Sandwich And Fries Quotes

Am I tough? Am I strong? Am I hard-core? Absolutely. Did I whimper with pathetic delight when I sank my teeth into my hot fried-chicken sandwich? You betcha.

When we reached the front of the line at Burgerville, Ren let me order first and then asked for seven huge sandwiches, three orders of fries, a large soda, and one large blackberry milkshake. When the lady asked if it was to go, he shook his head, confused, and told her we'd be dining in. I laughed and told the lady he was very hungry.

A fried shrimp sandwich?” “It is a po’boy.

If there is a God, he’s a son of a bitch. If he wanted to do us a favor he would have made raw carrots and bean sprouts as appealing as a fatty, fried sandwich and a Marlboro.

Do not be seduced by those big-box come-ons, full of “complete sets” of extraneous cookware. A complete set is whatever you need, and maybe all you need is a wok and a hot place to grill your bacon. In a pinch, I can do it all with my good heavy nonstick frying pan. Besides the obvious braising, browning, and frying, I can make sauces and stir-fries in it, toast cheese sandwiches and slivered almonds, use the underside to pound cutlets, and in a pinch probably swing it to defend my honor. If I could find a man that versatile and dependable, I’d marry him.

She was downstairs now in the living room watching TV' with a mug of hot chocolate and a fried egg and pineappel pineappel? yes pineappel- sandwich.

Music was a kind of penetration. Perhaps absorption is a less freighted word. The penetration or absorption of everything into itself. I don't know if you have ever taken LSD, but when you do so the doors of perception, as Aldous Huxley, Jim Morrison and their adherents ceaselessly remind us, swing wide open. That is actually the sort of phrase, unless you are William Blake, that only makes sense when there is some LSD actually swimming about inside you. In the cold light of the cup of coffee and banana sandwich that are beside me now it appears to be nonsense, but I expect you to know what it is taken to mean. LSD reveals the whatness of things, their quiddity, their essence. The wateriness of water is suddenly revealed to you, the carpetness of carpets, the woodness of wood, the yellowness of yellow, the fingernailness of fingernails, the allness of all, the nothingness of all, the allness of nothing. For me music gives access to everyone of these essences, but at a fraction of the social or financial cost of a drug and without the need to cry 'Wow!' all the time, which is LSD's most distressing and least endearing side effects. ...Music in the precision of its form and the mathematical tyranny of its laws, escapes into an eternity of abstraction and an absurd sublime that is everywhere and nowhere at once. The grunt of rosin-rubbed catgut, the saliva-bubble blast of a brass tube, the sweaty-fingered squeak on a guitar fret, all that physicality, all that clumsy 'music making', all that grain of human performance...transcends itself at the moment of its happening, that moment when music actually becomes, as it makes the journey from the vibrating instrument, the vibrating hi-fi speaker, as it sends those vibrations across to the human tympanum and through to the inner ear and into the brain, where the mind is set to vibrate to frequencies of its own making. The nothingness of music can be moulded by the mood of the listener into the most precise shapes or allowed to float as free as thought; music can follow the academic and theoretical pattern of its own modality or adhere to some narrative or dialectical programme imposed by a friend, a scholar or the composer himself. Music is everything and nothing. It is useless and no limit can be set to its use. Music takes me to places of illimitable sensual and insensate joy, accessing points of ecstasy that no angelic lover could ever locate, or plunging me into gibbering weeping hells of pain that no torturer could ever devise. Music makes me write this sort of maundering adolescent nonsense without embarrassment. Music is in fact the dog's bollocks. Nothing else comes close.

Dinner alone is one of life’s pleasures. Certainly cooking for oneself reveals man at his weirdest. People lie when you ask them what they eat when they are alone. A salad, they tell you. But when you persist, they confess to peanut butter and bacon sandwiches deep fried and eaten with hot sauce, or spaghetti with butter and grape jam.

I’m sorry Brooke.  I didn’t know that when I thought I was eating a fried chicken sandwich, I was really eating bigotry and oppression.

Moominmamma had got up very early to pack their rucksacks, and was bustling to and fro with wooly stockings and packets of sandwiches, while down by the bridge Moominpappa was getting their raft in order. "Mamma, dar," said Moomintroll, "we can't possibly take all that with us. Everyone will laugh." "It's cold in the Lonely Mountains," said Moominmamma, stuffing in an umbrella and a frying pan. "Have you got a compass?" "Yes," answered Moomintroll, "but couldn't you at least leave out the plates -- we can easily eat off rhubarb leaves.

I've shepherded a good many people through their lives, I've baptized babies by the hundred, and all that time I have felt as though a great part of life was closed to me. Your mother says I was like Abraham. But I had no old wife and no promise of a child. I was just getting by on books and baseball and fried-egg sandwiches.

I think it was this: like most of us, he was carrying a misery in his soul. I don't say it to forgive what he done, [sic] only to say it as true as I can. He was a wrong-minded man, but inside- I swear this is true- he was always that little boy eating that fried-egg sandwich in that dark hallway while the steam pipe dripped water on his head. I don't ask you to excuse him, only to understand that there's people who don't have what others do, and sometimes they get hurtful in their hearts, and they puff themselves up and try all sorts of schemes to level the ground- to get the bricks and joints all plumb, Ray used to say. They take wrong turns, hit dead ends, and sometimes they never make their way back. ~Clare

I make the peanut butter sandwiches into French toast, frying them up in the pan before loading them onto a plate with butter and syrup,

Ever since she had become my Manager, my raises had become smaller and smaller. The last raise had been a huge leech shaped like a helmet. It was meant to suck all the bad thoughts out of your head. It smelled like bacon, which seemed promising. I had invited Mord and Leer over to my apartment and we’d fried it up in a skillet. I’d gotten a week’s worth of sandwiches out of it.

I didn't want any surprises; I churlishly thought if I revealed my Judaism at McDonald's, I would somehow be protected by the friendly American forces of crispy chicken sandwiches and supersized French fries.

I saw a dog’s bones down in Hell,’ I told him, amazed to hear those words coming out of me, ‘and I think Lucifer probably wants to grow hydroponic tomatoes because then he can fry up souls and have club sandwiches.

Peter already had a partial list. Filed under "things that please Caleb Murphy" were sandwiches, extra fries, cheap beer, and newspapers. Files under "things that drive Caleb Murphy into a snit" was virtually everything else, as far as Peter could tell.

I crack open two eggs and beat them in a bowl with some rice milk, pouring a few tablespoons of cinnamon and sugar, then some brown sugar and nutmeg. After putting some Cap'n Crunch cereal into a small sandwich bag, I take a frying pan and beat the bag until the pieces are all smashed and powdery, like a great dry rub. I pick up a piece of bread and dip it in my French toast mix. Then I dip it in the crushed Cap'n Crunch and cook it in the frying pan until it's a nice, golden brown and ready to flip on the other side.

Grilled cheese sandwiches were all he knew how to make. He fried them over high heat and they gave off a sharp, salty smell that Willa had learned to associate with their mother’s absences—her sick headaches and her play rehearsals and the times she slammed out of the house.

It's weird not being in our subculture of two any more. There was Jen's culture, her little habits and ways of doing things; the collection of stuff she'd already learnt she loved before we met me. Chorizo and Jonathan Franken and long walks and the Eagles (her dad). Seeing the Christmas lights. Taylor Swift, frying pans in the dishwasher, the works absolutely, arsewipe, heaven. Tracy Chapman and prawn jalfrezi and Muriel Spark and HP sauce in bacon sandwiches. And then there was my culture. Steve Martin and Aston Villa and New York and E.T. Chicken bhuna, strange-looking cats and always having squash or cans of soft drinks in the house. The Cure. Pink Floyd. Kanye West, friend eggs, ten hours' sleep, ketchup in bacon sandwiches. Never missing dental check-ups. Sister Sledge (my mum). Watching TV even if the weather is nice. Cadbury's Caramel. John and Paul and George and Ringo. And then we met and fell in love and we introduced each other to all of it, like children showing each other their favourite toys. The instinct never goes - look at my fire engine, look at my vinyl collection. Look at all these things I've chosen to represent who I am. It was fun to find out about each other's self-made cultures and make our own hybrid in the years of eating, watching, reading, listening, sleeping and living together. Our culture was tea drink from very large mugs. And looking forward to the Glastonbury ticket day and the new season of Game of Thrones and taking the piss out of ourselves for being just like everyone else. Our culture was over-tipping in restaurants because we both used to work in the service industry, salty popcorn at the cinema and afternoon naps. Side-by-side morning sex. Home-made Manhattans. Barmade Manhattans (much better). Otis Redding's "Cigarettes and Coffee" (our song). Discovering a new song we both loved and listening to it over and over again until we couldn't listen to it any more. Period dramas on a Sunday night. That one perfect vibrator that finished her off in seconds when we were in a rush. Gravy. David Hockney. Truffle crisps. Can you believe it? I still can't believe it. A smell indisputably reminiscent of bums. On a crisp. And yet we couldn't get enough of them together - stuffing them in our gobs, her hand on my chest, me trying not to get crumbs in her hair as we watched Sense and Sensibility (1995). But I'm not a member of that club anymore. No one is. It's been disbanded, dissolved, the domain is no longer valid. So what do I do with all its stuff? Where so I put it all? Where do I take all my new discoveries now I'm no longer a tribe of two? And if I start a new sub-genre of love with someone else, am I allowed to bring in all the things I loved from the last one? Or would that be weird? Why do I find this so hard?

