PITTSBURGH — What makes a great sandwich? We all know. Great ingredients. Everyone’s idea is different. I like simple. I like fresh meat and cheese. I like mustard and mayonnaise. I like fresh bread but not rye. Come near me with a slice of rye and I’ll run.
What, however, makes a “classic” sandwich? Here’s what: Take a slice of a good, humble-pie story about its origins, add a sweet photo of a public figure on your wall, throw in a meaty magazine story and a tasty award, then cover it with decades of syrupy hype.
Then you’ve got Pittsburgh’s classic Primanti Brothers sandwich.
If you’ve been to Pittsburgh, you’ve heard of the Primanti sandwich. It outlasted the steel mills — and in their prime, I don’t know which was more disgusting.
My first contact with the Primanti sandwich came in the late 1990s, when I covered a Rockies-Pirates series. Pittsburghers told me it was a must. What they meant was: You “must” be hungry to eat this god- awful concoction.
Here it is: meat, two slices of provolone, grilled onions, two slices of tomato, a quarter cup of coleslaw and a cup of French fries and mayo between two slices of Italian bread. I’m sorry, Pittsburgh, but you probably aren’t big on picnics. I think coleslaw should be served in a park, not in bread. French fries are a side dish. They are a not a condiment.
The old Three Rivers Stadium smelled better.
Friday night during a college football assignment, I braved a rainy night and gave it a second chance. Who was I kidding? This sandwich hadn’t changed in 75 years, and my tastes weren’t going to change in 10.
I went to the original Primanti Brothers in the Strip District, Pittsburgh’s former mill and factory area that has turned into a strip of bars, restaurants and specialty shops. It’s one of the many underrated aspects of this underrated city, along with Pittsburgh’s old Italian restaurants, new sports venues and clean rivers.
The Primanti sandwich, however, is more overrated than quiche.
The restaurant, built in 1933, is charming with its old wood trappings and big half-circle bar. I ordered the cheese-steak version of the sandwich, the most popular, and, based on experience, a Heineken. (I’m still recovering from the other Pittsburgh landmark, Iron City beer, I tried in 1983.)
The sandwich was 5 inches high and 3 inches of it were slaw and greasy fries. The slaw made it too sweet. The drab fries engulfed any remnants of beef. I hated it. I wish I was back at Colasessano’s in little Fairmont, W. Va., where I had its wonderful and “classic” pepperoni roll for lunch.
The only thing a Primanti has in common with a pepperoni roll, invented for coal miners to take down the mine shaft, is its blue-collar roots. It was invented to give steel workers something big to eat mid- shift. Later it was served to workers who unloaded fish, fruits and vegetables in the surrounding public markets. Soon, Primanti Brothers grew to 15 locations in Pittsburgh and two in Fort Lauderdale, Fla., and stretched its hours to 24. The sandwich has become the after-hours must to soak up all that Iron City beer before heading home for the worst hangover of your life.
As years went by, the legend grew. By the time the 21st century rolled around, the James Beard Foundation named it an “American Classic,” National Geographic magazine featured it, Jon Stewart trumpeted it on “The Daily Show” and a picture was mounted showing Hillary Clinton getting ready to order.
Me? Next time I’m looking for Subway.
John Henderson writes about food while covering sports and travel. jhenderson@denverpost.com or 303-954-1299.
