Banh Mi Saigon Sandwich, San Francisco
This is an example of a double-immigration sandwich. The baguette-style roll (lightened with rice flour) emerged in Indochina during French colonization, and the Vietnamese who fled to the United States following the Saigon evacuation in 1975 brought the sandwich to us. Those who shortchange this relatively new sandwich as a "Southeast Asian hoagie" underestimate the importance of the distinctive flavorings, such as sweet red barbecued pork sprinkled with slivers of lightly pickled cucumber and carrot and seasoned with jalapeños and cilantro. The increasing popularity of banh mi parallels waves of Vietnamese immigration: to Hawaii, the West Coast, and to the Eastern Seaboard. The best are still found in their own ethnic neighborhoods, usually in small storefronts like Saigon Sandwich in San Francisco, where two surprises await. The good one: banh mi here are less than $3 a piece. The other: the counterwomen often take orders from every person in line and then make all the sandwiches at one time. Waiting is the same in any language. But it's worth every minute. 560 Larkin St.; 415/474-5698; lunch for two $8.
Italian Beef Al's #1 Italian Beef, Chicago
Embrace Chicago's two-fisted frontier philosophy at Al's # 1 Italian Beef in its landmark Taylor Street location. There are no seats at Al's—but then you can't really eat an Italian beef sandwich sitting down. Instead, unwrap your lunch and spread the paper out on the counter in front of you. Lean the top of your body forward (over the counter) so the juices drip onto the paper (instead of on you). The stand is run by the grandsons of founder Anthony Ferreri, a turn-of-the-century sandwich peddler. Unlike East Coast sandwiches featuring cured pork, Ferreri had plenty of Chicago stockyards beef to choose from. His legacy is top sirloin butt oven-roasted in water with garlic and "secret" seasonings to make the flavorful juice in which the sandwiches are dipped. The stack of thinly sliced beef, as tender as a meat mille-feuille, is enhanced by giardiniera, a fermented vegetable relish made with hot peppers and celery so finely shaved that the mixture melts away when it hits the hot sliced beef, soaking it with tart, fiery flavor. 1079 Taylor St.; 312/226-4017; lunch for two $14.
Jibarito Borinquen Restaurant, Chicago
According to the 2000 census, the Windy City is home to one of the biggest Puerto Rican communities in this country, and the changing metropolis has a new sandwich: the jibarito, found in the tightly knit Puerto Rican community of Humboldt Park. Drive along Paseo Boricua, a mile-long stretch of the Division Street corridor (anchored by a 59-foot-high steel sculpture of the Puerto Rican flag), and you'll pass several places advertising themselves as La Casa del Jibarito. But it is Borinquen Restaurant owner Juan C. Figueroa (known as Peter) who can take credit for the success of both the sandwich and the restaurant, since he chalks up his recent expansion to jibarito sales. The sandwich's innovative "bread" is made from twice-fried green plantains, sliced and pressed into a rough rectangular shape and brushed with garlic and oil. Fillings are more traditional: pork cooked slowly, in the Cuban style; chicken fried, then chopped, skin and all. The jibarito is an unusual reversal of the typical sandwich textures: creamy on the outside (the plantain "bread") and chewy on the inside. It is also an odd blend of old and new—the Latin ingredients are diluted by a layering of pedestrian American fixins' (iceberg lettuce, unripe tomatoes, American cheese, mayo). Judging from the crowded tables, the jibarito is well on its way to becoming a local institution. After all, that's how immigrant culture spreads in this country, one sandwich at a time. 1720 California Ave.; 773/227-6038; lunch for two $15.
FRANCINE MAROUKIAN also writes for Esquire and Town & Country.
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