No frills, just Sandwich Week:

The sandwich: Chicken parm roll from Torrisi Italian Specialties, 250 Mulberry St. in Manhattan.

The construction: Pretty simple, really: A soft sesame-seed roll with breaded chicken, red sauce, fresh mozzarella and fresh basil.

Important background information: I mentioned my high standards before, but they’re especially high when Italian food comes into play. My mother is Italian and a terrific cook, and, like all good Italian (or half-Italian) men, I’m fiercely loyal to her food. Plus then I worked at an Italian deli that made its own mozzarella and everything, so I’m pretty distinguishing when it comes to that cheese.

And I think if I had read the New York Magazine review of Torrisi Italian Specialties I might have skipped the place entirely. It refers to Italian-American cooking as an “oft-derided cuisine” and suggests that Torrisi is a “high-concept gimmick.”

First of all, who’s deriding Italian food? I thought Italian, and especially the American interpretation of Italian food, was like the main food culture that everyone agreed on. Who doesn’t like pizza?

I mean, maybe I’m biased, but the idea of serving a variety of food ironically is about the most obnoxious thing I’ve ever heard. Especially when that style of food was delicious long before you got your condescending hands on it. Food is to be enjoyed unironically. And I guess it hits home to me if someone’s playfully mocking Italian-American food, since I grew up loving it and then spent years laboring over it at the deli.

Granted, I have no idea if Torrisi Italian Specialties really set out to serve the food I grew up loving in some sort of ironic fashion. The place was almost pretentious in its lack of pretense, but that could mean anything. Plus, you know, who cares? Like I said, I believe food should be enjoyed for the sake of enjoying food, so the motivations of the people serving the food don’t really make a difference to me. I’m here to eat.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: Very good, but not exceptionally good. I can’t point to a single element of the sandwich that didn’t taste as good as anyone could ever expect. The sauce was sweet, the cheese was gooey, the chicken was hot and tender, the basil was, well, basily. And all those ingredients are delicious.

But nothing on the sandwich really jumped out at me to make me be like, “whoa! That’s the best (insert that thing here) I’ve ever had.” Plus something in there — either the breading of the chicken or the mozzarella — was pretty salty and certain bites of the sandwich might have bordered on too salty.

On the whole, though — like I said — it was very good. An amazing number of eateries manage to screw up chicken parm sandwiches, which is baffling because they’re pretty simple. Torrisi Italian Specialties is not one of those eateries. They make chicken parm sandwiches as well as anyone. Just not appreciably better.

What it’s worth: The $7 price tag was more than reasonable, but probably part of what’s holding me back from a more glowing review of the sandwich is that I waited about a half hour for them to make it. I’m pretty sure I just went in at precisely the wrong time; the line was never longer than it was when I got on it. Regardless, by the time I got the sandwich, I expected it to be epically awesome.

And though the sandwich was delicious and I’m glad I ate it, it was not so decidedly better than a chicken parm hero at a good pizzeria to make it worth the trip to SoHo and the long wait.

The rating: 83 out of 100. Better than the Cuban I made but not better than the Sloppy Bao. If the Chicken Parm Roll from Torrisi were a baseball player, it would be Paul Konerko. Indisputably good, but no one could ever reasonably argue it’s a Hall of Famer.

I hope last night’s sandwich will be the least exciting of the sandwiches I enjoy during Sandwich Week. Straight up, I had some ingredients left over from Monday night’s Cuban, and I’m not one to throw out good Portuguese rolls and ham.

The sandwich: Ham and cheese, TedQuarters.

The construction: One of those aforementioned Portuguese rolls with deli ham and provolone from our grocery store. Somehow our local supermarket doesn’t stock Boar’s Head products, which is total bulls***. So this was some knock-off brand ham that the supermarket claims is better than Boar’s Head. It’s not. It’s not terrible, and it’s better than Hormel ham or any of the disgusting pre-sliced, packaged varieties the supermarket sells for some stupid reason, but it’s not quite Boar’s Head quality and far from Schaller & Weber or the stuff they sell at Whole Foods.

It’s very important when making sandwiches at home to pile on the slices one at a time, making sure there’s lots of folding and creasing in the process. Never just pull out a stack of five slices of ham from the package and place them right on the bread. That’s terrible. I would hope you know better, but I’ve actually purchased sandwiches from delis that came like this. It’s all about surface area. Surface area is where the flavor comes from.

