How the Hot Dog Found Its Bun (6 page)

Desperate, he went with the most comforting dish he could imagine. It featured wide noodles smothered in a heap of Parmesan cheese and
lots
of butter. In particular, the copious amounts of thick butter—yes, this was before cholesterol concerns and the widespread use of defibrillators—was so rich and inviting that it restored Ines’s taste for food and gave di Lelio a signature dish. (The cream version that Americans love would emerge in the United States many decades later.)

Fettuccine Alfredo may have remained a curious local dish, if not for a little Hollywood glitz and some good old-fashioned American media attention. In 1927 Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford (the Brad and Angelina of their day) were on vacation in Rome when they happened upon di Lelio’s little trattoria. A genial host, di Lelio whipped up his house special for the stars, who loved it.

How much did they love it?

The pair returned to the restaurant later in the trip and gave di Lelio a golden fork-and-spoon-set to toss his creation. One was engraved with Pickford’s signature and the other with Fairbanks’s and each had the inscription
To Alfredo—the king of the noodles
. Upon returning to Hollywood, Fairbanks and Pickford praised the food to their movie star crowd, gaining a fair bit of publicity for the pasta in the process. But it was another zealot for Alfredo’s work,
Saturday Evening Post
food writer George Rector, who brought it to the American masses. He wrote in his
Post
column, “Alfredo doesn’t make fettuccine. He doesn’t cook fettuccine. He achieves it.”

Despite all his achievements, di Lelio decided to hang up his utensils in 1943, selling the restaurant, his recipes, and even his guest signature books and photos of famous patrons. (He did keep his gold fork and spoon, though.) Di Lelio apparently grew frustrated with food shortages brought on by World War II. Nevertheless, his heart must have still been in his artery-clogging dish because in 1950, spurred by some backers, di Lelio agreed to come out of retirement, opening a new restaurant in another part of Rome.

Both di Lelio’s old restaurant, situated near the famous Piazza Navona, and his new one, located near Emperor Augustus’s mausoleum, confusingly used the name Alfredo. But does it matter? They each served (and continue to serve today) the delectable dish made from the original recipe. One British patron visiting war-torn Rome just after World War II put it best after having a mouthwatering plate of fettuccine Alfredo. Shocked by its quality and decadence, he asked his companion, “Look here, old chap, who has really won the war?”

Filet-O-Fish: Religious rules

Do you ever wonder why a burger joint like McDonald’s went into the fish business? Credit goes to the good churchgoing folk of Ohio.

The Filet-O-Fish was the brainchild of one of the company’s early franchisees, Lou Groen. In 1958, after working in his father-in-law’s restaurant, the Cincinnati native decided he wanted to start his own establishment. He’d seen ads for two chains: one for McDonald’s with its fifteen-cent hamburgers and the other for a company called Beverly Osborne Chicken Delight. He told his wife that whichever they chose, the pair would be stuck eating a lot of that type of food. Groen then asked which one they should go for. She went with the burgers.

Although Groen would own forty-three McDonald’s in the Northern Kentucky/Greater Cincinnati area by the end of his career, the early days were tough going. It was just Groen, his wife, and a guy named George cleaning, cooking, and serving at that first shop. When it came to sales, there was also one standout glitch: Those savory all-beef patties were surprisingly unpopular on Fridays. Sadly, they were only bringing in a minuscule seventy-five dollars each Friday. Groen needed to think of something fast.

In the days before market research, Groen had the bright idea to go to the closest restaurant doing excellent Friday business to figure out what he was missing. So he headed over to Frisch’s, which was the local Big Boy chain, and spied on the customers. He immediately noticed a trend. Instead of burgers or steak or chicken, patrons were buying fish dishes.

He now understood the situation. His area of Cincinnati was about 87 percent Catholic and, along with abstaining from meat during the forty days of Lent, many devotees also avoided it on Fridays. Groen decided he needed a fish sandwich. He came up with a special batter and a tartar sauce condiment and went to the company’s famed owner, Ray Kroc, to get sign-off on his new creation.

