Belly Up

clockwise from left: hatch chile chopped cheese with vegetables and steak seasoning on
a hoagie roll  |  chicken katsu sandwich with Bulldog sauce and cabbage on milk bread  |  beef and
pork meatloaf with caramelized onions, cheese, mayo and BBQ sauce on a toasted chile bun

Meatloaf? Yeah, he does meatloaf — a slab of tender beef and pork meatloaf with melted onions and mozz, slathered with mayo and sweet house BBQ sauce on a tender chile-infused roll from... wait for it... Nice Buns. (Nice Buns — The most welcome running gag of the Phoenix restaurant scene, constantly popping up like Gene Parmesan to the surprise and delight of all.)

That double lard fried chicken katsu might actually be the *lightest* sandwich I’ve sampled at Underbelly, made with Bulldog sauce and “Japanese style tallow.” What does “Japanese style tallow” mean? No idea. Should I have asked? Probably. Can you taste it? Presumably. I was too focused on the overt obscenity of a crisp, lard-fried chicken breast layered on light, toasted milk bread with a pile of delicate shredded cabbage to figure out precisely where and how he shoved the tallow in there.

I’m unqualified to judge what is and isn’t correct where a New York chopped cheese is concerned, but I do know that Dustin’s take on the genre is intense. It’s kind of cheesesteak-adjacent, loaded up with hatch chiles and multiple melty cheeses, sauced into oblivion with ketchup and mayonnaise and topped with — in a perfect, understated touch — sliced fresh tomatoes dusted with steak seasoning.

I AM qualified to judge what is and isn’t correct where an Italian Beef is concerned, which is why I cannot overemphasize how impressive it is that there is absolutely nothing correct about Dustin’s “Chicago Beef,” and yet I absolutely do not care one damn bit because it is so flipping delicious.

I remain adamant that cheese has no place on a True Italian Beef, and my brain resolves that cognitive dissonance by reminding me that this is not a True Italian Beef, ergo there is nothing wrong with the puddle of provolone and swiss that graces this fella. In all seriousness, I dunno if it’s intentional, but calling it “Chicago Beef” kind of slyly sidesteps a more incisive, traditional examination, and I can only say that any IB-loving Chicagoan worth his salt would surely appreciate this monster, whatever you want to call it. Bottom line, it’s shaved chuck with onions and peppers and a perky house giardiniera on a hefty, crusty roll, and — this is key — the roll is positively drenched with seasoned jus. Bring it on. Saturate that sonofabitch. Those who know, know. This guy knows.

Oh, BTW, what’s pictured here? That’s half the sandwich.

It bears mentioning that I sometimes hesitate to highlight offerings like this. Not because I don’t want the secret to get out. Nooooohohoho. You know me. Open Source Dining. Always and ever. But bear in mind that first and foremost, Underbelly is a butcher shop. Dustin assures me the sandwiches aren’t a loss leader, but you don’t have to be a genius to do the math, so we needn’t be coy about the fact that he’s hoping you buy something to bring home and cook for dinner to further satisfy your meatlust.

So when you go — and I cannot recommend enough that you do — maybe do the guy a solid and pick up something else as well.

You’d be doing me a solid, too. Selfishly, I’d really like to ensure that these sandwiches continue to exist.

Department of Corrections

Vol. XIX contained a story about “Mensho Tempe,” wherein I stated, among many other things, that Tempe is not Tokyo.

More notably, Mesa — where Mensho is actually located — is neither Tokyo nor Tempe.

Having likely offended both Tempe and Mesa in general (and David Bickford, specifically), I would like to take this opportunity to correct the record.

We regret the error.

Almost Famous

It's too quiet for my liking. By which I mean that I’d prefer to see it packed, and I really think it deserves to be.

I’ve visited twice recently, and Ethiopian Famous has jumped right to the top (along with Kare Ethiopian, which you should also try) of my list of favorite Ethiopian joints in town.

I find that lesser Ethiopian restaurants tend to suffer from a sort of vague, monotone sameness. Many of the popular dishes you’ll find on every Ethiopian menu in the States draw from a common cultural well of ingredients and seasoning blends, so of course it’s natural that you’ll find some flavors woven through the entire meal. But the restaurants that distinguish themselves, I think, are the ones that enhance the lines between them, ensuring that each dish is distinctive and unique.

This is the long-winded way of saying that the combos at Ethiopian Famous are great. I’ve tried both the vegan and the meaty, and please don’t make me choose because we’ll be here all night.

An Ethiopian restaurant’s doro wat is always a good benchmark, and this one is excellent — buttery, rich and deeply perfumed, with tender chicken and the irreplaceable hard boiled egg. But what I really love is that the key wot, sitting just a couple of inches away, doesn’t feel like it was built on the same base. It’s entirely distinct — also an intense, ruddy concoction, but with a pronounced dry chile flavor and a thick, smoky quality that you can still smell on your fingers two days later.

Are the pulses vegan or vegetarian? They’re surprisingly rich for the former, almost buttery and aggressively seasoned in a way that gives them some oomph without overshadowing the peas’ and lentils’ more gentle, earthy qualities. And the atakilt wat — look, I’m a sucker for cabbage, but this is really exceptional, softened just enough to bring out its natural sweetness while maintaining a firm texture, heavy with turmeric and canoodling with carrots.

The shekla tibs are the argument that yes, there is a place for well-done beef in this world, especially when it’s sizzled to a crisp in spiced butter with onions and peppers and wallowing in a cloud of fresh rosemary. But here’s the dish that I can’t get out of my head:

It is a running gag that my daughter orders pasta everywhere we go. Even in places where it is a terrible, terrible idea to order pasta. And we give her a bit of a hard time about this, but on this occasion, I decided to let it slide. And I am so glad I did because man, she never would have let me hear the end of it.