A Springfield “horseshoe” was an often grotesque open-faced sandwich in which a piece of meat was covered first with french fries and then with a cheeselike sauce. Visitors knowledgeable enough to avoid the local delicacy felt rightfully proud. The statement that Springfield was a city of “bad hotels and worse food” was perhaps apocryphal, but there was no shortage of bars, because drinking was state politicos’ top recreational activity.

And please, whatever you do, don’t tell us that what we do, either in love or lust, is unnatural. For one thing if what you mean by that is that animals don’t do it, then you are quite simply in factual error. There are plenty of activities or qualities we could list that are most certainly unnatural if you are so mad as to think that humans are not part of nature, or so dull-witted as to believe that ‘natural’ means ‘all natures but human nature’: mercy, for example, is un¬natural, an altruistic, non-selfish care and love for other species is unnatural; charity is unnatural, justice is unnatural, virtue is unnatural, indeed — and this surely is the point — the idea of virtue is unnatural, within such a foolish, useless meaning of the word ‘natural’. Animals, poor things, eat in order to survive: we, lucky things, do that too, but we also have Abbey Crunch biscuits, Armagnac, selle d’agneau, tortilla chips, sauce béarnaise, Vimto, hot buttered crumpets, Chateau Margaux, ginger-snaps, risotto nero and peanut-butter sandwiches — these things have nothing to do with survival and everything to do with pleasure, connoisseurship and plain old greed. Animals, poor things, copulate in order to reproduce: we, lucky things, do that too, but we also have kinky boots, wank-mags, leather thongs, peep-shows, statuettes by Degas, bedshows, Tom of Finland, escort agencies and the Journals of Anaïs Nin — these things have nothing to do with reproduction and everything to do with pleasure, connoisseurship and plain old lust. We humans have opened up a wide choice of literal and metaphorical haute cuisine and junk food in many areas of our lives, and as a punishment, for daring to eat the fruit of every tree in the garden, we were expelled from the Eden the animals still inhabit and we were sent away with the two great Jewish afflictions to bear as our penance: indigestion and guilt.

We started getting hungry again, and some of the women started chanting, "MEAT, MEAT, MEAT!" We were having steak tartare. It was the only appropriate main course we could think of, for such a graceless theme, and seeing as nobody in the club was confident making it, we had to order it in. I made chips to serve with it, though. I deep-fried them in beef fat. The steak was served in little roulades, raw and minced, like horsemeat. It was topped with a raw egg yolk, chopped onions, pickled beetroot, and capers. I had wanted to use the Wisconsin version, which is served on cocktail bread and dubbed "cannibal sandwich," but Stevie insisted we go classic. Not everyone could stomach theirs with the raw egg yolk, too, and so, unusually for a Supper Club, there was quite a lot left over. We took another break to drink and move about the room. Some of us took MDMA. Emmeline had brought a box of French macarons, tiny pastel-colored things, which we threw over the table, trying to get them into one another's mouth, invariably missing. For our proper dessert, we had a crepe cake: a stack of pancakes bound together with melted chocolate. We ate it with homemade ice cream, which was becoming a real staple.

That will be $22.95." He held out a hand, and this time she laughed, the full, delightful belly chuckle he remembered from the past. "How about I buy you dinner when we get to the Shark Tank instead?" she offered. "I don't believe that's on our dating plan, Ms. Patel." He pulled out his phone. "Let me see... Hmm. It appears that we've already crossed off the dinner option." Daisy shrugged. "If you don't like their roast beef sandwiches..." "With horseradish?" "And beer." Liam stroked his chin as if considering. "Double order of fries?" "Each." "And for dessert?" he asked. "Fried Oreos, of course." He tucked away his phone. "For you, I'm willing to go 'off plan.

Smith and Kemp bought a run-down restaurant on the beach that had formerly served burgers and fried clams, and they transformed it into the Blue Bistro, with seating for over a hundred facing the Atlantic Ocean. The only seats harder to procure than the seats at the blue granite bar are the four tables out in the sand where the Bistro serves its now-famous version of seafood fondue. (Or, as the kitchen fondly refers to it, the all-you-can-eat fried shrimp special.) Many of Ms. Kemp's offerings are twists on old classics, like the fondue. She serves impeccable steak frites, a lobster club sandwich, and a sushi plate, which features a two-inch-thick slab of locally caught bluefin tuna.

There are food stations around the room, each representing one of the main characters. The Black Widow station is all Russian themed, with a carved ice sculpture that delivers vodka into molded ice shot glasses, buckwheat blini with smoked salmon and caviar, borsht bite skewers, minipita sandwiches filled with grilled Russian sausages, onion salad, and a sour cream sauce. The Captain America station is, naturally, all-American, with cheeseburger sliders, miniwaffles topped with a fried chicken tender and drizzled with Tabasco honey butter, paper cones of French fries, mini-Chicago hot dogs, a mac 'n' cheese bar, and pickled watermelon skewers. The Hulk station is all about duality and green. Green and white tortellini, one filled with cheese, the other with spicy sausage, skewered with artichoke hearts with a brilliant green pesto for dipping. Flatbreads cooked with olive oil and herbs and Parmesan, topped with an arugula salad in a lemon vinaigrette. Mini-espresso cups filled with hot sweet pea soup topped with cold sour cream and chervil. And the dessert buffet is inspired by Loki, the villain of the piece, and Norse god of mischief. There are plenty of dessert options, many of the usual suspects, mini-creme brûlée, eight different cookies, small tarts. But here and there are mischievous and whimsical touches. Rice Krispies treats sprinkled with Pop Rocks for a shocking dining experience. One-bite brownies that have a molten chocolate center that explodes in the mouth. Rice pudding "sushi" topped with Swedish Fish.

The Hardys led Mr. Worth up a side street. They stopped at a wide, steamy window bearing the lettering: CHARLIE’S CLAM HOUSE “I hear the food’s good,” Joe remarked, and the trio entered the restaurant. It was a typical waterfront eating place, with sawdust on the floor. The place was crowded with diners, despite the late hour. In one corner sat a group of well-dressed people who, like the Hardys, had just left a farewell party on board the liner. But most of the customers were rough-looking men of the waterfront district. The noise of lively conversations and the odor of frying fish filled the air. Frank, Joe, and Bart Worth seated themselves at a plain wooden table in the middle of the room. As soon as the waiter had taken a dinner order for Mr. Worth and sandwiches for the Hardys, the Southerner began his story.

