The Tucson Homeskillet Celebrates H-E-B, The Greatest Grocery Store In The Known (Western) Universe!

The first time I walked into an HEB supermarket I knew I had discovered something amazing.

Not too sure how to differentiate it from other large grocery stores with aisles of fresh produce, fresh baked goods, fresh deli meats, fresh everything and just being so funky fresh...but HEB has a certain quality to it that immediately grabbed me and made us feel at home.

It's like the first time I heard Black Sabbath, or bit into a real pastrami sandwich; that feeling that the Almighty has reached down, touched your heart and stomach and announced:

"This! This is where you belong!"

Yes. The HEB is where I belong.

It's where we all belong...

Picnic foods ready to go? Oh, this is only the beginning.

It was maybe 7 or 8 years ago, like 2008 or 2009 (?), when I stepped foot into the flagship store in Kerrville Texas. She-Ra and I were in town to visit her grandparents who have lived in Kerrville for many years. In fact, her grandfather's family can be traced back generations in the near sleepy Texas hill country territory as it is a hot bed for German immigrants who have set up shop there and the nearby populace of Fredricksburg making the location a go to for eastern European fare and fun.

Sure Kerrville is in Texas but it kind of doesn't feel like a real "Texas" town. If it didn't have the Texas state flag everywhere to remind us that we are in the lone star state, this quiet municipality could be along the coast of northern California or a tree lined borough skimming the eastern seaboard.

Most Texas cities to me are sprawling metropolitan conglomerates or hipster hubs, all soaked in BBQ sauce and beer (nothing wrong with that though...) and over run with ironic beards, huge hats and folks driving tucks that block out the sun they're so obnoxiously wide and jacked tall.

Kerrville is kind of the opposite of all of that. Sort of.

There are big trucks everywhere...but that's just Texas.

What are you going to do?

Never ending bins of hot wings...YAY!

But Texas is lucky. Why? Because it's mainly the only state where you can shop, admire, love, gawk at and embrace the awesomeness that is the HEB.

And I think they have no idea how lucky they are to have the HEB in their immediate zone. Do they? I sure hope so. But I don't think so.

They probably do.

Anyway, the place has just got...everything. In an unpretentious, welcoming environment, HEB stands alone in the full service, full throttle, full on fully store that entices, inspires and entrances those that walk through their doors and envelops them in a food world of edible bewitchment and flavorful retail divinity.

Or...something like that.

Oh HEB...is there anything you can't do?

No. No there really isn't...

Yes...more buffet style vittles!

"So what is this HEB you speak of?"

Well, if you're not from Texas or frequent the big ol' state where Ozzy peed on the Alamo, you may not be familiar with what HEB really is.

Here.

Let me give you a quick history lesson:

There aint nothing cheesy about fromage.

A lady by the name of Florence Butt (yes...that's the B in HEB) opened a store called the CC Butt Grocery Store, in Kerrville, back in 1905. Pretty unfortunate name right? Well, it wasn't until her youngest son, Howard Edward (yep, that would be the H.E.) took the store over in 1919 that it began to find mild success. Thing is, ol' Howard tried to expand the shop into other locations way too soon after doing so and all of them fell flat and had to close.

But in 1927 when Howie opened a store in Del Rio, Texas, his name and his franchise began to take off. Hence the HEB started to become, well...the HEB.

Now HEB has expanded into other names and trades, yet still sticking with the service and food industry, and is worth several billion dollars in stock.

Now that's just good Texas business know how if you ask me.

Yeehaw!

Fresh baked bread as far as the nose can smell.

But enough of all that "business" stuff...we don't care about that. What we really love about the HEB is, well...everything else.

First off the deli counter is one of the finest I have ever witnessed and consumed. And the deli is a big thing for me. Like big.

Always staffed with friendly and skilled workers, the selection of meats and cheeses rivals any corporate name store in any town or even some of the smaller names that I pride myself to be a regular patron of.

(Apologies to any and all delis here in Tucson that start with the word 'Sausage')

The bread comes straight from the ovens of the adjacent bakery and the extensive line of product, again, is some of the best and freshest we've had.

(Again, apologies to those local bread companies that begin with Beyond and Barrio)

But check this out: They have a full service sushi counter with a sushi chef that is right there making the rolls that he/she packages up and is ready for you to take home and devour. They have this one roll, the Firecracker Roll, that is topped with, get this, flamin' hot Cheetos. And you know what? It's delicious!

I mean...c'mon. Fantastic right?

Well...we think so.

Gosh.

No, really, there is a sushi chef making these...really.

'So what', you might be telling and shrugging to yourself. So what?

Other stores have services and product like the ones I'm mentioning at the HEB. High end shops always have chefs and sommeliers at the ready to guide you into a blissful food and wine coma.

OK, fine. HEB, at least the ones that I have visited so far, does not have a sommelier nor does it need one. HEB isn't super fancy, by any means, but it is a step, or few steps, beyond the wake of most super markets, local or global.

So why do we love the HEB so much? Hmm...

It's like trying to describe how you feel when you're at a really good concert and they are playing your favorite songs or putting a new engine into some classic car you just bought from some cruster on the side of the road who was just going to junk the darn thing or that feeling of driving that car once it's up and running and cruising along the coast as all eyes enviously watch you and your magic rig glide happily across the surface of a wind swept, ocean kissed highway.

