It was a beautiful day in southern Arizona. I went for a walk and listened to the game. I was kinda missing Chicago — I moved away eighteen years ago, and somehow, during my walk, I acquired the makings for a quartet of Italian beefs. Didn’t have the true Anthony Rizzo specials — I don’t care for the red gravy on that sammich. But hots and mozz, toasted and dipped, that’s for me. On garlic bread.
I have those red and yellow plastic baskets to serve my sammiches in, and wax paper and foil, and a deep fryer for the hand-cut fries, so it’s like an authentic experience, especially for my dinner companions, who have never even been to Chicago, let alone had a Buona beef, or one from my preferred venues, Paul’s Pizza or Uncle Pete’s.