You have got to be—” Her sentence is cut short when the elevator makes an abrupt stop, jostling both of us into the walls of the small carrier. “Huh, would you look at that?” I glance around the small room, wondering what’s wrong. “No, no, no,” Dottie says over and over again, as she rushes to the panel and presses the emergency button. When nothing happens, she presses all the other buttons. “That’s intelligent,” I say, arms crossed and observing her from behind. “Confuse the damn thing so it has no idea what to do.” She doesn’t answer, but instead pulls her phone out from her purse and starts holding it up in the air, searching for a signal. “It’s cute that you think raising the phone higher will grant you service. We’re in a metal box surrounded by concrete, sweetheart. I never get reception in here.” “Damn it,” she mutters, stuffing her phone back in her purse. “Looks like you’re stuck here with me until someone figures out the elevator broke, so it’s best you get comfortable.” I sit on the floor and then pat my lap. “You can sit right here.” “I’d rather lick the elevator floor.” “There’s a disgusting visual. Suit yourself.” I get comfortable and start rifling through my bag of food. Thank God I grabbed dinner before this, because I’m starving, and if I was stuck in this elevator with no food, I’d be a raging bastard, bashing his head against the metal door from pure hunger. Low blood sugar does crazy things to me. I bring the term hangry to a new level. There’s only— “Why are you smiling like that?” I look up at her. “Smiling like what? I’m just being normal.” “No, you’re smiling like you’re having a conversation inside your head and you think you’re funny.” How would she know that? “Well, I am funny.” I pop open my to-go box filled to the brim with a Philly cheesesteak sandwich and tons of fries. Staring at it, I say, “Oh yes, come to papa.

And now here I was in McDonald's again for the first time since my earlier fracas. I vowed to behave myself, but McDonald's is just too much for me. I ordered a chicken sandwich and a Diet Coke. 'Do you want fries with that?' the young man serving me asked. I hesitated for a moment, and in a pained but patient tone said: 'No. That's why I didn't ask for fries, you see.' 'We're just told to ask like,' he said. 'When I want fries, generally I say something like, "I would like some fries, too, please." That's the system I use.' 'We're just told to ask like,' he repeated. 'Do you need to know the other things I don't want? It is quite a long list. In fact, it is everything you serve except for the two things I asked for.' 'We're just told to ask like,' he repeated yet again, but in a darker voice, and deposited my two items on a tray and urged me, without the least hint of sincerity, to have a nice day. I realized that I probably wasn't quite ready for McDonald's yet.

I make a great fried egg sandwich. Want to try it?" Chloe stared at her with an encouraging smile until Josey finally laughed and nodded. "Okay." "Great!" Chloe put on a pair of disposable gloves, then she took butter and two eggs from the under-the-counter fridge. "Go ahead and take a business card. You can call me here if you want. And the bottom number is my cell." She plopped a pat of butter onto the grill. When the butter melted, she cracked the eggs into it, close enough for their whites to merge. While they sizzled, she buttered two slices of sourdough bread and put them on the grill. "I didn't know this place was called Red's," Josey said, reading the card. Chloe smiled when she thought of her great-grandfather. "Another family tradition. My great-grandfather had red hair. So did my mother." Chloe sprinkled the eggs with salt and pepper and a pinch of dill, then turned them over with her spatula. She flipped the quickly toasting bread too. She'd spent her childhood watching her great-grandfather do this, and here at the shop was the only time she felt him near anymore. "Do you want this for here or to go?" "To go." Chloe sprinkled a little more salt and pepper on the eggs, made sure the yolks had firmed ever so slightly, then topped them with cheese. She let the cheese melt before scooping the eggs up and putting them on the buttered sourdough.

The menu is spectacular. Passed hors d'oeuvres include caramelized shallot tartlets topped with Gorgonzola, cubes of crispy pork belly skewered with fresh fig, espresso cups of chilled corn soup topped with spicy popcorn, mini arepas filled with rare skirt steak and chimichurri and pickle onions, and prawn dumplings with a mango serrano salsa. There is a raw bar set up with three kinds of oysters, and a raclette station where we have a whole wheel of the nutty cheese being melted to order, with baby potatoes, chunks of garlic sausage, spears of fresh fennel, lightly pickled Brussels sprouts, and hunks of sourdough bread to pour it over. When we head up for dinner, we will start with a classic Dover sole amandine with a featherlight spinach flan, followed by a choice of seared veal chops or duck breast, both served with creamy polenta, roasted mushrooms, and lacinato kale. Next is a light salad of butter lettuce with a sharp lemon Dijon vinaigrette, then a cheese course with each table receiving a platter of five cheeses with dried fruits and nuts and three kinds of bread, followed by the panna cottas. Then the cake, and coffee and sweets. And at midnight, chorizo tamales served with scrambled eggs, waffle sticks with chicken fingers and spicy maple butter, candied bacon strips, sausage biscuit sandwiches, and vanilla Greek yogurt parfaits with granola and berries on the "breakfast" buffet, plus cheeseburger sliders, mini Chicago hot dogs, little Chinese take-out containers of pork fried rice and spicy sesame noodles, a macaroni-and-cheese bar, and little stuffed pizzas on the "snack food" buffet. There will also be tiny four-ounce milk bottles filled with either vanilla malted milk shakes, root beer floats made with hard root beer, Bloody Marys, or mimosas.

So who else?” “Who else what?” With his mouth full, he says, “Who else got letters?” “Um, that’s really private.” I shake my head at him, like Wow, how rude. “What? I’m just curious.” Peter dips another fry into my little ramekin of ketchup. Smirking, he says, “Come on, don’t be shy. You can tell me. I know I’m number one, obviously. But I want to hear who else made the cut.” He’s practically flexing, he’s so sure of himself. Fine, if he wants to know so bad, I’ll tell him. “Josh, you--” “Obviously.” “Kenny.” Peter snorts. “Kenny? Who’s he?” I prop my elbows up on the table and rest my chin on my hands. “A boy I met at church camp. He was the best swimmer of the whole boys’ side. He saved a drowning kid once. He swam out to the middle of the lake before the lifeguards even noticed anything was wrong.” “So what’d he say when he got the letter?” “Nothing. It was sent back return to sender.” “Okay, who’s next?” I take a bite of sandwich. “Lucas Krapf.” “He’s gay,” Peter says. “He’s not gay!” “Dude, quit dreaming. The kid is gay. He wore an ascot to school yesterday.” “I’m sure he was wearing it ironically. Besides, wearing an ascot doesn’t make someone gay.” I give him a look like Wow, so homophobic. “Hey, don’t give me that look,” he objects. “My favorite uncle’s gay as hell. I bet you fifty bucks that if I showed my uncle Eddie a picture of Lucas, he’d confirm it in half a second.” “Just because Lucas appreciates fashion, that doesn’t make him gay.” Peter opens his mouth to argue but I lift up a hand to quiet him. “All it means is he’s more of a city guy in the midst of all this…this boring suburbia. I bet you he ends up going to NYU or some other place in New York. He could be a TV actor. He’s got that look, you know. Svelte with fine-boned features. Very sensitive features. He looks like…like an angel.” “So what did Angel Boy say about the letter, then?” “Nothing…I’m sure because he’s a gentleman and didn’t want to embarrass me by bringing it up.” I give him a meaningful look. Unlike some people is what I’m saying with my eyes. Peter rolls his eyes. “All right, all right. Whatever, I don’t care.

I devour the sandwich, a mountain of corned beef between two greasy slabs of marble rye, leaking cheese and Russian dressing all down the front of my sweater. It's delicious, and I don't stop eating until I've finished the last thick fry, which I use to mop up the remains of the sandwich.

I put some flour, salt, and spices in a freezer bag and then put the pieces of lamb in and then went shake-shake-shake. The lamb was nicely covered with the flour. I browned the lamb and then put it aside. Then I fried some onion with cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom, added some tomatoes and then the lamb, and cooked until the lamb was all flaky. I mixed chopped lettuce, pieces of avocado, and pomegranate seeds, along with a little bit of lemon juice. I cut the pita bread open, put the lamb curry in, and then the lettuce-avocado mixture. All done!

I grew up in Pittsburgh." "In Pittsburgh?" Arthur says, a small snort escaping him. "An unlikely place for a classically trained chef." "People have been known to eat in Pittsburgh, you know," I tell him, with a backwards glance as he pulls out my chair. The man is a snob. "Well, of course they do. I just meant that, well, even today, it's not exactly the bastion of haute cuisine. Twenty, thirty years ago, forget it. In fact, can you remember the last time a Pittsburgh restaurant was featured in Bon Appétit?" Touché. In fact, the only time that I can remember a Pittsburgh restaurant being mentioned in a national magazine was several years ago when Gourmet mentioned Primanti Brothers in an interview with Mario Batali (who'd eaten there on a recent trip and enjoyed it). For the uninitiated, the Primanti sandwich is a cheesesteak sub, served on thick slabs of crusty Italian bread and topped with very well-done grease-still-glistening French fries, coleslaw, and, if you're really a traditionalist, a fried egg. Apparently, it has become the signature food of Pittsburgh.