It's like that. Kind of.

But with food and booze.

From the nearby rivers and right to your face.

The best part about the HEB is that there is usually some kind of food demonstration going on. A talented cook can be found in the round kiosk towards the center of the store, grilling up and tossing together a grand heap of featured items and seasonal fare. Not only do you get to witness such badassery, but you get to interact with the cook and then sample what they are putting together all with the idea that if this person in the floppy chef's hat wearing a microphone can do it...so can you.

By the way, this meat product is on sale and you can find the olive oil on aisle 5.

To round it all off, the kiosk is surrounded with recipe cards, all filled with easy and inventive dishes, most of which end up in our never ending and always expanding book of ingredients, techniques and cooking ideas.

Thanks HEB. That Asian inspired salmon dish was just delightful...

Texas loves them some meat...like, they love them some meat.

Here's the thing:

We need an HEB here in Tucson. Why you may ask? Because.

Because we just do.

AJ's is fine but way too pricey and a bit out of the way. Basha's is alright but would be better if it had regular food demonstrations and an area dedicated to bacon jam and locally jarred pickles (as does the HEB has). Food City is the absolute favorite of ours but the one in our neighborhood, midtown, corner of 1st Ave. and Ft. Lowell, closed down and is being primed for demolition.

You know what's being built in its stead?

A "Neighborhood" Walmart.

Yeah. You heard right.

Another stinking Walmart.

Ugh.

Local products stocked mile high.

You know what would be amazing at the corner of 1st Ave. and Ft. Lowell? That's right...

An HEB!

Sure a Neighborhood Walmart is going to do well in that spot...heck, anything at this point is a welcome addition to that scrub of a pocked marked parking lot. That old Food City has been shut down and sitting dead for over a year now and is a constant reminder of all the good times we had there from years past. It's going to be nice to see that area come back to life, even if it is at the hands of (blerf) frikkin' Walmart.

But an HEB. Oh, just imagine the possibilities! It would be glorious. Midtown would convert from a brokedown meth toilet to an upscale meth "spa". That questionable vicinity could be the new Foothills...or at least various nooks and crannies of Oro Valley. Okay, maybe some east side condo laden neighborhoods. Kinda.

But...you get the idea!

Our recipe book is packed with these things.

It is here that we start the campaign and imploring to the higher ups at the HEB:

Please come to Tucson!

No really. Texas (and certain areas in Mexico) are fine and all but none, NONE!, are a designated city of gastronomy. You know what city is the first to be honored with that distinction?

We are! Tucson!

It's too late to find a home on 1st and Ft. Lowell, but I'm sure you can find a spot, oh....anywhere else! But just be sure that you are sort of close to our neighborhood so we don't have to drive too far to get to you.

It's bad enough driving a half hour for a taco served out of a gas station. And let me tell you, that is one fine taco. But the car travel is getting silly.

So I'm sure you can find a grand location in some bulldozed central or midtown Tucson neighborhood because, believe me, you would do great here in Tucson HEB.

Sprouts? Meh. Whole Foods? So done. Trader Joes? Okay, we do like Trader Joes but...they don't sell soft shell crabs or crawdads still wriggling and pinching in the briny sea water they were caught in.

But the HEB does! Whee!

If they came to Tucson, you'd see me doing this.

So hear us out Tucson and those who make all the decisions at HEB:

Set up shop here in the Old Pueblo.

It's a win-win situation and you could use the expansion territory and we could use a HEB. Everyone could use an HEB. The world would be a better place with more HEBs.

But start here in Tucson.

Think about it HEB. Think about it.

For now you kids reading this will just have to travel to Kerrville to fully experience the majesty that is the HEB. Once you do, you'll want one in your neighborhood too.

Trust me here.

Thank you for reading this and thank you HEB. Thank you for just being you.

Did we mention that we love the HEB?

Because, well...we do.

Cheers!

The Tucson Homeskillet loves HEB!

Camera, Typing, Shopping and Worshiping
"Metal" Mark Whittaker
 Road Trip in Early August, 2016

Metal Influence:  

SLEEP

"Holy Mountain"

Metal Mark Celebrates the Memory of His Dad Through A Small Kitchen Item He Thought Was Long Gone...

My Dad was a great guy.

According to the picture below, he was the king. In high school, my Dad was "King of the Twist", a popular dance back in the early '60s and was also king of the school's theater department, as an actor and resident artist.

Pretty cool, yeah?

My Dad...the king

My Dad was born in West Virginia but moved to Southern California with his parents and younger brother when he was a teenager. He fit in pretty quickly, not with the popular crowd or the jocks but with the creative types, the artists, the actors, back then basically known as Beatniks, later to be called Hippies.

Even as a young guy my Dad knew he was different, which is why he fit in nicely with the "weirdos".

After high school my Dad was drafted into the Army and almost went to Vietnam. According to him, he was so bad at driving Jeeps and throwing grenades that they decided to pardon him and send him back home.

If you knew my Dad, I can't picture him driving military vehicles or tossing bombs at people either. He was a real loving and peaceful sort, the total opposite of what was going on overseas at the time.

