Traditional sandwiches defy fast-food standardization. I'm talking deli fare, not the burgers and fried chicken of the big guys. Sure, Subway managed to make an empire out of it, but only by industrializing the deli down to a list of 20 ingredients. When was the last time you craved a sweet onion sub from Subway?
Two new places have entered the fast-food sandwich biz and, of course, they're both testing the market here in the cradle of chain civilization. Both have a set menu — no building your own — but each approaches the final product in a different way.
By its name, you might guess (correctly) that Dagwood's was started by the man behind the Blondie comic, which brings me to a completely unrelated point: How come that outlined hottie ended up with a lazy bum like Dagwood? Maybe I should ask my wife.
The interior of the chain's flagship store mixes four-color panels and comic strip reprints with subdued tables and booths — a lot of shiny stuff, but never overwhelming. Sandwiches at Dagwood's are pre-designed, about a dozen "recipes" purportedly from the mind of Dean Young, son of Blondie's creator and inheritor of the pen. I can believe it. Although Dagwood's offers quite a few choices, there doesn't seem to be that inevitable chain-restaurant urge to please all of the people all of the time.
Pastrami and corned beef ($4.90) are served hot on rye, with a generous schmear of spicy mustard; chicken salad ($4.60) is stained yellow with fragrant curry and piled with grapes and celery on sweet raisin bread; barbecue pork ($5.50) — although not up to the standards of a BBQ joint — is helped along by crunchy coleslaw and dill pickles.
A roast beef "po' boy" ($5.50) isn't worth it — the beef tastes like it's been artificially infused with moisture — and the Cuban ($4.60) doesn't compare to many of those found across the Bay area. But those are the exceptions. For a cartoonist, Young knows how to make some fine sandwiches.
The signature Dagwood ($8.90), although not quite the Brobdingnagian tower I imagined from reading the funny papers, is still a damn big sandwich. In fact, it's just a little too tall for even my Neanderthal jaw to get the best of — I have to gnaw at it piecemeal. There are so many different ingredients — ham, salami, pepperoni, cappicola, mortadella, cotto, cheddar, provolone, onion, lettuce, tomato, roasted red pepper, raw red pepper, mayo, mustard and rich olive salad — that every bite seems like a brand new creation.
What's truly amazing is that this precarious construction never loses its structural integrity, thanks to three simple slices of white bread. Simple, sure, but don't take it for granted. This is bread with weight and substance, dense enough to rein in a passel of oily, heavy ingredients, even after a 15-minute trip in the car. Bread like this has long since lost ground in sandwich circles to the likes of whole-grain loaves, baguettes or even focaccia. You can get all that here, too, but the real star of this yeast parade is Dagwood's plain old white slices.
That's the trick with the sandwiches at Dagwood's: Though limited to a set list of recipes, the sandwiches still manage to taste like the kind of thing you might get at the local deli or, more likely, throw together from the stuff you have at home, especially when paired with surprisingly good potato salad or Zap's chips. From the press materials, that's what Young was going for. It worked.
That's not how it works at the Earl of Sandwich. This new chain plays on a time-honored tradition that credits John Montague, the fourth Earl of Sandwich, with creating the first hoagie (likely some beef and gravy on a big hunk of bread), circa 1762. Apparently, he didn't want to leave the table during a card game. Instead of honoring the traditional flavor of the sandwich, though, this shop is definitely looking toward the present and future of fast-food science.
Almost every item here has a secret sauce that defines the flavor. Sure, there might be beef or cold cuts or grilled chicken, but that smear of red pepper sauce or "dijonaise" or creamed spinach is going to be what the sandwich tastes like. All are served on wheaty bread that's somewhere between focaccia and a bun. The result? Sandwiches that are decidedly unlike the kinds of things you'd find at the corner deli or in your kitchen, with a taste that relies on fat, salt and sugar. Ultimately, it's fast food.
That doesn't mean the sandwiches are bad, though. With each one priced at $4.99, there is some value to be had in concoctions like "Le Frenchy" (ham and brie with "dijonaise"), the "All American" (like a day-after-Thanksgiving sandwich, but with ranch dressing) or the "Original 1762" (beef, cheddar and horsey sauce).
The best sandwiches at the Earl are the unfussy creations that shy away from industrialized tendencies. Caprese is just tomatoes, basil, mozzarella and olive oil — all of it fresh and good on that warm bread. A club is almost traditional: bacon and turkey with just a little mayo.
And, well, that's about it. After sampling a half-dozen sandwiches at the Earl, they all start to run together. Not bad, maybe, but nothing stands out. Like I said, it's fast food.
The best creation I've eaten at the Earl isn't a sandwich; it's the pre-made, cellophane-wrapped bread pudding. The thing is like a chunky muffin top that I can slip into my pocket. Yum.
Although the Earl style is going to face a lot of competition from other fast food giants, I think Dagwood's can make a go of it. The sandwiches are tasty, familiar and fresh, with just enough of a hook from the Blondie name to give it some traction. Dagwood's tastes like real food.
Brian Ries is a former restaurant general manager with an advanced diploma from the Court of Master Sommeliers. Creative Loafing food critics dine anonymously, and the paper pays for the meals. Restaurants chosen for review are not related to advertising.
This article appears in Dec 20-26, 2006.