Why then," he says, suddenly turning to me and folding his arms across his chest, "did your mother study in France? Why did you study in Italy? Which I presume you did because you know as well as I do that no culinary education is considered complete without an international apprenticeship." His voice is smug, his mouth curled in a half smile. "Wait a minute," I say, feeling suddenly compelled to defend American culinary tradition (not to mention my own expensive and, in my opinion, extremely comprehensive education at the Culinary Institute of America). "I studied in Italy because I cook Italian food. My mother studied in France because in the late 1960s there was no other option. But that certainly doesn't mean that there isn't a rich and varied culinary tradition in America today. Stop at a roadside barbeque in Texas, eat a lobster roll in Bangor, Maine, order a fried egg on your Primanti sandwich in Pittsburgh, for heaven's sake!

Out comes everything: piles of blistered shishito peppers, golden fried sandwiches of taro root stuffed with minced pork, bowls of dashi-braised daikon, a tower of yakitori, including my favorite, tsukune, a charcoal-kissed chicken meatball rich with fat and cartilage, meant to be dipped in raw egg yolk. My chopsticks cannot move fast enough.

Palermo is dotted everywhere with frittura shacks- street carts and storefronts specializing in fried foods of all shapes and cardiac impacts. On the fringes of the Ballarò market are bars serving pane e panelle, fried wedges of mashed chickpeas combined with potato fritters and stuffed into a roll the size of a catcher's mitt. This is how the vendors start their days; this is how you should start yours, too. If fried chickpea sandwiches don't register as breakfast food, consider an early evening at Friggitoria Chiluzzo, posted on a plastic stool with a pack of locals, knocking back beers with plates of fried artichokes and arancini, glorious balls of saffron-stained rice stuffed with ragù and fried golden- another delicious ode to Africa. Indeed, frying food is one of the favorite pastimes of the palermitani, and they do it- as all great frying should be done- with a mix of skill and reckless abandon. Ganci is among the city's most beloved oil baths, a sliver of a store offering more calories per square foot than anywhere I've ever eaten. You can smell the mischief a block before you hit the front door: pizza topped with french fries and fried eggplant, fried rice balls stuffed with ham and cubes of mozzarella, and a ghastly concoction called spiedino that involves a brick of béchamel and meat sauce coated in bread crumbs and fried until you could break someone's window with it.

Turning a corner, she encountered the smell of fried chicken. One of the test kitchens had been working on a new product for a fast-food client, developing a proprietary sauce for a new kind of sandwich to compete with one KFC had recently brought to market. It had no bun, but rather two pressed chicken segments deep-fried in a shortening of processed lard and beef fat, wrapped around thick shingled bacon and a slice of provolone, and smothered in this hydrogenated oil-based sauce.

Yeah, this place needs a better-quality blueberry muffin." I raised a pointed finger. "And I could provide it." "You sound pretty sure of yourself," Jim said, placing a pat of butter on his baked potato. "And there are always blueberry pies," I said, pausing to think of other possibilities. "Turnovers, cakes, croissants..." I popped the fry into my mouth. "I don't think anybody's done blueberry croissants." "No," Jim said slowly. "I don't think they have." "Of course, I'd sell some other things, too. Can't all be blueberries," I mused as I began to envision the bakery- a tray of lemon pound cake, peach cobbler in a fluted casserole, a basket of pomegranate-and-ginger muffins. I could see myself pulling a baking sheet of cookies from the oven, the smell of melted chocolate in the air. There would be white wooden tables and chairs in the front room, and people could order coffee and sandwiches. Maybe even tea sandwiches, like the ones Gran used to make. Cucumber and arugula. Bacon and egg. Curried chicken.

I'm going to explode," my dad says, rubbing his stomach gleefully. He's just put down a massive sandwich piled with corned beef, pastrami, chopped liver, and Swiss cheese, with a slide of crispy onion strings and a vanilla malt. "Tilt," I say, making the time-out signal with my hands. I managed to get three-quarters of the way through a turkey club with no tomatoes and Thousand Island instead of mayo, with a pile of extra-crispy fries and a chocolate phosphate. Not to mention the bucket of pickles, and the soup, chicken with kreplach and noodles for him, sweet-and-sour cabbage for me.

No one believed the mindless cuts, which were called a “sequester,” would ever get enacted. But in fact, when no other resolution could be reached, they were. The mechanism placed Obama in a fiscal straitjacket indefinitely. The chairman of the Congressional Black Caucus, Emanuel Cleaver, denounced the deal as “a sugarcoated Satan sandwich,” which the House minority leader, Pelosi, amended to “a Satan sandwich with Satan fries on the side.

Most tourists, having done some research on Chicago delicacies, order their Italian beef sandwiches "wet," meaning that a slosh of extra meat gravy is dumped over the beef once it is in the bread. They think it means they are in the know, much as they do when they order a Chicago hot dog and tell the seller to "drag it through the garden." Chicagoans, almost to a person, order their dogs simply with "everything" if they want the seven classic toppings, and their Italian beef "dipped," meaning that the whole sandwich, once assembled, is grasped gently between tongs and completely submerged briefly in the vat of jus. This results in a sandwich that isn't just moist, it's decadently squooshy, in a way that sends rivulets of salty meaty juice down your arm when you eat. This is the sandwich that necessitated the invention of the Chicago Sandwich Stance, a method of eating with your elbows resting on your dining surface, leaning over to hopefully save shirtfronts and ties from a horrible meaty baptism. Dipped Italian beef sandwiches in Chicago require a full commitment. Once you start, you are all in till the last bit of slushy bread and shred of spicy beef is gone. It requires that beverages have straws and proximity. Because if you try to stop midway, to pop in a French fry, or pick up a cup, the whole thing will disintegrate before your very eyes. You can lean over to sip something as long as you don't let go of your grasp on the sandwich. Fries are saved for dessert. Most people wouldn't suspect how good iced coffee would be with Italian beef and French fries, but it is genius. My personal genius. Bringing sweet and bitter and cold to the hot, salty umami bomb of the sandwich and the crispy fries- insanely good.

Her sandwiches were beyond delicious. Pimento cheese, smoked meatloaf, egg salad, roast beef and remoulade, honey butter biscuits and fried chicken… Folks lived for her food.

Callum takes a gigantic bite of his sandwich. I finally dig into mine and moan at the burst of flavor. It's the perfect bite of ham, malt vinegar mayo, fried egg, shoestring fries, and focaccia bread.

mile high breakfast sandwiches. They add bacon, sausage, ham, a fried egg and a slice of American cheese. They are also very good with soups, chili or stews.

fried behemoth, behemoth soup, roasted behemoth. You can grill 'em, broil 'em, braise 'em, sauté 'em.” He began counting off on his fingers, his grin growing wider. “Behemoth gumbo, behemoth pot pie, behemoth and potatoes. Deep-fried behemoth, pan-fried behemoth, stir-fried behemoth. There's behemoth kebabs, behemoth creole, behemoth etouffee. You can make behemoth burgers, behemoth meatloaf, even behemoth jerky.” Ellie shook her head, her lips pressed together to suppress her irritation. “You sure are excited to eat behemoths, Ridge.” He chuckled. “That's not even the half of it. There's behemoth nuggets, behemoth casserole, behemoth tacos, behemoth burritos. You can have 'em in a salad, in a sandwich, in a wrap. And let's not forget about the behemoth eggs. Boiled, scrambled, poached, fried, you name it.

Cold, greasy fries and stale chicken sandwiches with wilted lettuce were the perfect sad dinner for her sad state. It was almost poetic.

Barbara was all too familiar with the reality that boys are very different from girls. For example, their sense of humor is different. A group of boys can watch old "Three Stooges" episodes and howl with laughter while girls just shake their heads in confusion, wondering what's so funny. Boys' eating habits (and preferences) are also very different than girls. It's not that one is right and the other wrong. It's just that a boy finds nothing strange about a ketchup-and-peanut butter sandwich, or a cold piece of pizza for breakfast, or putting French fries inside his hamburger. In a boy's room, it's not altogether unlikely to discover a petrified chicken bone or a year-old empty Coke can stuffed into the back of a sock drawer.

Two things,” I mumble, lifting the screen to type the last of my email. “I would like a club sandwich, fries, and your phone number.” “You are such a bastard.