Early acting shenanigans

After the Army, my Dad ended up moving to the central coast of California, winding up in a (then) quaint little beach town called Carmel. Nowadays it's a playground and residence for the very wealthy but in the late '60s it was still a funky coastal city filled with artists and beach bums. He fit right in.

It was around this time living around the Monterey Peninsula that my Dad began to excel at his acting and became a locally popular cartoonist and painter. He was involved with a traveling children's theater troupe and did all of the artwork on the flyers and posters for their shows.

 When my Dad met my Mom, who was a very talented costume designer and maker, he knew she was the one and shortly after they were married in a small, and very 1960's, ceremony on the coast. My Dad's wedding shirt had embroidered mirrors in it. Yeah. 

Not too long after, I came along.

Dad in "A Christmas Carol"

My parents moved back to Los Angeles to try and make it in their craft, my Mom the costume designer and my Dad the actor/artist, but just ended up getting divorced. I was four.


My Mom at the time was really busy with fashion school so my Dad got custody of me. He did all he could to raise me but ended up not acting as much and taking a full time job. He still liked to doodle though. That was something he never gave up on.

After I graduated elementary school, my Dad and I moved back to the central coast and ended up in a (then) agriculture city called Salinas. It was here that he got back into acting as I developed my obsession with hardcore Punk and Metal. I was a good kid but my hair, clothes and records I owned made him roll his eyes on a daily basis.

Still, we were best pals.

My Dad, me and my Xmas Big Wheel (check the carton of smokes on the old tube TV...70's style)

By the time I graduated high school my Dad officially came out to me as a gay man. At first I was confused and worried about what my friends would say, but I knew all along of who he was and what he was. When I got into theater school myself, surrounded by gay people and folks from all various walks of life, I totally embraced him and was proud of his lifestyle. And when he met his soon to be husband, Richard, all I wanted was for my Dad to be happy.

And he was.

Richard and my Dad had a commitment ceremony in Carmel in 1990 and then moved to Palm Springs soon after. In 2013, after the same sex marriage law passed, they were officially and legally married.

As the year progressed Richard's health diminished and in early 2014 he died from complications of Alzheimer's. My Dad was devastated, heartbroken, and when She-Ra and I went to visit him after his loss, we kind of knew what was to happen next.

Unfortunately.

My Dad died a month later, literally from a broken heart, so I immediately went back to their place in Palm Springs to start to take care of things. I ended up donating most of their stuff to local charities and selling some antiques and the car to collectors. Honestly, after all the time I had to hang out with my Dad, I only kept a few small items for myself: A painting of him as Mordred when he was in "Camelot", some vintage 3-D glasses and Hollywood memorabilia he had in storage seeing as he loved old movie posters and gimmicks, some cast iron pots and pans as Richard was a southern boy and loved to cook good down home food...as do we, so cooking with his trusted cast iron skillets meant we were keeping that tradition going.

Unexpectedly, in a fit of sadness clearing out more of their stuff, I ended up keeping just one other thing. A strange yet oddly significant item from the past that I thought was long gone.

It was my Dad's old recipe box.

The little recipe box

Here's the thing: My Dad kind of didn't like food.

He hated all condiments such as mustard, ketchup, relish and mayo. All of it really. Tomatoes made him barf because he couldn't get over the squishy jelly in them. "It looks like they're in the larval stage," he would say. Plus most any "exotic" or "ethnic" food made him cringe. Growing up in the 'burbs of Los Angeles, I was lucky to have all sorts of diverse friends, Black, Asian, Jewish, Mexican etc, so when I hung out at their homes or spent the night there I was treated to tastes and foods that I would otherwise never get a chance to try.

It was here that my food fanaticism began to take over.

When I tried sushi and loved it and told him about it, my Dad simply said "You don't like sushi." Or when I discovered pastrami and knew I would be in love with it for the rest of my life, he would scoff "You don't like pastrami," as he dished up another Swanson's TV dinner. On and on. It wasn't until I lit out on my own that he gave in and accepted my culinary adventurousness, especially my time working as a chef.

Which makes this small yellow recipe box such a curiosity.

Pecos Pasta, a favorite of his to cook since it was easy, hearty and cheap

It's always been in the house, always somewhere in the kitchen, usually on top of the fridge. I have never known a day when this square case with mushrooms etched on the sides wasn't around in his, or my, life. The fact that he kept it all these years is a flummox too. In his later years, my Dad rarely if ever cooked. I knew Richard did, but my Dad? Not so much.

Thing is, when I was flipping through the dozen or so recipes filed away, I did start to recall him cooking up dishes from the little yellow box. He often made something called Pecos Pasta, which was literally elbow macaroni covered in chili and cheese and he did like to make vasts of his spaghetti sauce, which kept my spazzy little self fed for days after hours of playing outside or skateboarding til just after dark. Just add some noodles and cheese and, blammo, you got yourself a meal.


Oh, I see it now. Cheese, some kind of sauce and pasta. That was the mainstay of recipes in that little yellow box.

Gotcha.

