishments in the city. I decided on Fado downtown for its proximity to Brian's house. We both got the same thing; a full Irish breakfast; two eggs, two bangers, black and white pudding, ham, mushrooms, fried tomatoes, toast, and a triangular piece of drywall I was told was a potato pancake of some kind. And of course, no breakfast is complete without alcohol. We ordered pints of Guinness to wash it all down.

I went at the puddings first. Tom had mentioned that these were his favorite components, and I was curious to feel out something called 'pudding' that appeared completely solid. I started with the black, tinted enough by the pig's blood in it to make it a little intimidation. The texture, and even the flavor to some degree, reminded me of falafel: a crispy outer layer concealing a soft interior, each layer as grainy as the preparation allows them to be. The white was about same, only with a touch less of the hard textures in the black.

I moved on to the bangers. Brian said that these were cooked just how he liked them. They were nearly burnt to a crisp on the outside, the insides remaining positively gooey. Though it was salty and good, the consistency of the inside was a bit too reminiscent of the various types of meat-waste used to make it.

The ham was ham and didn't make an impression on me on its way down. Perhaps I've reached a point with iconic pork meats such as ham in which consumption doesn't phase me. I recognized that this particular part of the Irish breakfast was to me and would hold no surprises, making it easy to eat without much thought.

Though I was never enticed by the Irish breakfast, it's something that I can now cross off the list. It had to be done for this day, a day celebrating a Haram that so many Muslim's my age breach without hesitance. Interestingly, I won't be doing any drinking today. Lately, alcohol has been making me tired, and it's the middle of the week for Pete's sake! Other Haram's will continue as usual.

Pork Roll at Teri's

Three years of high school in North Jersey, and I have almost no memories of food. The peaceful homogeneity of Morris County brought nothing of interest to the table, usually one at a diner under Greek ownership. Or perhaps food is the last thing on the mind of an emaciated 16 year old with blue hair.

Of the things that didn't make a blip on my radar, there is one that is a New Jersey point of pride. Taylor Ham was introduced to the world by a Trenton gentleman named John Taylor, credit to whom is omitted as soon as you cross a bridge. In Philadelphia, this creation is called pork roll. After trying it, I've simplified it further by calling it 'slice of giant hot dog'.

Seriously, what is the fuss about? I'd describe it further, but if you've had a hot dog, then you know. And if you haven't, health organizations would likely suggest that you continue the trend.

Don't get me wrong, I love hot dogs. Believe or not, I've spent a little time working long shifts behind the counter at a 7-11 (yeah, that's right), and those slowly rotating grease tubes were my fuel. But I'm not into incorporating a giant form of this disgusting staple into my breakfast. New Jersey, you can have it.

Also, I wouldn't mind if Teri's refunded the hour and a half of my life I spent waiting for a mediocre breakfast.

Picanha's Grilled Sausage and Chicken Wrapped in Bacon

I've mentioned that I'm not crazy about Mexican food, and my mind allowed this preference to infect my views on other Latin American food, none of which I ever find very interesting. I noted my ignorance when I went to my first rodizio in Harajuku, an intentionally funky neighborhood in Tokyo. I had heard of this style of restaurant from my brother, who once marveled at the experience of eating something impaled by a sword. Simple seasoning, preparation, and presentation yielded an unusually engaging meal that seemed never ending. While I was quite taken with the chicken hearts and picanha, I naturally avoided the sausage and chicken wrapped in bacon. I concluded that the best stuff was within my range of edibility, and therefore wasn't bothered by what I missed.

It was one of those good things that I didn't expect to find in abundance at home, and when I returned to Philadelphia, I became mired in the pho scene, leaving my Brazilian love affair to simmer. It wasn't until three years later that I was taking over the job of a Brazilian woman who, while training me, uncovered my adoration for her country's food. She recommended the place in Philadelphia's Brazilian neighborhood that all the actual Brazilians went to. I was amazed that I had lived in Philly for years without knowledge of this alleged neighborhood until she mentioned that it was in Northeast Philly, which may as well have been a different country, as far as my experience with it went.

I did a little research and found that, unless I wanted to pay a hundred dollars a plate at one of the places downtown, the closest place to get sword meat was the place recommended by my coworker. My mom and I ventured up 95 to get lunch at Picanha, named for the beef rump that so many claim as their favorite. We went with the $20 all-you-can-eat option and stuffed ourselves as our waiter continued to shave slices of meat off of a sword and onto our plates. A new experience that first time was the salad bar. I had never had South American food so different from the Mexican standards that litter Philadelphia. Lots of fresh vegetables minced into salads, potato and rice dishes, stewed meats, and a distinct tasting fish casserole complemented the array of meats. It was at Picanha that I learned the magic of hearts of palm.