Two things,” I mumble, lifting the screen to type the last of my email. “I would like a club sandwich, fries, and your phone number.” “You are such a bastard.” “Your bastard,” I remind her, unlocking my phone and pushing it across the counter. “And he can order all the fucking eggs and coffee he wants here, but he doesn’t get to look at you like that.

Starting from the top left: thinly sliced Akashi sea bream sashimi, with a prickly ash bud and miso dressing-- to be enjoyed with the ponzu dipping sauce. Miso-glazed Kamo aubergine. Maizuru cockles sandwiched between slices of myoga ginger. Gizzard shad marinated in sweet vinegar, served in a miniature sushi roll. Fried matsutake, conger eel grilled two ways, Manganji sweet pepper tempura, abalone pickled in Kyoto-style sweet white miso and then grilled. Fish paste noodles, Kurama-style local chicken, smoked mackerel with a pine nut stuffing. Fresh soy milk curd and vegetables pickled with red perilla.

The menu was full of foods that felt like home to me, but that also had a flair of originality. Brisket and matzo balls in a hearty bowl of ramen. Lox bowls with nori and crispy rice. Savory potato kugel and boureka pastries with hummus and fried artichokes with kibbeh. Knishes with kimchi and potato filling and a gochujang aioli. "This menu is so... Jewish." "So Jewish," Seth agreed. "And make sure you're saving room for dessert. The rugelach is unreal, and the rainbow cookies are---" he looked around, then lowered his voice--- "better than my mom's." One of the things I actually missed about living in New York was seeing all the fun twists people put on Jewish and Israeli food at restaurants and in delis. Nobody was doing that in Vermont. Maybe you could do that in Vermont, something whispered in my head. I was used to just pushing that voice away, but, for once, I let myself pause and consider it. Would it be that crazy to sell babka at my café? I bet people would love a thick, tender slice of the sweet bread braided with chocolate or cinnamon sugar or even something savory with their coffee. I could experiment with fun fillings, have a daily special. Or I could rotate shakshuka or sabich sandwiches on the brunch specials menu, since they both involved eggs. My regulars might see eggs poached in spicy tomato sauce and pitas stuffed with fried eggplant, eggs, and all the salad fixings as breaths of fresh air.

Our society has many laws and customs to protect women from the brute force of men, but when two women make up their minds about something and gang up on a man there is absolutely nothing he can do but go along. Perhaps someday we will elect a compassionate woman as president, and she will pass new laws on the subject; until then, I was a helpless victim. I got up and showered, and by the time I was dressed Rita had a fried-egg sandwich ready for me to eat in the car, and a cup of coffee in a shiny metal travel mug.

them. Through most of medical history, doctors happily steered clear of incontinence, with folk medicine filling the vacuum. People ate roast pig penis sandwiches topped with buttered horse dung and stuck frogs to their kids’ waists. Mice seem to have been a universal remedy; in disparate cultures all over the world, people had them fried, boiled, baked into pancakes, and worn around the neck.

There’s no point in selling a few more sandwiches if the bread isn’t good. A few bucks isn’t going to make up for selling food we can’t be proud of.

1 cup milk plus: 1. Small bowl cold cereal + blueberries + yogurt 2. 1 egg, scrambled or boiled + 1 slice toast + strawberries 3. 1 cut-up chicken sausage + toast + ½ banana 4. ½ bagel + cream cheese + raspberries 5. 1 slice ham on toast + ½ orange 6. ½ tortilla rolled up with cheese + melon + yogurt 7. Small bowl oatmeal + cut-up bananas and strawberries Lunch and Dinner 1. 1 salmon cake + carrots + rice 2. Fish pie + broccoli 3. 3 oz salmon + cup of pasta + peas 4. 2 fish sticks + cup couscous + veg 5. ½ breast of chicken + veg + small potato 6. Roast chicken + dumplings + veg 7. 1 meat or peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich + apple + yogurt 8. 1 small homemade pizza + fruit 9. Pasta with tomato sauce and cheese + veg 10. Chicken risotto + veg 11. Ground beef + potato + peas 12. Small tuna pasta bake + veg 13. 4 meatballs + pasta + veg 14. Chicken stir-fry with veg + rice

Start with three sandwiches of fried eggs, cheese, lettuce, tomato, fried onions and mayonnaise; add one omelet, a bowl of grits and three slices of French toast with powdered sugar; then wash down with three chocolate chip pancakes

Kleyweg’s Stads Koffyhuis is a local institution that’s won prizes for its sandwiches (see the trophies above the counter). This is a great spot for an affordable bite, either in the country-cozy interior or out on a canal barge (€7-10 sandwiches and hamburgers, €6-13 savory or sweet pancakes, big €13 salads, Mon-Fri 9:00-20:00, Sat 9:00-18:00, closed Sun, shorter hours off-season, just down the canal from the Old Church at Oude Delft 133, tel. 015/212-4625).

In late October of 1962, it was our turn to go. Miss Hanrahan appeared in her state Ford Rambler, which, by that point, seemed more like a hearse than a nice lady’s car. Our belongings were packed in a brown bags. The ladies in the kitchen, familiar with our love of food, made us twelve fried-fish sandwiches each large enough to feed eight grown men and wrapped them in tinfoil for the ride ahead of us. Miss Louisa, drenched with tears, walked us to the car and before she let go of my hand she said, “When you a big, grown man, you come back and see Miss Louisa, you hear?” “But,” I said, “you won’t know who I am. I’ll be big.” “No, child,” she said as she gave me her last hug, “you always know forever the peoples you love. They with you forever. They don’t never leave you.” She was right, of course. Those we love never leave us because we carry them with us in our hearts and a piece of us is within them. They change with us and they grow old with us and with time, they are a part of us, and thank God for that.

Popeyes Naked Sandwiches: At any Popeyes, you have the option to get your sandwich “naked,” which means no breading on your meat. 196 Long John Silver’s Side of Crumbs: A free box of batter parts that have fallen off the fish or chicken. It’s a great topping for salads. 197 Dunkin’ Donuts Turbo Hot Coffee: A coffee with an extra shot of espresso in it. 198 Burger King’s Frings: Can’t decide between fries and onion rings? Order the Frings and they’ll give you half and half. 199 McDonald’s Monster Mac: A Big Mac made with eight meat patties. 200 Onions and garlic are both foods that accelerate

After they left, Emma returned to her Jasper-burger consumption with gusto. She’d asked Lisa once to find out the recipe for their seasoning mix, but Kevin wouldn’t give it up. Plus, as Lisa had pointed out, it wouldn’t do Emma any good to have it since she couldn’t cook worth a damn, anyway. “So about what I said before,” Sean said after he’d wolfed down his food, “about not wanting them to know we’ve had sex. It’s not that I’m trying to hide it, I just…” “Don’t want them to know.” “Yeah.” “That makes sense.” His face brightened. “Really?” “No.” “Damn.” He’d finished his beer, so he took a swig off the glass of water she’d requested with her meal. “Under normal circumstances, I’d want everybody to know we’re sleeping together. Trust me. I’d put a sign on my front lawn.” “But these aren’t normal circumstances.” “Not even in the ballpark. I have this bet with my brothers I’d last the whole month and I don’t want to listen to them gloat.” Of course he’d have a bet with his brothers. Such a guy thing to do. “But it’s more about the women.” “The women?” “In my family, I mean. Aunt Mary, especially. They might start thinking it’s more than it is. Getting ideas about us, if you know what I mean.” Emma ate her last French fry and pushed her plate away. “So we have to pretend we’re madly in love and engaged…while pretending we’re not having sex.” “Told you it complicates things.” “I’m going to need a color-coded chart to keep track of who thinks what.” He grinned and pulled his Sharpie out of his pocket. “I could make Sticky notes.” The man loved sticky notes. He stuck them on everything. A note on the front of the microwave complaining about the disappearance of the last bag of salt-and-vinegar chips. (Emma had discovered during a particularly rough self-pity party that any chips will do, even if they burn your tongue.) A note on the back of the toilet lid telling her she used girlie toilet paper, whatever that meant. He liked leaving them on the bathroom mirror, too. Stop cleaning my sneakers. I’m trying to break them in. Her personal favorite was If you buy that cheap beer because it’s on sale again, I’ll piss in your mulch pile. But sometimes they were sweet. Thank you for doing my laundry. And…You make really good grilled cheese sandwiches. That one had almost made her cry.