My Dad seems to be having more fun at Disneyland than I was

Funny thing is, there really isn't much to my Dad's old recipe box. A few handwritten dishes, some cut outs from magazines, my grandmother's (his mom's) recipe for fudge and my Mom's secret recipe for her lemon cheese bars that she makes every holiday season.

On the last day of being in my Dad's house after he passed, before coming back to Tucson, I found the old recipe box hidden away in a cabinet in the kitchen. I just stood there, in the nearly empty shell of their Palm Springs bungalow, in that kitchen, staring at the object from my childhood, this old recipe box, crying. Losing one Dad and then my real Dad in less than two months? I too was devastated. But for some reason finding this little object that was a staple in our kitchens, be it in Los Angeles, Salinas, Carmel or Palm Springs, made me know he was still with me and it now has a home with us in Tucson.

It sits on the windowsill in our own little kitchen in Tucson, surrounded by my weird regrowth experiments such as green onion nubs, lettuce bulbs and such, seeing if life will grow from their scraps. I can see the little yellow recipe box every morning when I open the curtains to let the early light in. Its a simple little thing, square and very '70s with its bright color and that mushroom motif, but it makes me smile every time I see it because it reminds me of my Dad and how awesome he was, even if he was a bit frightened of food.

For that factor alone its size becomes immeasurable.

But I have yet to make his famous "Nacho Fondue". I mean, I live in Tucson, so...

Well maybe someday.

Just some of the recipes from that funky yellow box

Thank you Dad for trying your best to raise me and thanks for all of the food you made from that little yellow recipe box. You will be missed but now that I have it safe and in sight in our own home, I know you are always there every time I let the morning sun into our favorite room in our home:

The kitchen.

Happy Father's Day everyone! Now go hug your Dad and make some chili. Then throw it on some pasta and top it with cheese.

It's what my Dad would want.

Cheers...

That's my Dad...he was one of a kind

Camera, Uploads and Remembering
"Metal" Mark Whittaker
Right before Father's Day, 2016


Metal Tribute:

QUEEN

"Father to Son"

What's That Smell? Oh, It's Romance In The Air!

It's that time again Homeskillet fans. Time to get snoogy woogy with your bestest love muffin, dole out perforated cards stating pre-drafted sentiment like "Use the force...and be mine!" and above all spend your hard earned dollar on big plush bears, dyed pink, scented like roses with doughy wet eyes holding a heart that says "I Wuv Wou!"

That's right! It's Valentine's Day and we at the Tucson Homeskillet are all about romance. We love food. We love booze. We love Metal. And...uh...well I'm sure there's more to life but at the time being we can't really think of anything else.

That said, the Tucson Homeskillet is here to help those that are stuck on what to do to court that special someone. It's not widely known, but Tucson is the romance capital of, um, anywhere between Phoenix and Nogales. Betcha didn't know that did you? Well...now you do! Yes, this fine city is chock full of enchantment and beguiling charms of the heart. In fact, the word Tucson comes from the native people's word for "city by the hills" and history has shown those hills were the curvaceous rump of a lovely O'odham lass named Becky who was the peach in a missionary named Rondor's eyes as he killed her family because they did not believe in Jesus. Afterwards, he put beans and mayo on a hot dog and, well, the rest you know.

So here are some things we came up with to get yourself magically whisked away into a incandescent rainbow colored tsunami of love and unplanned bulges as young hearts race and long term marriages begin to go through that "should we try something...weird...to make this work?" phase of their commitment. Yes, let us guide you into the thudding abyss of silk sheets, scattered flower petals and some hitchhiker named "Cody" and wiggle down the choo-choo tracks of  lust and questionable charges on your credit card.

You ready? Well bend over Methuselah because here comes the cupid juice!

Ignite The Passion At Furr's Family Buffet

When you walk through the door you and your valentine will be suddenly transported into another world. Bask in the glory as the local elders take in heaps of steamy "food" and cram it down with bottomless ice tea refills all the while getting confused by the sneeze guard. The look on the servers face alone with tell you what's on their mind: They're not in it for the money, oh no. They are in it for the excitement of it all, the occasional "Thank you sweetie" and waking up grandpa Jack when he goes face first in the pea soup.

The best part is that you two can gaze longingly into each others eyes over a potato product of some kind, knowing that you are, or are becoming, a couple as tables are nearly unoccupied let for one lonely soul, still looking for their mate I guess. Yes, even those in their golden years are still on the market as they stab green beans and enjoy the fine music of yesterday played through a dying Casio in speakers from the Nixon era. Sometimes the solitary dreamer just stares out into the ether wondering what the heck they just ate and where might their long lost heart's desire reside. Here at Furr's Family Feedbag, the old and companionless sit for hours doing just that and isn't it high time to get your fantastic journey of tender submission to the sweet gods of amour underway? We think so...

It also helps if you play old Tom Waits while eating and looking at the single seniors sitting on naugahyde and enjoying 1950's inspired cuisine.  It makes for lovely cabaret.

Take A Romantic Stroll Down Miracle Mile

Nothing says "Oh la la" like vintage neon signs, bowling alley churros and a $9 prostitute wearing a neck brace. Yes, Miracle Mile is a lovers stroll down the city's history. Just take it all in. No really, just lean your head back and breathe in deep.