Picanha, the cut and the restaurant, quickly became a favorite of ours, though its distance from our house certainly limited our motivation to head all the way up there. In early 2009, my mom planned a trip for us to visit my uncles in Rio de Janeiro. We knew we had to practice, and we suddenly had a great reason to increase our Picanha frequency. When we arrived in Brazil, we told our hosts of our feelings about Brazilian food, and our requests were indulged by our gracious hosts, leaving us overfed and sleepy in the aftermath.

Returning to Philadelphia, my mom and I had clearly killed the novelty. Even with plenty of time to kill, we wouldn't bother to make the drive to Picanha. Visits on my own dwindled to about four in the past year, and those few times only to show friends one of the best meat places in a city fraught with barbecue joints. On our way back from Guitar Center on the lazy Sunday that led to this week, Joe, Hassan, and I decided to shoot up the highway and stop in for some sword.

This was the first time I'd entered Picanha since my meat openness policy took effect, and I knew exactly which offerings I needed to try: chicken wrapped in bacon, and sausage. I grabbed a piece of picanha too, for old times sake. The meat was laid over a bed of veggies, rice, beets, and the most magical greens in the world. The guys, new to churrascaria, loved the idea. We sat at a booth, our plates piled high, as a beautiful girl came over to take our drink orders. Our table's focus suddenly shifted when we deduced that she was flirting with one of us. But who? For the moment, the mystery was less captivating than our food, and we began to chow down. Joey noted a short while later that our waitress was doing some 'deliberately close sweeping', reviving the conversation surrounding her. The volume of food with the waitress interaction thrown into the mix proved to be an overwhelming amount of stimulation. After exhausting the scenario of its comedic value, we made our way home, full and happy.

Neither the sausage nor the chicken wrapped in bacon beat any of the beef offerings. The small sausage links were overly salty to tongue not used to it. Grilling sausage often stiffens the casing and leaves the inside as soft as a hot dog, which I didn't find very pleasant. Between the texture and the saltiness, I decided once was enough.

The chicken wrapped in bacon was, after all, mostly chicken. After being grilled, the bacon had formed a partial shell around the chicken that I would have been inclined to peel off before a second serving. None of the crunchy/chewy goodness of breakfast bacon was present here. Once again, the bacon didn't do it for me.

As always, the beef was perfectly seasoned and grilled to retain its moisture. It was as good a picanha as I'd ever had and led to a personal resolution to make it up there more often. Just not for the pork.

J&J's Sausage Pizza

My living arrangement is slightly odd. I occupy an autonomous apartment on the second floor of a house, which I share with a guy named Greg whose room is upstairs, but whose kitchen and bathroom are on the ground floor. All we share, aside from supporting the same sports teams, is a hallway. We get along just fine, but never really hung out until Greg started getting Netflix movies that appealed to us both. Thursday night, with a white blanket silently solidifying on Philly streets, we watched The Story of Anvil, a documentary about a failed metal band from the 80s and took advantage of the resilience of the delivery men at J&J's Pizza.

Pizza in South Philly can be pretty hit or miss. Sometimes a tried and true place will send you a downright hot circle of garbage. Granted, there are plenty of places with consistency (my personal favorite is Lorenzo's, not at 4th and South, but at 9th and Christian. The one not filled with a steady flow Jersey trash from Friday to Sunday). I'd never had J&J before, but I was in the mood for pizza, and I'd never had one with sausage on it. It arrived just in time for the movie.

I was inclined to associate sausage either with something from breakfast, or something dry and preserved. This was a new entity all together. The pizza was covered in little brown pellets, partially embedded in the cheese. They kind of looked like rabbit turds. I'd seen pizza with crumbled sausage on it, but I couldn't imagine what the starting point of this sausage looked like. The pizza looked ok.

Sure enough, the pellets crumbled further upon eating, but were not nearly as unpleasant as they looked. There was a saltiness to them that complemented the cheese as opposed to out-salting every other ingredient like pepperoni does. In terms of flavor, it wasn't too noticeably a departure from a plain pizza.

I considered that next time I get a slice in passing, maybe I'll get it with sausage. Again, I felt a preemptive guilt for eating pork unnecessarily, particularly when it wouldn't make that much of a difference in taste. However, having a plain slice will now always feel just slightly empty, considering that pepperoni is nearly always an option.