Neatly put away leftovers as soon as possible. Take the time to cut them into slices first (for sandwiches), those that cannot be further sliced are cut into chunks (for tetrazzini, stuffed breads, salads, etc.), and the rest into smaller pieces (for fried rice, omelets, etc.). Wrap these packages in the appropriate size so the whole package is used once thawed; this eliminates refreezing

Draw a line in the sand As you get going, keep in mind why you’re doing what you’re doing. Great businesses have a point of view, not just a product or service. You have to believe in something. You need to have a backbone. You need to know what you’re willing to fight for. And then you need to show the world. A strong stand is how you attract superfans. They point to you and defend you. And they spread the word further, wider, and more passionately than any advertising could. Strong opinions aren’t free. You’ll turn some people off. They’ll accuse you of being arrogant and aloof. That’s life. For everyone who loves you, there will be others who hate you. If no one’s upset by what you’re saying, you’re probably not pushing hard enough. (And you’re probably boring, too.) Lots of people hate us because our products do less than the competition’s. They’re insulted when we refuse to include their pet feature. But we’re just as proud of what our products don’t do as we are of what they do. We design them to be simple because we believe most software is too complex: too many features, too many buttons, too much confusion. So we build software that’s the opposite of that. If what we make isn’t right for everyone, that’s OK. We’re willing to lose some customers if it means that others love our products intensely. That’s our line in the sand. When you don’t know what you believe, everything becomes an argument. Everything is debatable. But when you stand for something, decisions are obvious. For example, Whole Foods stands for selling the highest quality natural and organic products available. They don’t waste time deciding over and over again what’s appropriate. No one asks, “Should we sell this product that has artificial flavors?” There’s no debate. The answer is clear. That’s why you can’t buy a Coke or a Snickers there. This belief means the food is more expensive at Whole Foods. Some haters even call it Whole Paycheck and make fun of those who shop there. But so what? Whole Foods is doing pretty damn well. Another example is Vinnie’s Sub Shop, just down the street from our office in Chicago. They put this homemade basil oil on subs that’s just perfect. You better show up on time, though. Ask when they close and the woman behind the counter will respond, “We close when the bread runs out.” Really? “Yeah. We get our bread from the bakery down the street early in the morning, when it’s the freshest. Once we run out (usually around two or three p.m.), we close up shop. We could get more bread later in the day, but it’s not as good as the fresh-baked bread in the morning. There’s no point in selling a few more sandwiches if the bread isn’t good. A few bucks isn’t going to make up for selling food we can’t be proud of.” Wouldn’t you rather eat at a place like that instead of some generic sandwich chain?

Becoming American meant rejecting one of the two worlds. It meant trying to hide the grease stains saturating the paper in which your school lunch of a fried potato and egg sandwich on crusty bread was wrapped, while the rest of your classmates ate ham on white bread with mayonnaise.

Caroline has laid out a beautiful spread, which is a combination of some of my favorite things that she has cooked, and traditional Sikh wedding dishes provided by Jag's friends. There is a whole roasted beef tenderloin, sliced up with beautiful brioche rolls for those who want to make sandwiches, crispy brussels sprouts, potato gratin, and tomato pudding from Gemma's journal. The savory pudding was one of the dishes from Martha's wedding, which gave me the idea for this insanity to begin with, so it seemed appropriate. I actually think Gemma would strongly approve of this whole thing. And she certainly would have appreciated the exoticism of the wonderful Indian vegetarian dishes, lentils, fried pakoras, and a spicy chickpea stew. From what I can tell, Gemma was thrilled anytime she could get introduced in a completely new cuisine, whether it was the Polish stonemason introducing her to pierogi and borsht, or the Chinese laundress bringing her tender dumplings, or the German butcher sharing his recipe for sauerbraten. She loved to experiment in the kitchen, and the Rabins encouraged her, gifting her cookbooks and letting her surprise them with new delicacies. Her favorite was 'With a Saucepan Over the Sea: Quaint and Delicious Recipes from the Kitchens of Foreign Countries,' a book of recipes from around the world that Gemma seemed to refer to frequently, enjoying most when she could alter one of the recipes to better fit the palate of the Rabins. Mrs. Rabin taught her all of the traditional Jewish dishes they needed for holiday celebrations, and was, by Gemma's account, a superlative cook in her own right. Off to the side of the buffet is a lovely dessert table, swagged with white linen and topped with a small wedding cake, surrounded by dishes of fried dough balls soaked in rosewater syrup and decorated with pistachios and rose petals, and other Indian sweets.

How Is It Packaged? Packaging refers to what products and services are sold together. For example, years ago McDonald’s noticed that many customers ordered french fries and a soft drink with their hamburgers, so the restaurant shifted from selling hamburgers to selling “meal deals”—bundles of a hamburger or other sandwich, french fries, and a soft drink. The rest of the fast-food industry shifted dramatically in this direction too because other restaurants discovered that selling meal deals instead of separate items increased sales by 30 percent.

If eating God-made food is new to you, don’t get overwhelmed. Take one step at a time. For example: replace your sodas with iced tea or sparkling mineral water, trade your burger and fries for a grilled chicken sandwich on whole-grain bread, or exchange your mid-afternoon sugary snack with half of an apple and a tablespoon of nut butter.

spend three days eating egg fried rice and spaghetti with butter, white toast and Marmite and bacon sandwiches. It’s the most counterintuitive diet I’ve ever followed, and it fills me with guilt and also makes me feel better than I have in months. The effect is almost instant: the bizarre sensation that I can straighten up again, that I can actually digest what I eat, that my energy has returned.

Staff meal." The words are sweet relief, and I untie the apron Roberto gave me, hanging it up on the hook by the entrance. Sure, I ate here last night. But there were so many things on the menu I didn't order. The open-faced duck confit sandwich with red wine aioli, the almond-crusted salmon with zucchini puree, tempura vegetables, chipotle oil. I wonder how this works, if we get to choose whatever we want. Or maybe it's some new creation, some experimental dish that Chef tries out on the staff before adding it to the menu. To think that I might try one of her dishes before anyone else is all the reward I need for today's scrubbing, for the hot water that has splashed all over me throughout the day. What I find instead is a sheet tray of charred burger patties, most of them covered in toxic-yellow American cheese. There's another sheet tray with toasted buns and matchstick fries. Morris and Boris are leaning against the coffee station, taking huge bites in sync. I try to hide my disappointment, follow Elias's lead and grab a plate. I'm shocked that some people are eating it just like that, munching down as quickly as possible without bothering with the condiments. I'm starving too, but it's crazy to me that Chef Elise's food is at their fingertips and everyone's just letting it sit there. There's a whole line of deli containers right in front of us, and I can't even tell what's in them, but the mere thought is making my mouth water. Whispering so that no one can laugh and/or yell at me, I ask Elias if it's cool to use some of the mise to spruce up the burger. He shrugs. "Do your thing." It mellows the disappointment a little: pickled red jalapeños, cilantro aioli, Thai slaw.

What I wouldn't give for a jibarito joint in Shady Palms," I said, ladling heaps of arroz con gandules on my plate. The rice and beans looked so simple, but one bite was like tasting the rice of the gods. Xander groaned. "Oh man, jibaritos. I still haven't mastered making them at home. You'd think it wouldn't be too hard since I can make tostones, but somehow smashing and double-deep-frying plantain discs is different than doing that to a whole plantain to make a sandwich." Jibaritos were a Puerto Rican specialty, consisting of steak or pork, lettuce, tomato, onions, and garlic sauce sandwiched between smashed, fried plantains. They were both simple and utterly decadent, and when a craving hit, nothing else would do.

AT NOON I found Clete sitting at the bar in Clementine’s, a po’boy fried-oyster sandwich on a plate in front of him, a Bloody Mary in a big tumbler with a celery stalk stuck in it by his elbow.

Dinner?" "No." "Jalebi ice cream sandwich?" he called out, referring to one of her favorite childhood treats. Her betraying lips quivered at the corners. "No." "How about a snack? French toast crunch? Scooby Snacks? Trix with extra sugar? Pakoras and pretzels? Roast beef on rye with mustard and three thinly sliced pickles with a side of chocolate milk?" Laughter bubbled up inside her. He had done this almost every day to guess the after-school snack even though she had always taped the weekly family meal plan to the refrigerator door. "Pav bhaji, chaat, panipuri...?" Liam had loved her father's Indian dishes. "I'm not listening." But of course, she was. "Two grilled cheese sandwiches with ketchup and zucchini fries? Masala dosa...?" His voice grew faint as she neared the end of the block. "Cinnamon sugar soft pretzels, tomato basil mozzarella toasts...