I did use one Boar’s Head product: Pepperhouse Gourmaise dressing. I’ll get to that in a bit.

Important background information: Ham and cheese feels like the most generic type of sandwich. When I was a kid I really liked bologna and cheese, but now bologna disgusts me (though I like hot dogs, which are basically the same thing, just smaller and grilled). My bologna has a second name, it’s g-r-o-s-s.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: Meh. Mostly like a ham and cheese. The bread was a day old and I neglected to warm or toast it, so it was a bit stale. And Portuguese rolls are particularly bready, so there was a lot of stale bread to get through.

The saving grace of the sandwich is the Pepperhouse Gourmaise. This condiment deserves more thorough appreciation. I never had much time for Dijonnaise back in the day and I very much appreciated Mr. Show’s parody commercials for similar products, but Boar’s Head has improved upon the straight mustard-mayo hybrid.

It’s about the pepper, stupid. Delicious peppercorns of various colors dot the dressing and make it inimitably awesome. I’ve had Pepperhouse Gourmaise in my house for about five straight months and I’ve yet to try it on anything and not have that thing become more delicious. I might start putting it in my coffee and spreading it on my toast with breakfast.

What it’s worth: Patrick Flood and I had an entertaining email discussion a couple months back about the concept of “replacement-level” as it pertains to things outside of baseball. The thing that’s important to remember is that replacement level does not mean flat-out terrible. A replacement-level baseball player is just one that could be easily replaced by a player of equal worth.

This was, by my standards, a replacement-level sandwich. It was good because most sandwiches are good, but it would not take much effort or searching to make or buy a similarly tasty sandwich.

I should note that I have exceptionally high standards for sandwiches, so replacement level for me is probably higher than the replacement level for someone who eats Oscar Mayer bologna all the time. Like a replacement-level Major Leaguer versus a replacement-level Double-A player.

The rating: 30 out of 100. I would say that’s a reasonable grade for the replacement-level sandwich on this arbitrary scale. Anything lower than 30 could be replaced by a ham and cheese on day-old bread with some good dressing. Basically the Mike Jacobs of sandwiches.

I am victimized by rainstorms more thoroughly than anyone else I know. I have no idea why. And I don’t mean I’m out in the rain any more often or anything like that, I mean that for no apparent reason I seem to get wetter than most people when rainstorms hit. It’s weird. I am, 100% of the time, the guy that makes people all like, “whoa, hey!” during a storm, looking like I just jumped fully clothed into a swimming pool.

Am I too girthy for umbrellas? So heavy that I draw raindrops with gravitational pull? Lord, I hope not. I mean, I’ve certainly come across plenty of fatter, drier people. Maybe I don’t use umbrellas right or my attempts at common umbrella courtesy leave me uncovered too often. Who knows? All I’m sure of is that no matter how hard I try to stay dry, I get soaked. I could wear a poncho and end up dripping.

But even knowing my proneness to drenching, and knowing that I had three avenues to walk, did I stop, turn around and get right back on the subway when I stepped out at 23rd and 6th today into a torrential downpour? Hell no, bro. It’s Sandwich Week. I decided so yesterday.

The sandwich: Sloppy Bao from Baoguette, 61 Lexington Ave. in Manhattan.

The construction: The Sloppy Bao is the Vietnamese answer to the sloppy joe, but the traditional ground-beef sloppy joe and not the New Jersey variety discussed in the comments section yesterday. It’s french bread piled with curry-seasoned sweet and spicy ground beef, thin strips of green mango and fresh cilantro.

Important background information: The woman at the counter asked if I wanted it spicy. I find that in certain Southeast Asian eateries — especially Thai and Vietnamese places — if you specify that you want your order spicy or, heaven forbid, extra spicy, you probably won’t be tasting anything else for the rest of the week. I’m pretty sure it’s some sort of culture-spanning practical joke intended to punk whiteboys who have eaten a couple of Buffalo wings and think they can handle real heat. Even a strong affirmative nod when you’re asked if you want your food spicy will land you in tears, quivering in the restaurant, chugging milk and begging for forgiveness.

Though I appreciate the challenge, I prefer to keep my taste buds. I always go with “medium spicy,” to let them know that, while I enjoy spicy food, I am not in any way daring them to humiliate me with their awesome powers of spice. As such, I ordered my Sloppy Bao medium spicy.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: Oh hell yeah; now we’re talking. The Sloppy Bao is what Sandwich Week is all about.

