Allow a lengthy prologue:

Thursday, I mentioned that my first-ever baseball game was Opening Day at Shea in 1987. My parents are awesome for a variety of reasons, but none moreso than their ability to recognize that the Mets’ home opener should take precedence over school. It became an annual elementary-school tradition: I would go for an hour or two in the morning, then the principal’s secretary would come over the intercom and call me down to the office, where someone would be waiting to escort me out. Peace, suckers.

I don’t know what happened to me in the winter before the 1987 season started, why I suddenly became crazed for the sport. I imagine it had something to do with the lingering effects of the Mets’ championship on my environs. Before that year, I knew baseball as something my grandfather watched in his basement in a haze of cigar smoke and my brother yelled about from his room in our attic. I understood that the Mets won the World Series when they did, but that meant little to me at the time.

But by the time April rolled around I was obsessed with baseball the way six-year-old kids become obsessed with things, and I guess in the way I still haven’t entirely grown out of. I loved the Mets, I studied their baseball cards, I memorized their lineup, their pitching rotation, everything. My brother would show me off to his friends — look at my little brother, he’s six and he knows all the Mets’ batting averages, it’s hilarious.

So my first Mets game was a pretty big event. I made a banner and everything. It said “Let’s Go Mets!” in blue and orange watercolor, and we hung it up on the metal grate behind the our seats in the back row of Shea’s Loge Section, in the ol’ “Limited View” seating.

My uncle, my brother, my grandfather and I watched Darryl Strawberry homer in the first inning (well, we watched him hit a ball hard and trot around the bases. We couldn’t actually see the ball’s flight). Bob Ojeda cruised through seven innings, Jesse Orosco worked a six-out save, and the world-champion Mets began 1987 like world champions.

I left the park that day assuming Darryl Strawberry hit a home run every game and the Mets always won. It was awesome. The 23 years since have offered few thrills to match.

That’s all a long-winded and nostalgic way of saying that when I write excitedly about meeting Darryl Strawberry and having him comp my sandwich, please, please don’t take it as bragging. It’s not that. It’s celebrating.

F@#$in Darryl Strawberry, man! Why am I even bothering with this? I doubt very much that I have to explain to you, most likely a Mets fan and very possibly one who also grew up in the 80s, how amazing it is to meet Darryl Strawberry. That’s Darryl Strawberry, the best Met from our youth. The man who displaced Homer Simpson. Dar-ryl.

The sandwich: Smoked brisket sandwich from Strawberry’s Sports Grill, Douglaston, Queens.

The construction: Fresh-baked hero roll with smoked brisket, fresh jalapenos, fried onion strips, cheese sauce, and au jus for dipping.

“But Ted,” you’re saying, “you don’t like onions!” And it’s true. But everyone knows those fried onion strips they put on sandwiches have nothing to do with onions. Those are just fried fry-stuff with some tiny suggestion of onion buried inside somewhere. They add crispy deliciousness to the sandwich.

Important background information: We were at Strawberry’s to film two episodes of The Baseball Show that will air this week. Our video guys, lamely, did not want to do any episodes focused on the food, no matter how hard I campaigned. Darryl came and met us there, which was, like I said above, totally thrilling. He was also friendly and hospitable. After he showed us around and filmed with us, he told us our lunch was on him. So Darryl Strawberry bought me this sandwich.

Darryl seemed eager for us to spread the word about Strawberry’s, and when Darryl Strawberry asks you to do something, you do it. So here goes: It’s about a 10-minute drive from Citi Field and only a few stops away on the LIRR. It’s a nice, new place with a ton of memorabilia and dozens of HDTVs. Plus it’s owned by Darryl Strawberry. And the food, well, the food I’ll get to.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: Amazing. Straight-up: I probably would have said this sandwich was really good even if it weren’t because Darryl Strawberry asked me to spread the word and all, but luckily I don’t have to compromise my integrity because this is a spectacular sandwich. I mean, look at that thing. It’s also tremendous.

The brisket was moist and tender. The cheese sauce was creamy and, well, it was cheese sauce — think velveeta if velveeta wasn’t so artificial seeming. Like that texture, but clearly real food. The jalapenos got buried a little bit by all the other stuff, but they were there for the kick when you went looking for it, and the fried onions added all-important fried flavor and crunch.

I poured on some of the au jus for moisture, and also dipped the sandwich in Strawberry’s barbecue sauce, which is on every table. Restaurants definitely earn bonus points for that. Barbecue sauce on the table is a good thing, especially if the restaurant is not explicitly a barbecue joint — though it is apparently a specialty at Strawberry’s.