I really want my roots to come through in this meal," I said, very conscious of the cameras filming everything I was saying. "I want to make sure viewers and diners"----and investors, please, especially investors----"see everything that the food of my ancestors can be. That Jewish food isn't just matzah ball soup and pastrami sandwiches." So it was with that attitude I went about planning my menu. "I'm thinking my first dish is going to be a tribute to my grandmother," I said. "She was very into chopped liver. I hated it as a kid, for good reason: her chopped liver was bland and gritty." Grandma Ruth hissed in my ear, but I ignored her. "I want to make good chopped liver on good bread with something vinegary and acidic to cut through it. Maybe some kind of pickled fruit, because the judges really loved my pickled cherries in the last round." "How about kumquats?" suggested Kaitlyn. "Or gooseberries?" "I like gooseberries," said Kel. I made a note. "We'll see what they have at the store, since we'll be on a budget. With the second course, Ashkenazi cooking has so many preserved and sometimes weird fish dishes. Think gefilte fish and pickled herring. I've wanted to do my special gefilte fish this whole competition and never got a chance, so I think now's the time." "If not now, when?" Kel said reasonably. "Indeed. And I think coupling it with pickled herring and maybe some other kind of fish to make a trio will create something amazing. Maybe something fried, since the other two parts of the dish won't have any crunch. Or I could just do, like, a potato chip? I do love potatoes." I made another note. "And for the third dish, I'm thinking duck. I want to do cracklings with the duck skin and then a play on borscht, which is what the dish is really about. Beets on the plate, pickled onions, an oniony sauce, et cetera." "Ducks and beets play well together," Kel said, approval warm on their round face.

Two nights in a row, we dine at McDonalds, ordering shrimp burgers, chicken sandwiches, sweet corn, and shaka-chicki----fried chicken in a paper bag with a choice of seasonings.

You're going to love the ham, egg, and chips sandwich," Callum says. "It's Finn's favorite." "Is that what inspired the ham, egg, and chip toasty on your menu?" He whips his head around to peer at the counter, which is empty. "The guy who took our order headed back to the kitchen," I say. "Is everything okay?" "I just didn't want him to overhear and think I'm stealing his recipes. He might ban us from eating here, and then I'd never be able to eat the greatest sandwich ever made again." I roll my eyes. "Come on. It can't be that good." "Just wait." "Honestly, the sandwich you serve is amazing. Your idea to put a layer of fries between the ham and the egg is mind blowing.

At six, Daisy slid the stuffed figs and the pastry-wrapped goat cheese purses into the oven, crammed her feet into a pair of navy-blue high heels, and put a giant straw hat with a navy-blue ribbon on her head. The theme of the party was the Kentucky Derby, even though the Derby itself wasn't until May. At least it had made the menu easy: mint julep punch and bourbon slushies, fried chicken sliders served on biscuits, with hot honey, tea sandwiches with Benedictine spread, bite-sized hot browns, the signature sandwich of Louisville, and miniature Derby pies for dessert.

And Miss Marvina, could you bring me my charger? And something to eat from your kitchen? The food here is horrible." The request for food never landed on better ears. "You got it." Marvina whipped up a batch of chicken salad using some of the chicken breast from the Christmas meal surplus. After peeling off the crispy fried skin, the tender meat made for a perfect light sandwich filling. But just in case Kerresha wanted the extra seasoning flavor, Marvina grabbed her container of seasoning, wrapped sandwiches, a bag of chips, and napkins to take back to the hospital. She made enough chicken salad sandwiches to feed all four of them, including Falcon, as well as anyone else who might want a taste 'cause that's what folks with the gift of hospitality do,

And Miss Marvina, could you bring me my charger? And something to eat from your kitchen? The food here is horrible." The request for food never landed on better ears. "You got it." Marvina whipped up a batch of chicken salad using some of the chicken breast from the Christmas meal surplus. After peeling off the crispy fried skin, the tender meat made for a perfect light sandwich filling. But just in case Kerresha wanted the extra seasoning flavor, Marvina grabbed her container of seasoning, wrapped sandwiches, a bag of chips, and napkins to take back to the hospital. She made enough chicken salad sandwiches to feed all four of them, including Falcon, as well as anyone else who might want a taste 'cause that's what folks with the gift of hospitality do.

Connie and I had vodka gimlets to start, and we both went for Leroy’s special of the day: a grilled grouper sandwich with spicy french fries, served with a salad of Bibb lettuce, red onions, and a vinaigrette sauce. A winner. Connie attacked her food with enthusiasm and didn’t mention a word about proteins, cholesterol, or fat, for which I was thankful. Nutrition nuts are the world’s most boring dining companions. They make every bite a guilt trip, which forces me to gorge to prove my disdain for calories. I mean, if God had wanted us to nibble, He wouldn’t have created veal cordon bleu.

If it had been any other old acquaintance, Abby would have anchored Saturday’s tour with her favorite places to eat. There would have been brunch at Sabrina’s, then some walking, and people-watching. There might have been a trip to the Barnes or the Philadelphia Museum of Art, followed by hummus and fresh pita at Dizengoff or tahini milkshakes at Goldie, then a stroll east to Spruce Street Harbor Park for fried chicken sandwiches at Federal Donuts, ice cream from Franklin Fountain, and drinks at Oasis…

The pandemic exposed key challenges in food delivery. Not all foods travel well even in short distances. Chefs toil to perfect recipes and customers expect the food as it appears on the restaurant website but time in transit distorts. A meatball sub barely survives a few feet let alone a car ride. Tomato sauce spills over the sandwich collecting at the bottom to soak the bread. Barbecue dishes suffer from congealing while nachos arrive both moist and brittle. Calamari grows chewy, mozzarella sticks turn into heavy weapons, and fries arrive limp. The enemy to food delivery, beyond stop lights, is moisture.

Welcome to what? Absolute chaos. “No, I don’t want a scone. Or a sandwich. No, I don’t want lemonade either. No, I don’t— What the hell is that?” “She’s bleeding out! On a table!” “I’m not bleeding out! It’s just a scratch! Stop screaming!” “IRIS IS BLEEDING OUT?” “I’M NOT BLEEDING OUT!” “Ow, ow, ow! You're stepping on my hair, you idiot!” “They’ve become freakish fry-throwing freaks! My own friends! Where did I go wrong?” Lots of screaming, kids running, walking, playing games, talking, throwing things—complete mayhem.

He leaves the house, gets in his car, and drives off, presumably to get a sandwich with a bun made out of fried chicken. It’s at that moment I know that I can no longer be faithful to my husband, because I no longer respect him.

I would like a club sandwich, fries, and your phone number.

Burger and French fries?” Darling asks. The excited uptick in her voice is unmistakable. “Ummm…” The server holds a pencil over a notepad, unsure of what to write. “French…fries?” “Matchsticks,” I tell the girl. “Right. Of course.” She scribbles that down. “And a meat sandwich.” I turn to Darling. “What do you like on your burgers?” “Lettuce?” I can’t help but laugh. “We don’t put leaves on food here.” She grumbles. “Pickles?” “That we do have.” “Ketchup?” “Tomato syrup,” I translate to the server. She nods and continues scribbling. “Tomato syrup?” Darling screws up her mouth, aghast. “What in the hell is that?” “It’s sweet like your ketchup. Just trust me.” “Fine.” She looks up at the server. “A meat sandwich please with pickles and tomato syrup.

Because of you, you’ve waved our magic checkbook, and shrimp is all we’re going to eat! The full Forrest Gump! Shrimp kabobs, shrimp creole, shrimp gumbo, pan fried, deep fried, stir fried. Pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp, shrimp soup, shrimp stew, shrimp salad, shrimp and potatoes, shrimp burgers, and shrimp freaking sandwiches!

Rex and I had sandwiches.” “What did you put inside?” “The sandwiches?” “Yes.” “I don’t think we put anything inside them.” “So they were bread, then? Really they were bread.” “Yes,” he said, laughing as if this was a happy new word he hadn’t come across before. “Did you hear that, Rex? Our sandwiches were bread!