Quite pungent isn't it? That's decades of frolic and antics from yesteryear. Sure there's the refurbished Monterey Court with it's newfangled shops and fruity art galleries along with that hoity toity cafe of theirs, but that's not what you're looking for, right? No! You're looking for an authentic Tucson adventure to ease your date into a state of wonder followed by a woozy foray that could almost be described as "straight roofied".

Might we suggest taking a tour of the historic Ghost Ranch? We might.

These days it isn't a ranch at all. In fact it's better than a ranch. It's an apartment complex!

Think about all the fun you kids can have by just knocking on doors and making new friends! It's like an instant Valentine's Day party. All you gotta do is knock, introduce yourselves, walk right in and help yourself to whatever is in the fridge. Perhaps going through their medicine cabinet can be the start of a muy romantico evening. What's that on the TV? A 'Criminal Minds' marathon? I say it's time to sit down on that couch with your new apartment pal, kick back and enjoy. Maybe slowly put your arm around your date as the man in the brown terrycloth robe phones the authorities. Smooth move there Don (or Joan) Juan.

After the cops take down your information and set you two loose on the streets, you need to embrace some of the higher quality culture that Miracle Mile boasts. This can only mean one thing:

It's time to take in the local dance theater that is TD's Showclub.

Ballerinas have nothing on these prima dancers, let me tell you. First of all, ballerinas don't glisten and shimmer with fairy dust, these ladies do. Ballerinas can't shimmy up and down a fireman's pole and do all sorts of Cirque du Soleil gymnastics as the dancers here can. And I'm sure ballerinas don't make that much money because these light on their feet fillies literally have cold hard cash thrown at them and all they have to do is become art models for a moment and sometimes wow you with their derriere dexterity. Really, it's quite the spectacle. One cheek goes this way, the other in another bouncy direction. Now that's talent!

If you two love birds get hungry, nothing says "I've got a crush on you" like various chicken parts doused in Tabasco water, or "here's lookin' at you kid" much like hockey pretzels slathered in a fine duck butter glaze and served with a kiddie pool filled with cheese squirt, all served up by a lady that didn't make the dancer cut so now she cuts herself at night just so she can feel something. Yessir. There's a bit of ol' Old Pueblo magic at TD's and when the coke raids start at midnight, you know your love will last forever.

Plus there are plenty of places to sleep on Miracle Mile, when that time arrives (wink wink). For less than $20 you can rest your love soaked head down on some rubber matted sheets and enjoy the rhythmical pastorale of folks expressing their Second Amendment rights, enthusiastically and more often than you anticipated. You'll find it hard to beat saying "good night dear one" like an angry pimp trying to explain to his female employee that she has not provided enough payment for the evening and he is now just wondering where the other payments might be residing. The coo of her desperate pleas will inspire many cloud puffed dreams as your neighbors violently make love to one another and call out the name of our Lord whilst the rapping of their headboard offsets the almost Christmas-like lights from squad cars fill your room with the warm glow of sheer heart racing bewitchment.

They don't call it "Miracle Mile" for nothing. The sheer benediction of this long stretch of road can only bring couples closer, reignite the passions of those long married and entice those that just locked eyes and know they will be together forever. And if that isn't a miracle...we don't want to know what one is.

Except for that one drunk guy warbling Dire Straits down at karaoke night at Nevada Smith's Saloon some evening. That wasn't just a miracle. It was something else making angels weep. Hopefully he will be available to croon you two into marital bliss because only true love can follow Chad from accounting five-rums-in squelching "Man in the Mirror". Let his song be your drift into wedded rapture!

Enjoy Our Signature Valentine's Cocktail 

Okay lovebirds, time for a nitecap. 

He likes beer while she prefers a good stiff drink. You are both reeling from the evening and noticed that you filled your pocket full of gravy from Furr's which just makes you two laugh and laugh. Not wanting to waste anything, especially this delicious and sensuous moment, you decide to make everyone happy so here is what you will need to set the mood for a night you will never forget:

1 part Rumple Minze

1 part Four Loko Malt Liquor Energy Drink

That day old gravy

Shake the Rumple Minze and Four Loko together. Strain in a dirty glass you got at the swap meet. Top with the gravy. Serve and enjoy. 

And what is the name of this mighty potion of desire?

A Rumple Four Skin

You're welcome Tucson. 

Happy Valentine's Day!

Typing and Uploads
"Metal" Mark Whittaker
Valentine's Day, 2016

Metal Influence:

GWAR

"I Hate Love Songs"

Pastrami: Ode To A Lifelong Obsession

Just to let you know, I have had pastrami sandwiches from all over the United States. Yes, I have been to Carnegie Deli and Katz's in New York (which I touch on), but what you are about to read is my pastrami obsession from the different places I have lived in, both here in Tucson and back in California. Think of it as a "where can a pastrami hooked kid get a decent sandwich in his neighborhood?". Makes it a bit more intimate don't you think?

I think so.

Anyway, the sandwiches I have had in New York and beyond were amazing (although I do think the Carnegie is a bit overrated, I mean, c'mon, it's a tourist spectacle at this point, that tower of meat is just silly...yet delicious) but here is a nod to all of the pastrami sandwiches from around my blocks.