I don’t think I could visit Ethiopian Famous without getting the spaghetti. I enjoy it that much. Even setting aside the regional riff, from a technical standpoint, this is better pasta than you’ll get from most Italian restaurants around town. But I freaking adore this Ethiopian take, perfectly dressed in a simple tomato condimento with some sultry East African spice, with what seems like an entire shank’s worth of tender lamb meat, smashed and gently crisped and set on top. The pasta is even al dente!

In retrospect, this shouldn’t come as a surprise. Under Mussolini, Italy occupied Ethiopia from 1936-1941, so Ethiopia is perhaps a little more closely connected to Italy than they’d prefer. But Ethiopian spaghetti is neither the first nor the last cross-cultural cuisine to emerge from terrible circumstances, and from a historical standpoint, it’s more than a little fascinating.

In any case, I’ll be returning soon. I have a date with gored gored and some kitfo. But I don’t need to dig any deeper to make this one a wholehearted recommendation.

Get in here. We don’t always get second chances.

My Craw

A dear friend took a moment out of his vacation to send me an image of a menu he encountered, knowing how tickled I'd be to see it.

Guesses why?

If you guessed “Sexy Bagel,” well... it's a good guess. That was what first grabbed my attention, too. But the mental image of next Halloween’s most popular costume momentarily distracted me from the true gem buried in this menu, which is far more subtle and of far greater import:

“Panino.”

SINGULAR.

This is me being both a grammarian snob AND an Italian snob, which I think makes me some kind of unholy über-snob. (Contain your shock.) But every time someone tries to correct me — and this happens a lot — it is everything I can do not to throttle the poor, unsuspecting server. Instead, I have learned to temper my rage by unleashing the worst Dad joke ever.

Rush, Don't Hush

It is a little too easy to take those we love for granted. And so, apropos of nothing, I am happy to report that having visited this week, Hush Public House is just as excellent as always.

Dom Ruggiero’s little bandbox is a little less little these days, having added a second dining room next door. But with the abrupt (and, sadly, far too premature) closure of Bar Cena, I feel compelled to note that this kitchen remains as sharp as it was when I reviewed it back in 2019. Not to put too fine a point on it, dinner this week kicked ass.

The highlights? Well, everything, really.

clockwise from top left: roasted Japanese sweet potato, mushroom salad, miso, cashew,
fresh herbs  |  pan roasted halibut, caramelized fennel and tomato risotto, chives, Parmigiano
reggiano  |  whipped eggplant, braised lamb neck, pine nuts, herbs, grilled pita

What’s beneath the roasted delicata squash? An obscene amount of bourbon-whipped mascarpone, with the sweet sting of apple mostarda and a crisp hazelnut gremolata. Thick batons of charred Japanese sweet potato were equally excellent, dressed in what played like a kind of miso vinaigrette, along with cashews and fresh herbs. But a recent addition that I really hope sticks around for a while is an exceptional whipped eggplant, with an airy texture almost like egg white meringue, surprisingly sweet and served with succulent braised lamb neck that’s gently crisped and scooped up with fresh pita.

Can I take a moment to give a hearty shout out to Brent Kille? Thinking back on the early days of Sonoran Pasta Co., it is really something to see just how far his noodles have come, maturing into a truly exceptional product. Dom always has some of Brent’s pasta on the menu — currently mafaldine in beef stroganoff with crisp rye croutons and a snarky little touch of diced dill pickles — and the flavor and bite that they’re getting on this pasta is just dynamite. Also in an Italian vein, we had a perfect piece of seared halibut, swimming in a tomato risotto that was all brightness and sunshine, like a little midwinter antidote for the post-holiday doldrums.

Sonoran Pasta Co. mafaldine, beef stroganoff, mushroom, rye croutons, dill pickles

And Chicago forgive me, I’m going to twice praise cheesy “Italian Beef” in the same damn newsletter.

You all know this dish by now — Dom’s brilliant spiritual riff on my most beloved hometown sandwich. Thick brioche smothered with provolone, topped with braised beef and minced giardiniera and a luscious blanket of demi. It is not an Italian Beef. I don’t care. It is inspired by the beefy glory of my youth, and it is just as stupid good as the first time I tried it, and that is more than enough.

Nearly six years old, Hush remains one of the most consistently excellent restaurants in town.

Hopefully you didn’t need a reminder. But in case you did, there it is.

Fix Your Hearts or Die

I almost postponed this week’s newsletter.

Yesterday threw me for a bit of a loop and I had a hard time getting back on track. In one of those nuggets of truth too good for fiction, I’d just taken a seat to have lunch at an old-school diner when I read the news about David Lynch. So I did what I had to do.

I don’t want to be overly dramatic, but for reasons I have a hard time articulating, this one really got to me. I guess it’s a particularly difficult time to say goodbye to a beloved champion of the weird and absurd. So much of my corner of the media universe (and, to be fair, most of the media universe) is so rampant with commercial, plasticine, cookie cutter insincerity that reading this news feels like watching a powerful ally go down in the midst of a losing battle. How do you pick up the flag and keep going?

This isn’t to imply that I consider myself worthy of a spot in David Lynch’s platoon. I’m just a cranky, longwinded food nerd. But suffice it to say that I admire the man. Few could demonstrate quite like him that we need people who are driven to do their own thing, no matter how odd or unconventional. And if we’re stubborn and resourceful enough, we can turn the murky, mundane waters in which we all swim into fuel for our most dissonant, distorted, beautiful dreams.

Gettin' It Done

These days, my mantra is that the 500-word blurb I write is better than the 2500-word opus I don’t. Just trying to keep the words flowing, however rough they may sometimes be.