425F. Roll out a pre-made pizza crust and top with marinara sauce, shredded cheese, crumbled bacon, and 2 fried eggs. Bake for 10-12 minutes or until the crust is golden brown. 19 Breakfast sandwich with ham and cheese:

Mini Chicago hot dogs, with all seven of the classic toppings for people to customize. Miniature pita breads ready to be filled with chopped gyro meat and tzatziki sauce. Half-size Italian beef sandwiches with homemade giardiniera my mom put up last summer. We did crispy fried chicken tenders atop waffle sticks with Tabasco maple butter, and two-inch deep-dish pizzas exploding with cheese and sausage. Little tubs of cole slaw and containers of spicy sesame noodles. There are ribs, chicken adobo tacos, and just for kicks, a macaroni and cheese bar with ten different toppings.

We passed an array of stalls selling Belgian chocolates, German sweets, and then French pastries. "The yogashi are the Western-style confections like cakes and pastries. Some of the biggest names from all over the world have stalls here, like Ladurée from France and Wittamer from Belgium. I love going to the depachika for treats. It can be like a cheat weekend trip to Paris or Brussels." "What do the Ex-Brats have when they eat here?" "Hard to say because the Ex-Brats rotation changes all the time. I'm the only girl in our class who has been at ICS-Tokyo for more than five years. People are always moving away. Of the current crew, I never take Ntombi or Jhanvi here. They're always on a diet. So lame. When Arabella was here, we'd come to eat in the Din Tai Fung restaurant one level down. They make these dumplings with purple yams or sweet red bean paste that are just sick they're so delicious." Yams sounded great. I found a food stall I liked and picked out a grilled yam and some fried tempura for lunch. I didn't need Imogen to help me translate. I just pointed at the items I wanted, the counter worker smiled and packaged everything, then showed me a calculator with the amount I owed. I placed my Amex card on the tray the worker handed me, relieved to have had my morning 7-Eleven experience so I was able to observe the proper paying etiquette in front of Imogen. She bought an egg salad sandwich, which was packaged so beautifully you'd think it was jewelry from Tiffany's. It was in a cardboard box that had a flower print on its sides and was wrapped in tight, clear plastic at the top so you could see the sandwich inside. The sandwich had the crusts removed and was cut into two square pieces standing upright in the box, with pieces of perfectly cut fruit arrayed on the side.

In Gina's experience, cheese made everything better- Parmesan on popcorn, crispy fried goat cheese in a salad, a swipe of cream cheese on a toasted bagel, or melted gouda on an egg sandwich. She even liked a dollop of sweetened mascarpone on a slice of warm cherry pie instead of ice cream. But grilled cheese, gooey from the griddle, crisp on the outside, melty on the inside, that was the pinnacle of dairy possibility. No matter how it was dressed up, with balsamic reductions or micro greens, a grilled cheese was still luscious goodness between carbs. Simple, wholesome comfort food at its finest.

Starters Corn chowder with red peppers and smoked Gouda $8 Shrimp bisque, classic Chinatown shrimp toast $9 Blue Bistro Caesar $6 Warm chèvre over baby mixed greens with candy-striped beets $8 Blue Bistro crab cake, Dijon cream sauce $14 Seared foie gras, roasted figs, brioche $16 Entrées Steak frites $27 Half duck with Bing cherry sauce, Boursin potato gratin, pearls of zucchini and summer squash $32 Grilled herbed swordfish, avocado silk, Mrs. Peeke's corn spoon bread, roasted cherry tomatoes $32 Lamb "lollipops," goat cheese bread pudding $35 Lobster club sandwich, green apple horseradish, coleslaw $29 Grilled portabello and Camembert ravioli with cilantro pesto sauce $21 Sushi plate: Seared rare tuna, wasabi aioli, sesame sticky rice, cucumber salad with pickled ginger and sake vinaigrette $28 *Second Seating (9:00 P.M.) only Shellfish fondue Endless platter of shrimp, scallops, clams. Hot oil for frying. Selection of four sauces: classic cocktail, curry, horseradish, green goddess $130 (4 people) Desserts- All desserts $8 Butterscotch crème brûlée Mr. Smith's individual blueberry pie à la mode Fudge brownie, peanut butter ice cream Lemon drop parfait: lemon vodka mousse layered with whipped cream and vodka-macerated red berries Coconut cream and roasted pineapple tart, macadamia crust Homemade candy plate: vanilla marshmallows, brown sugar fudge, peanut brittle, chocolate peppermints

Baby Harper and I were having dinner together, as we had done every Saturday night for close to a year by then. We went into Shelby and sat in our usual booth at Bridges Barbecue Lodge. We each ordered a pulled pork sandwich, a side of coleslaw, fries with an extra order of barbecue sauce for dipping, peach cobbler (only available on Saturdays), and a bottle of Cheerwine, a cherry-flavored cola, bottled in nearby Salisbury, which my great-uncle said brought out the "fruit" in Bridges's sauce. Bridges Barbecue Lodge had two things going for it, which was more than I could say for the other dining options in town, Pizza Inn, Waffle House, Arby's, Roy Rogers, and Hardee's. In the mid-eighties the greater Boiling Springs-Shelby area attracted only the B-list fast-food chains. Bridges was in a league of its own. The first thing that made Bridges special was that, even by the standards of North Carolina barbecue, Bridges's sauce was extraordinarily vinegary, which meant it was extraordinarily good.

There were mini Vienna hot dogs with all the classic Chicago toppings. A macaroni 'n' cheese bar with all kinds of fun add-ins. Cold sesame noodles in tiny white cardboard Chinese take-out containers, sliders served with small cones of skinny fries. Fried chicken legs, barbecued ribs, mini gyros in tiny three-inch pitas. All of it the most delicious and perfectly prepared elevated junk food, complete heaven, and just what I love. She gave us each a bamboo tray with a piece of parchment paper on it to use as plates, and large kitchen tea towels instead of napkins. There were cold beers in a tub, endless bottles of rosé, and a massive birthday cake, chocolate with fluffy vanilla frosting, and rainbow sprinkles. And then, after coffee, mini ice-cream sandwiches on chocolate chip cookies.

She turned and almost bumped into Elvis Presley. He was 9 feet tall, and silver and black. All quiff and narrow hips, angled for danger and sex. No hint of the drugs or the fried peanut-butter-and banana sandwiches to come. Only his youth and beauty were captured here on this canvas, and standing in front of the painting made her feel somehow connected to Elvis.

Squall Squall Squall Squall Squall Squall *flies to the boardwalk* *eats french fry* *steals your sandwich*

After Sims and the footmen had departed, Ethan sat with his back against the tree trunk and watched as Garrett unearthed a feast from the hampers. There were boiled eggs, plump olives, stalks of crisp green celery, jars of pickled carrots and cucumbers, sandwiches wrapped in paraffin paper, cold fried oyster-patties and wafer crackers, jars of finely chopped salads, a weighty round of white cheese, muslin-lined baskets filled with finger cakes and pastry biscuits, a steamed cabinet pudding left in its fluted stoneware mold, and a wide-mouthed glass bottle filled with stewed fruit.

The variety of wares was staggering: stacks of brown haddock fried in batter, pea soup crowded with chunks of salt pork, smoking-hot potatoes split and doused with butter, oysters roasted in the shell, pickled whelks, and egg-sized suet dumplings heaped in wide shallow bowls. Meat pasties had been made in half-circle shapes convenient for hand carrying. Dried red saveloy and polony sausages, cured tongue, and cuts of ham seared with white fat were made into sandwiches called trotters. Farther along the rows, there was an abundance of sweets: puddings, pastries, buns crossed with fat white lines of sugar, citron cakes, chewy gingerbread nuts dabbed with crackled icing, and tarts made with currants, gooseberries, rhubarbs, or cherries. Ransom guided Garrett from one stand to the next, buying whatever caught her interest: a paper cone filled with hot green peas and bacon, and a nugget of plum dough. He coaxed her to taste a spicy Italian veal stew called stuffata, which was so delicious that she ate an entire cup of it.

URUGUAYAN CHIVITO SANDWICH Stack a soft roll with thin slices of caramelized, grilled flank steak, melt mozzarella over the meat under the broiler, then add boiled ham, fried pancetta, diced green olives, sliced hard-boiled egg, thin-sliced onion marinated in vinegar and sugar, lettuce, tomato, and aioli. Cut the sandwich on the bias and serve.