What it’s worth: This sandwich was free, baby. I believe it actually cost $14 or thereabouts, but the entire cost to me was my share of the tip, because Darryl Strawberry bought our sandwiches. Sorry, I know I’ve said that like three times already but I just like writing it.

This is probably worth the trip to Douglaston if you’re taking the LIRR into Citi or driving in from the North Shore of Long Island. Obviously there aren’t a ton of places to get good food and drink before Mets games immediately around the stadium. Heck, it’s real close to the Throgs Neck Bridge if you’re coming in from Connecticut or the Bronx, too.

How it rates: 88 out of 100. Shy of the Hall of Fame, but an excellent sandwich and one of the greatest to ever come through Queens. Like the Straw Man himself.

It’s funny the way we throw the terms “overrated” and “underrated” around, since they’re both completely subjective. Look at Derek Jeter: It feels like there’s a certain set of baseball fans that probably think Jeter is nationally underrated by those that haven’t tracked his clutch hits throughout the years, that don’t see him do all the little things, don’t witness his myriad intangible contributions. And then there are probably fans who think Jeter is overrated because he’s a handsome guy who plays for the best team in the biggest city and happens to have made some big plays in key spots.

Then there are probably some who look at his stats and say he’s underrated because he routinely posts among the highest OPSes of any shortstop in the league, almost always stays healthy and steals bases at a high rate. Others might argue that he’s overrated like many players who consistently post high batting averages without walking a ton, and though Jeter plays shortstop, defensively he’s not all that hot.

But cut through it all and assess Jeter objectively as possible and you’re left with a clear-cut Hall of Famer and an indisputably great player. That’s the thing. You can hash out how he’s perceived however you want, but there’s really no arguing that he’s an awesome player.

The sandwich: Cheeseburger from Burger Joint at Le Parker Meridien Hotel, 57th St., Manhattan.

Burger Joint is about the worst-kept secret in New York City. It’s a wood-paneled diner-style shack tucked away behind a curtain inside the lobby of the posh hotel. It’s fun and all, but be prepared to box out businessmen for a booth.

The construction: Soft bun, char-grilled burger, one slice white American cheese, one slice yellow American cheese, pickles, ketchup, mustard.

Important background info:This is why I brought up that Jeter stuff before. A couple years ago — for whatever reason — a bunch of food blogs and magazines started labeling this definitively the best burger in New York, and I’m not sure it’s that. So there’s always backlash, like with Jeter. Then you’re all like, “no way, Shake Shack’s better,” or Hanley Ramirez or whatever.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: Spectacular. Man, I love burgers so f@#$ing much. When my wife and I first started dating, I think she thought I was weird because I ordered cheeseburgers so frequently when we went out to dinner — even if we were in someplace relatively fancy. But that’s like the barometer, as far as I’m concerned. If a restaurant makes a really good burger, then I know it’s a good restaurant and I’m comfortable returning there and trying some other stuff. I’ve since branched out a bit, but she’s also wised up and started understanding more fully how awesome burgers are.

Anyway, this is a particularly good burger. It’s kind of in the greasy fast-food style of burger, only super awesome in every way, if that makes sense. It’s a bit thicker than any fast-food burger you’ll ever try (except maybe the Carl’s Jr. six-dollar burger), but it’s got that same type of soft bun and feel to it.

Oh, and the meat is obviously fresh and high-quality. Really, really juicy. And char-grilled, like I said. That helps. The pickles, cheese, ketchup and mustard all taste like they should: important burger complements.

What it’s worth: Burger Joint is way too expensive for what it is — the burger costs like nine bucks or something. But it’s in midtown, so you sort of have to understand that everything’s going to be a few dollars more than it should be. Plus you definitely pay a little extra for the scene here. I mean, wait — let me make this clear: I don’t willingly pay extra for the scene, and I wouldn’t if they weren’t serving such delicious burgers, but part of the reason it’s so expensive, I think, is that the place is hidden in the lobby of a luxury hotel and lined with autographs from celebrities and everything.

All that said, I’m still happy to pay $9 for their burgers and develop ulcers muscling out jackasses for seating. So the joke would be on me if I didn’t get my meaty, juicy retribution as soon as I find a spot.

The rating: Damned if I’m not going for it — the highest rating yet, 95 out of 100. Some people will and have made more out of this burger than they should, but that shouldn’t take anything away from its excellence. Though some of the hype surrounding it might get irritating, it is inarguably a New York classic. Like Jeter himself.

Fun fact: Rhode Island has laws governing how jonnycakes are made. The state’s legislature commands that Rhode Island breakfast spots use a specific type of cornmeal and nothing else. No flour or cornstarch. Also, the law says that it’s jonnycakes, not johnnycakes.