The bread was warm, crusty and flaky on the outside and soft and tasty on the inside like all good French bread should be. The beef was straight up delicious. Like I said, it was sweet and spicy — but not too spicy, at all, just a nice hint of a kick. And the curry and whatever else is in there (I’d guess garlic, chili and maybe some basil, but I’m hardly a super-taster) made it awesome.

The most interesting part, I guess, was the mango and cilantro working in tandem. I never considered how those things might go together before, but since cilantro has that sharp, almost minty flavor to it and the mango was just a little tart. I don’t like to bandy about terms like “party in my mouth” unless I really mean it, but this sandwich was an explosion of excellence. All sorts of awesome flavors.

What it’s worth: At least $7 and a three-avenue trek through a monsoon. They have monsoons in Vietnam, right? Restaurants there must have to make sandwiches this good to get people to brave the elements to come eat them. I got back to the office 90 minutes ago. My pants are still soaked and my shoes are sopping, but I am satisfied. The Sloppy Bao is a destination sandwich.

The rating: 92 out of 100. I have had better sandwiches, but not many. I will definitely go back to Baoguette.

Yes, Cuban B! Sandwich Week continues.

The Sandwich: A Cuban sandwich, from the kitchen of the analog TedQuarters in Westchester.

I understand there’s some debate as to what constitutes an “authentic” Cuban sandwich, just like some people will tell you there should never be lettuce in a burrito because burritos were originally intended to be brought out to fields by farm workers and lettuce would have wilted or rotted in the heat.

It’s all nonsense. Trace any food item back to its roots and you’ll find it developed out of some sort of cultural exchange. There’s no need to stop the timeline of sandwich evolution at one specific point. Whether or not this is the exact sandwich made in Cuba is immaterial. This is my interpretation of the popular Cuban sandwich.

The construction: We used smaller Portuguese rolls instead of Cuban or French bread because, well, I plan to eat a lot of sandwiches this week and I’d prefer not to die. On one side I put yellow mustard, on the other I put an aioli I made (that’s right, I make aioli) with roasted garlic and hot peppers from our garden.

I sliced leftover pork from the tenderloin I hickory-smoked on Sunday afternoon and put it on the roll with deli ham, provolone and sandwich-stacker pickles. Then I lightly buttered the top and bottom of the roll and pressed the whole thing in a Foreman grill until the cheese melted and the bread was slightly browned.

Important background information: I am not Cuban. My friend Charlie, who inadvertently turned TedQuarters into SandwichQuarters with a text message last week, is Cuban, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him enjoying a Cuban sandwich. He’s obviously a man of distinguishing sandwich taste, though, so I have no doubt he would.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: Damn good, if I do say so myself. The smoky flavor of the pork was honestly a bit overwhelming when we ate the pork on its own Sunday night, but in context of the sandwich it was just a nice extra kick. And it was really tender, too — no need to worry about big pieces of pork sliding out of the sandwich when you bit into it. Even consistency is an important factor in sandwich goodness.

The garlic and hot pepper aioli was real, real good, too. I’ve never gardened before in my life, but it turns out there’s something amazingly satisfying about growing your own vegetables, especially when you’re going to smash them and mix them with mayonnaise. Holy crap, look at all these cucumbers and peppers. And they’re all free now thanks to all that work we did a few months ago! Screw you, ShopRite, we don’t need your string beans anymore.

The bread was good too. And the pickles were predictably delicious. The cheese tasted like cheese. Awesome, awesome cheese.

The only problem was that, between the mayo, the ham and the butter on the roll, it was a bit greasy. Sat kinda heavy in the stomach.

What it’s worth: Well like I said, we planted the peppers months ago so that didn’t take much work. Roasting the garlic and putting it all in the Chopster then mixing it with mayonnaise wasn’t hard either. I smoked the pork Sunday and this was just leftover, so that was gravy, so to speak. Plus my wife picked up the ham, pickles and rolls at the grocery store so that didn’t require any work on my part. Basically, the only thing I had to do was construct the sandwich and throw it on the Foreman grill, which took all of five minutes.

So since the cost was minimal and the benefit in deliciousness was high, this was sandwich was a huge net win. Actually I thought it was better than the Chilean number that rated as one of NY Magazine’s Top 101 sandwiches in New York, so I’m patting myself on the back for that. It was good enough I feel the need to come up with some sort of completely arbitrary numerical rating system for the series.