America's Choice Sliced Pepperoni

I started this project to experience and react to pork, and at the time nothing dictated where I found the pork I ate. Once I got started, friends began making tons and tons of recommendations of the best of everything: roast pork, pulled pork, ribs, etc. I noticed that this has led me to what most people treat as occasional specialties, causing me to neglect the pork that most folks eat everyday.

I still won't cook it at home, nor will I buy it at the grocery store. I know I've said that bacon hasn't wowed me yet, and my opinion may lose some credibility when I tell you that there's a pound of turkey bacon in my fridge right now. It's true, when I am at home writing, I can't just snack on pork. As I've noted before, it's still an adventure each time. Hassan, my bandmate in a project called Sunny Ali & the Kid, has clearly gotten past it.

We had just gotten done putting together a couple of songs, and while taking a little break, Hassan broke out a snack: a package of America's Choice Sliced Pepperoni and pepper jack cheese, also of a supermarket brand. As soon as it appeared, I was reminded of the first time I had pepperoni on a slice of pizza at a highway rest stop between Philadelphia and Washington DC. I remembered finding the bland, defrosted triangle of bread-from-paste and false cheese enhanced by this salty porcine ingredient, and an understanding of its ubiquity dawned on me.

The gratuitous element of saltiness in dry sausage is something that allows me to consume it without any of the flavor surprises that have shocked my taste buds and killed my appetites in the past. That's made it a favorite of mine, and an example of pork that I could see myself eating beyond this series of experiments. The gourmet stuff is awesome, and the Italian Market is the best source I know of. This stuff, however, was different. Tart and spicy, this standard pepperoni was in a category of meat snack unmatched by the pig's bovine and poultry opponents. A slice wrapped around a little cube of pepper jack added a little exponent to the awesome. This little adventure led me to consider a third participant. Next time I have cheese and dry sausage, at least a couple of green olives will have to be involved.

Sarcone's Old Fashioned Italian Hoagie

I am certainly one for cold hoagies. While the heroes and subs of other American cities may throw their hats into the ring, nothing beats the sandwich known by another name in Philadelphia. You can get a decent sandwich from just about any deli in any part of town, but for a true gourmet affair, most will agree that Sarcone's is king.

The little sandwich joint (now in the storefront right next to it's old front door on the corner of 9th and Fitzwater) isn't much to look at, but it's the expanse behind the counter that reveals a paradise of cured meats. Before I broke the pork barrier, my standby was the Booch: roast beef, asparagus, sharp provolone, and balsamic vinegar under a dusting of special herbs- a memorable sandwich. Though the Booch was a satisfying choice, I craved a side dish, and those prosciutto stuffed hot peppers were always there to entice me. My friend Brian would always get some behemoth sandwich piled with a rainbow of pork meats which I eyed curiously. I hadn't been to Sarcone's since last spring, and Brian currently works next door, which made it a good place for us to meet for lunch yesterday.

I came for the Italian hoagie only to find that there were three on the menu; the Italian, the American Italian, and the Old Fashioned Italian. All were nearly the same sandwich except slight variations in meat assortment. I went with the old fashioned; thin sliced prosciutto, hot sopressata, hot coppa, sharp provolone, oil, vinegar, lettuce, and tomato on a Sarcone's roll. I also got one red and one green prosciutto stuffed pepper. And an A&W root beer.

I started with the red pepper, expecting a slight punch. The smoky, slightly sour prosciutto took the edge off of the hotness and was as satisfying as i had imagined. Pickled things with meat stuffed into them don't occur often enough, particularly with non pork meats. This was one hell of a bite sized snack and I could eaten ten of them and skipped the sandwich. But then what kind of adventurer would I be?

The sandwich made it difficult to identify which meats I was tasting, leading me to inspect the culprits individually. The sopressata, slices of hot sausage, had far less chunky fat deposits in it than other salami I have had. It also lacked the overpowering saltiness I have come to associate with dry sausage. The hot coppa, or capicola was similar to the prosciutto in texture, but was a bit spicier. The balance of meats made for an intense mix of flavors yielding something that might even have been too strong for such a large sandwich if it wasn't for the provolone. Sarcon'e lays their sandwiches with thick slabs aged of provolone, the non-sharp variety unless otherwise requested, that tie together and sooth the volatile flavor mix of meats.

I have a mild complaint that is a controversial one in Philadelphia, and that regards Sarcone's rolls. Now, I don't mind a roll with some backbone, but there are days when the oven at Sarcone's bakery spawns bread that can ruin a sandwich, though never get called out for the love of an unquestioned Philly institution. All I'm saying is that I'd prefer a softer roll, one that would allow me to savor the mix of flavors occurring without placing cuts on the roof of my mouth through which they are absorbed.