I have no idea how Rhode Island enforces that. Do they use undercover food cops, or does a team of state troopers just come busting through a diner’s doors on a hot tip from a disgruntled employee? Also, I mean — I’m no fan of false advertising or anything — who cares? If I want to open a Rhode Island coffee shop and serve johnnycakes with a little bit of flour to thicken up the batter, they’ll probably still be delicious. Why should the state intervene?

Also, the state legislature named coffee milk the official state drink of Rhode Island. Apparently Rhode Island politicians have a lot of time on their hands.

The sandwich: Chow Mein Sandwich from Evelyn’s Drive-In in Tiverton, R.I.

The construction: An order of chow mein — the American-Chinese food dish with frizzly noodles and vegetables in some sort of soy goo — piled onto a hamburger bun, sort of.

Important background information: It is amazing to me that a state so fixated on culinary semantics should allow this thing to be sold as a “sandwich.” I don’t know for sure what constitutes a sandwich, but I know this is not one.

For these writeups and just in life, I use a very broad definition of the term “sandwich.” Since the verb “to sandwich” means to squeeze  between two things, you’d think a sandwich should necessarily have two starches bookending some sort of meat, cheese or vegetable.

But that discounts wraps, gyros and so many wonderful meat-wrapped-in-bread concoctions, most of which I consider sandwiches.

I would say, very generally, that to be a sandwich, the item must at least make some pretense toward portability. I mean, even if once you take a bite out of the thing the ingredients spill all over your plate and you have to use a fork like a sucker, that can still count as a sandwich for me. If you can’t pick it up in the first place, I don’t think so.

Of course, that dismisses so-called “open-faced sandwiches” and items like the Croque Madame, but I’m cool with that. If you need to start with a fork, it’s not a sandwich. We’ve got to draw the line somewhere. Plus I’ve never had much time for the French, and I’m not comfortable ordering something called “Croque Madame” in the first place. It’s like asking for a “pink lady” at a bar. I’m a pretty secure dude all around and I happen to generally enjoy pink beverages, but it’s got “lady” right there in the name. Can’t bring myself to do it. (Pink lady apples are still cool.)

So while I haven’t yet reached a comprehensive definition of sandwich, there must be standards. And the Chow Mein sandwich didn’t meet those. You’ll soon see why.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: Not terrible, just not at all like a sandwich. I don’t think I’ve ever ordered chow mein from a Chinese restaurant — I’m more of a lo mein guy — but this chow mein was decent and plentiful. Sodiumy.

And it came with a hamburger bun, which is novel. Half the hamburger bun was on top of the order of chow mein and the other half was buried somewhere underneath. So it did have two pieces of bread, like many sandwiches. That’s something it had in common with sandwiches. But the rest of it, no. Not a sandwich.

What it’s worth: Evelyn’s Drive-In is awesome, I should say. They’ve got picnic tables set up overlooking a gorgeous lake. On the drive there you can spot tremendous, awesome wind turbines all about. Plus all the rest of the food we tried — fried clams, lobster bisque and the like — was delicious.

It’s a nice place, and certainly worth the 20-minute drive from Newport if you’re vacationing there, as I was. I mean, you’re on vacation. You’ve got time for a scenic 20-minute drive to enjoy some fried seafood.

And the Chow Mein sandwich was only $5.50 or something, which yielded a whole lot of chow mein. So that was alright. Probably not worth wasting precious gut room on when there’s so much delicious seafood available, of course.

The rating: N/A, not a sandwich. It’s like asking me how Jets guard Brandon Moore is at baseball. I mean, hey, he’s not a bad football player. He’s just not a sandwich.

I heard your demands: More sandwich reviews, another Sandwich Week, Sandwich Month, Sandwich Decade, actual sandwiches. And I’m known to give the people what they want, especially when that involves me eating sandwiches. I can’t figure out a way to deliver sandwiches directly from the blog to your desktop yet – we don’t have the technology, unfortunately – but until I can, I’m going to provide the Sandwich of the Week writeup on Saturdays. That’ll go a little ways toward taking care of the weekend-post thing, too. And since sandwiches are timeless, I can write them during the week and post them Saturdays, to keep you in suspense and to keep my weekends clear.

Why only once a week? It’s a fair question, given how much we all love sandwiches. But to maximize enjoyment of life on earth, we must achieve some sort of delicate balance between healthy living and utter gluttony. I want to eat lots of interesting sandwiches, but if eat too many now I’ll die young and then won’t be able to eat any more sandwiches.

A friend of mine once said, “I’m going to die someday. And when I die, on my deathbed, I’m sure I’m going to say, ‘I should have had more cake.’” It’s one of my favorite quotes ever. I just figured I’d pass that along.

OK, no more nonsense. Here we go: Continue reading →