Thank you pastrami, past, present and sandwiches yet to be consumed. You...you made me the man I am today. You...you complete me.

Young Metal Mark and his early pastrami filled belly in repose in Los Angeles

Not too sure, but I think it came from a movie. Or perhaps a TV show I saw.

Somebody was eating a pastrami sandwich and it just looked heavenly. At the age of 8 or 9 the only deli meat I was accustomed to was bologna that came in clear plastic silos, "ham" and the frozen meat surrogate enigma also known as Steak-Umm. Living with my dad, who was famously known for being quite terrified of most foods, he kept the fridge stocked with glistening slabs he thought a spazzy little KISS listening to kid would enjoy for lunch or snack. I had little time to care about the menu in the house; between playing outside, going to school, getting high score on Donkey Kong or trying to get my Thief/Magic User to the next level, as long as I was eating, I was content.

Here's the thing though: I grew up in Glendale, CA, a pleasant suburb in Los Angeles. My friends were really diverse, culturally, so I was extremely lucky in that capacity. When I spent the night at any one of their houses, I was treated to trips of varied cuisines from around the globe.

Monte was Hispanic and through his mom and family I had my first tamale and authentic taco, not the yellow greased meat stuffed variety at Taco Bell (which was right next to the arcade I frequented so I have had my share, believe me) and they were fantastic. Victor was Korean so marinaded pork and rice with kimchi, hot and cold noodles, spicy soups and squid, squid! I ate squid!, were suspicious at first but divine. Michael was Italian so real pasta with real sauces and real meatballs made fresh by a real Italian mother changed the way I look and treat food to this day.

That's why when I saw that guy on the TV eat a pastrami sandwich, I knew I had to have one. Just think of it as a calling of sorts.

At a little corner deli, the pastrami craze took hold

Luckily, just a few blocks from where we lived, right across from my elementary school, was a little corner deli called the LA Cafe. When I walked in I was greeted by the ding-a-ling of a bell and a smiling Vietnamese lady behind the counter. The place smelled exotic, like a combination of steaming meats, fresh bread and heavy mustard; familiar yet strange at the same time. It was quite small so all of the ingredients, I'm sure, were packed tight together and with the front door always closed, along with an old oscillating fan working on a table in the distance, the scent of the place immediately drew me in and for some reason I knew I had found something special.

I got a small sandwich, like 6 inches, hot, with yellow mustard, tomatoes and Provolone cheese, which is what the guy on TV was eating...I think. The nice lady quickly went to work and after a few minutes my first pastrami sandwich was in front of me. After taking a seat near a window, I nervously picked up the soft roll packed deep with cured meat and took a bite.

Even at that young age, I knew I had found what I had been looking for - food wise that is. Whatever that movie or TV show that I wanted to sandwich emulate did nothing for what I was experiencing at that moment. That sandwich was beyond any fast food burger or sweet treat from the U-Tote-M market. So young, yet I had found my calling. Food wise, of course.

That night when my dad came home I told him about my new found love of pastrami.

"You don't like pastrami," he claimed as he put a Swanson's Salisbury steak dinner in front of me.

"Uh. Yeah I do."

"Since when?"

Even after telling him the extended story, he was still convinced that I was lying somehow about my love for that sandwich. Maybe because at that age I changed my love of things quite often. I was a Cub Scout for exactly a week, I wanted cello lessons and went once, Power Lord action figures were quickly replaced by Masters of the Universe. Stuff like that.

"You don't like pastrami."

But this phase I knew would stick.

The addiction taken to a new level

When my mom got word that I was now a pastrami fiend, she only had one thing to say:

"Oh, you like pastrami? Well we need to take you to Langer's then."

Apparently this place she was taking me to was famous for their pastrami sandwiches. Whatever. I was content with my little corner place, with the nice Vietnamese family that always greeted me with warm smiles and after a couple of visits all she would ask in broken English was "Pastrami?" All I had to do then was nod and she'd deliver another perfect sandwich to my 9 year old chubby face.

Langer's Deli was different. It was bigger. Much bigger. And packed with people. On a late afternoon on Alvarado Street in the MacArthur Park area of Los Angeles, there was a line out the door. So we shuffled through with the rest of the hungry crowd, eventually getting to the counter.

There it was, in a big sign over the bustling sandwich line, proclaiming: The #19, World's Best Pastrami Sandwich".

Okay mister number nineteen. Let's see what you got.

The Langer's Deli #19, a sandwich game changer for this kid

It was rough but we luckily found a table by walking around the busy restaurant a bit. After sitting down among the throngs of blissful eaters, I scooted my chair in, took a look at my pastrami sandwich and made a face. It didn't look like the sandwich I got from the LA Cafe. This was on seeded rye bread, no cheese, just mustard and served with a dill pickle. But, whatever. I was hungry and curious to know what World Famous pastrami tasted like.

After taking a bite...yep. It tasted like this.

The flavor on the meat was different but so much deeper in quality and excellence. The bread was soft and chewy and I didn't even miss the cheese or tomatoes. Mom then explained what Kosher was, that dairy couldn't be anywhere near the meat, which I found strange but didn't care. Luckily I had a few Jewish friends so from then on I always had them take me to their favorite Kosher deli for a pastrami sandwich when we got the chance. Most were good, but none compared to the #19 at Langer's.