The rating: 78 out of 100. I have very high standards, and a sandwich needs to be worth traveling great distances for to crack 90 and life-changing to hit 100. A 78 is a very good sandwich. And I’m going to go back and give the Chacarero Completo a 56.

It’s Sandwich Week here on TedQuarters. Why? Several reasons:

1) There’s no real baseball for the next three days, and I generally find the All-Star Game pretty boring. (Notable exception: When Pedro Martinez struck out Barry Larkin, Larry Walker, Sammy Sosa, Mark McGwire and Jeff Bagwell over two innings in 1999.)

2) The last several posts about sandwiches have been popular, and I give the people what they want.

3) I’m already certain I’m eating a sandwich for dinner tonight, so, you know, one post in the bag.

4) Why do I need to give you so many reasons why it’s Sandwich Week? Sandwiches are awesome. Leave me alone.

Anyway, basically the format of Sandwich Week is as follows: I eat a bunch of sandwiches and then write about them here.

I’m partly using the New York Magazine list of Top 101 Sandwiches in New York as a guide, even though I’m certain that list is a bit pretentious. I’m also seeking recommendations — Alex Belth provided tomorrow’s sandwich destination already — so if you know of any notably awesome sandwiches please say so. The only qualification is that it has to be somewhere reasonably accessible to Midtown Manhattan or Central Westchester. I don’t have all day to travel for great sandwiches. That is my dream, though. Someday…

Anywho, here goes nothing:

The Sandwich: Chacarero Completo from Barros Luco, 300 1/2 E. 52nd St. in Manhattan.

The Construction: Thinly sliced steak with string beans, mayo, white cheese, avocado and a banana-pepper/cilantro sauce on fresh-baked Chilean bread. The sandwich comes with tomatoes, too, but I ordered mine without them because they’re not my cup of tea.

Important background information: Barros Luco the eatery is named for the “Barros Luco,” a popular Chilean sandwich that is in turn named for former Chilean president and mustache hero Ramon Barros Luco. The Wikipedia doesn’t make his presidency sound particularly notable, but obviously the man should be celebrated for popularizing steak-and-cheese sandwiches in Chile.

While he doesn’t deserve to be mentioned in the same sentence as the great John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich and inventor of the sandwich, clearly Ramon Barros Luco was a smart dude and venerable statesman.

What it looks like:

I pulled off a half a slice of bread for the purposes of the photo. It was a complete sandwich, obviously.

How it tastes: This was a good sandwich, but not a great one.

The big innovation the Chacarero Completo offers is the use of string beans on a sandwich, which I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered before. But while I like string beans on their own, they were a bit overpowering on the sandwich, which didn’t have a ton of flavor otherwise. In fact, the hot, fresh-baked bread should have been the best part of the sandwich, but even on its own it just tasted like all the string-bean flavor it soaked up.

Still, the sandwich was moist throughout, the smashed avocados were creamy and delicious, and the melted cheese was, well, melted cheese. The steak was a bit tough and entirely lacked seasoning, which wouldn’t have mattered, I don’t think, if I tasted more of the aji verde (banana pepper and cilantro sauce). A closer look at the menu revealed that I could have ordered the sandwich with the slightly spicier aji rojo sauce, and if I find my way to Barros Luco again, I probably will.

There was a bottle ketchup on the table, so I tried dipping the sandwich in some. That helped a lot; it added a little sweetness to what was a pretty salty sandwich. Maybe the tomato would have balanced out the sandwich a bit, but like I said, I’m no fan of that fruit/vegetable/whatever. I like tomato-based products but not the thing itself. Weird texture, I think.

What it’s worth: I haven’t decided exactly how to rate sandwiches in Sandwich Week, and I may come up with something better, but I figure a good way to measure a sandwich’s excellence is to compare it with the cost. For the Chacarero Completo, I walked about a half a mile and spent $8.

The price was more than reasonable —  I am still very full and I ate the sandwich nearly two hours ago. Worth the walk, though? I’m not sure. Like I said, this was a solid sandwich, but I don’t think it was a destination sandwich. If you happen upon Barros Luco, by all means, check it out. But I wouldn’t go too far out of my way for a Chacarero Completo. It was certainly interesting, with the string beans and all, but not outstanding.