Oh sure, I still went to my little Vietnamese family down the street, but only because it was so close and they knew exactly what I wanted when I walked in with the tinkling of that bell. But when I bit into the oh so familiar taste of the LA Cafe sandwich, I knew there were pastrami adventures just waiting for me out there, and Langer's had planted that seed of exploration.

Then, without warning, the little corner deli closed down.

Soon after, my dad and I moved from Los Angeles to a town near my hometown, Carmel, called Salinas,  and my pastrami prospects didn't look too good.

At the time, ToGo's was the only pastrami game in town

Salinas, for quite some time, was the hub of farming in central California. In fact, Salinas had the nickname of "The Lettuce Bowl" because there were nothing but lettuce fields everywhere. In my big city/small town displacement and creeping adolescence, my love of Hard Rock turned to Speed and Thrash Metal, my love of New Wave turned to Hardcore Punk and my youthful skateboarding around town progressed into a full thrasher lifestyle. This is where cute little Mark began forming into Metal Mark and my angst was only offset by the lack of a decent deli in Salinas.

Oh sure, there were plenty of good Mexican restaurants, which was great, and lots of cheap fast food and donut shops that served pizza, but what I really missed was my longtime friend the pastrami sandwich. Only trips to LA to visit my mom were I treated to good delis and Langer's, but around Salinas in the mid-80s, there was only one game in town.

It was called ToGo's and was a local west coast chain. The first time I walked into a ToGo's my first reaction was 'I don't like the smell.' It had this fake meat and hard plastic aroma but I was desperate to find a good pastrami sandwich within skating distance and there was one just a few blocks from my school, much like the little corner deli I missed so much back in Glendale.


The sandwich was...fine. Not horrible, not great, but good enough to satiate my eternal craving for pastrami. Luckily, when high school rolled around, I had friends that would go to work for ToGo's and often enough would get the occasional "hook up" on the pastrami front. But it wasn't the same. It lacked character and fresh flavor and was also kind of drippy. And when my mom moved from LA to Wilmington, Delaware, her home city and state, to be closer to her family, I knew I was in trouble.

The ToGo's pastrami sandwich...meh, but fine when the cravings came, which was often

In the post high school stage of my life there were various holidays back east to visit my mom, which meant trips to New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, etc. It was at these bustling metropolises I tried a variety of foods; the cheesesteaks in Philly, Chicago dogs, New York style pizza, all that. One thing was for sure though...I got me some fantastic pastrami sandwiches, especially in New York. My favorite was at Katz's Deli on East Houston street. It was a lot like Langer's; loud, busy, brimming with life, very Kosher and most importantly, had an amazing pastrami sandwich. The meat tower over at the Carnegie was just silly to me and the vibe there was way too touristy. Katz's though. That was my east coast jam.

After "dabbling" in college, I moved to San Francisco in 1995 which made me more excited than ever because I knew the food scene there was unbeatable. My pastrami addiction moved to Mission Style Burritos and if you've ever had a Mission Style Burrito, you know why. Still though, I needed to feed the pastrami beast that still lived inside me. I searched the local papers and publications looking for a real deli, when the internet became, well, the internet, I did online searches for the best pastrami in town, I asked locals where I should go, what I should eat and which bus line did I need to get on. Honestly, at that juncture in San Francisco, there wasn't a whole lot of options.

Except one.

A second home in SF if you will

Tommy's Joynt rested on the corner of Geary and Van Ness and was famous for their huge cuts of meat and gargantuan portions per plate. For me, this is where Metallica got Jason Newsted drunk and then announced that he was their new bassist. It was also a return to a corner deli, although in a much louder and drunker capacity. The deli wizards at Tommy's cut thick slices per order and then piled it on soft rolls or crusty bread and the addition of a full bar didn't hurt either.


The pastrami at Tommy's was good. Not Kosher, a bit greasy but still they provided a good sandwich when the perennial fog and drizzle gloom hit. This was my place to tuck in and hide among the crowds, disappearing into a mammoth sandwich and a mug of beer when the bustle of the traffic and onset of hipster bullcrap became too much.

I can't even imagine what it's like now. But in the early 2000's, it was glorious.

Thick and manly, the Tommy's pastrami way

Right before I moved from San Francisco to Tucson in 2006 to be with my now wife, a great little place opened up on upper Polk that I only visited once but was amazed at how they captured the essence of east coast deli.

Miller's was a delight, surrounded by questionable Asian fare and sex shops, and their pastrami sandwich brought me back to snow days in New York, watching the heavily coated community shuffle by in the sleet as I cozily sunk into a hot pastrami on rye. After experiencing Miller's, which wasn't too far from my last apartment on Columbus and Union, I knew I would return for more. Then one chilly night I met She-Ra, two days later I proposed and a month later I moved to Tucson. It's...a long, but lovely story.

You can read all about it in my first book HERE.

We could have been something Miller's, we coulda had a relationship

My first meal in Tucson was breakfast at Blue Willow, which was fine. I was bleary from the 14+ hour drive on no sleep but was happy to watch a brightly colored macaw dance around the back patio who had obviously escaped from the vet clinic next door. The second thing I ate, as She-Ra was driving me around town introducing me to my new home, was a Sonoran hot dog. No, it wasn't from BK or El Guero Canelo, it was from random dude with a cart on some dusty lot and, just like the Mission Burritos, my attention moved from pastrami to those hot dogs for a bit. I think I ate like three or four right then and there. They were unique, delicious and oh so bad for you. I couldn't get enough.

That is until I started to get a little pudgy, especially 'round the middle, then I knew I had to dial the Sonoran hot dog habit down a few notches.

As I began settling into my new home in the Old Pueblo, I knew what my next mission was: to find a great pastrami sandwich.

When I asked around the resounding direction I was pointed towards was a place called Schlomo and Vito's. It was a bit out of the way from our snug garden nook in midtown but, hey, if everyone says this is the place to go in Tucson for pastrami then a mini road trip it is!

The place was nice, a great set up, obviously catering to the more affluent residents surrounding the place. So I ordered my custom sandwich to go and when it was ready I drove out to a scenic spot to eat my first Tucson pastrami sandwich.

The result?

Meh.

Sorry, this place just didn't live up to the hype

There was a sort of blandness about the whole thing, the sandwich felt as if I was supposed to love it. I didn't love it. The meat lacked inspiration and seasoning which sucks coming from a spot that has "New York Delicatessen" on it's marquee. I've had New York deli pastrami...this wasn't New York deli pastrami. It was more like Montauk pastrami.

I don't know. That was back in 2006 so perhaps they have changed. Hate to say it, but, I haven't been back since.

Then a word came from the Kosher deli underground. In hushed tones, someone told me that a place that used to be called Feig's Deli was now the Fifth Street Deli (which is now under a new name, Eli's) and their pastrami was to die for. Great. So the next chance I got I drove out to see what all the rumors were about.

Now this joint made me feel at home. The guy behind the counter, a rather Hasidic man with the curls and everything, angrily took my order and in a huff made my sandwich. Was it because I am gentile, one with long hair and wearing a High On Fire hoodie, or was he just having a bad day? It didn't matter.

This sandwich ruled.

Thank you Fifth Street Deli, and thank you angry Hasid dude

Whew. Finally, after all this time, traveling hundreds of miles to be with my true love and leaving my city of 12 years behind, I finally grabbed onto a decent pastrami sandwich. It was perfect; simple yet elegant. No cheese (duh), but the meat was cured just right and the bread resonated with Langer's and Katz's divinity. Lovely, just lovely. Welp, I guess I found my sandwich.

Uh, nope. Because I was about to get thrown a pastrami throwback curve ball.

One night, after a screening at The Loft Cinema, a group of us converged to a bar and grill right next door. Called the Red Garter, it was a spot I had been to once before but had a hesitancy to return, mainly because the last time I was there smoking was still permitted in bars and it was a choking smog bank of cigarette pollution. Me having never smoked a cigarette in my life, I nearly died. But now that the smoking ban was in full effect, I decided to give it another go.

It was getting rather late. My buddies and I were a few drinks in. Seeing as I had only eaten lunch many hours ago, my belly was rumbling. Luckily they served food till late so I grabbed a menu and made a pleasant surprise.

The Red Garter had a pastrami sandwich.

Things are about to get real here

Now, knowing the environment I was in and how tipsy I was, my expectation of the sandwich was quite low. Still, I was curious as to how a divey type bar would handle a pastrami sandwich. So I ordered it up and when it arrived I made a very pleasant discovery.

It looked almost exactly like the sandwich from the little corner deli in Glendale! Nearly on the same roll, similar build and presentation but, most importantly, the smell. This pastrami sandwich, in one whiff, brought me back to being a curious nine year old kid, hungry for a sandwich he saw in some show on the TV and immediately became obsessed with. And after taking a bite? I knew I was home.


I almost wanted to go back into the kitchen and look for the nice smiling Vietnamese lady who always greeted me with a knowing "Pastrami?" before I confirmed her prediction and her going to work on it. Now, you may be reading this and are rolling your eyes before yawning and consoling with the local hipster pastrami elite, but for this food guy, this rolly polly writer and lover of all things pastrami, the Red Garter does it old school correctly. Sorry, but their pastrami sandwich is now my birthday treat, as my wife and I watch one of the various o.g. Star Wars movies on the back wall of our favorite bar, and it always takes me back to a more innocent and (palate wise) simpler time.

It might not be the most perfect pastrami in Tucson, but it is perfect for me thanks.

That being said, I want to thank the early Romanians for coming up with the idea and recipe for pastrami and the Kosher sorcerers that made it what it is today. Thank you all the deli kings and queens for assembling and delivering delicious sandwiches to my salivating mouth and to all the future pastrami masters yet to feed me.

Thank you pastrami. You've always been there for me...

Honorable Tucson mentions for pastrami go to: The Sausage Shop, the Sausage Deli, that one time offer at Old Chicago, Daggwoods (rip), Kappy's and Tony's Italian. You guys rock. Cheers!



Photo Archives, Scanning and Typing
"Metal" Mark Whittaker
Late January, 2016

Metal Influence:

Anthrax

"Belly of the Beast"