Proving that even visionaries strike out sometimes, Kroc wasn’t sold. He told Groen he had a nonmeat idea of his own. He called it the Hula Burger, but there was nothing festive about it. The sandwich was simply a cold bun with a pineapple in the middle. Groen knew better than to argue with the boss. Still, he was able to get one concession.

“Ray said to me, ‘Well, Lou, I’m going to put your fish sandwich on [a menu] for a Friday. But I’m going to put my special sandwich on too—whichever sells most, that’s the one we’ll go with,’ ” Groen told the
Cincinnati Enquirer
in 2007. “Friday came and the word came out. I won hands down. I sold 350 fish sandwiches that day. Ray never did tell me how his sandwich did.”

Despite the victory, McDonald’s forced some modifications to the newly dubbed Filet-O-Fish. The company wanted the sandwich to sell for twenty-five cents, but Groen’s prototype, which featured halibut, was going to cost thirty cents to make. Four-and-a-half decades after the sandwich debuted in 1962 Groen still insisted that halibut was the way to go. Nevertheless, he agreed to switch to Atlantic cod. It was a move that turned out not to hurt business too much.

“My fish sandwich was the first addition ever to McDonald’s original menu,” he said. “It saved my franchise.”

It also went on to be a popular choice for all types of patrons, including Jews and Muslims who face dietary restrictions of their own. Still, Catholics remain a key reason for its success. One survey found that even today 23 percent of Filet-O-Fish sandwiches are sold during Lent.

French Dip Sandwich: Extra sauce

Here’s what we know about the French dip sandwich (besides it being an absolutely tasty gravy-soaked French-roll-and-meat mouthful): It was invented in Los Angeles during the first two decades of the twentieth century and no individual chef or restaurant owner takes any credit for coming up with the idea. After that, the truth behind the dish creator debate depends on whether you believe the proprietors of two different famed Los Angeles restaurants—Philippe The Original (formerly known as Philippe’s) or Cole’s.

Philippe’s claim involves a few different stories. The restaurant’s original owner, Philippe Mathieu, relayed the tale to the
Los Angeles Times
this way in 1951: “One day a customer saw some gravy in the bottom of a large pan of roast meat. He asked me if I would mind dipping one side of the French roll in that gravy. I did, and right away five or six others wanted the same.” After quickly running out of gravy, he came ready the next day, but found that the high demand even outpaced the extra supply of juice that he had prepared. After that, the sandwich became a staple.

The restaurant’s own website has a small twist on the story. It pinpoints the invention to a 1918 miscue on the part of Mathieu. “Mathieu inadvertently dropped the sliced French roll into the roasting pan filled with juice still hot from the oven,” the website claims. “The patron, a policeman, would take the sandwich anyway and returned the next day with some friends asking for more dipped sandwiches.”

A third explanation, courtesy of a 2008
San Gabriel Tribune
article, suggests that Mathieu used the gravy to soften a stale roll after a fireman complained. (For some reason men in uniform figure prominently in these stories.)

Not to be outdone, Cole’s has its own lore. According to its owners in a 2009
Los Angeles Times
story, the dish was created in 1908 when a customer with sore gums requested the sandwich be dipped in the au jus to make it easier on his mouth.

Coming to a definitive answer on this one is unlikely. At one point a reporter from the
Los Angeles Business Journal
asked a city historian if he could shed light on the roots of the iconic local dish. The city employee’s deadpan answer: “We don’t have a French dip department.”

Amazingly, both restaurants still exist more than a hundred years after they first opened. That said, they’ve both gone through changes with Philippe’s shifting locations in the 1950s and Cole’s closing down for a spell in 2007. As for which establishment serves the best French dip, that answer is as unclear as the sandwich’s provenance (the traditional French dip is made with roast beef, though other meats like lamb and turkey are also used nowadays). Whatever the case, it seems that both restaurants are happy to simply stake their claim to the dish’s origins and let the other do its business. Philippe’s co-owner Richard Binder philosophically summed up the debate in 2009 by saying, “Who knows what happened a hundred years ago? We’re just happy to still be around.”

Philly Cheesesteak: Hungry hot dog vendor

In the early 1930s, the lives of Pat and Harry Olivieri were dominated by one thing: hot dogs. The brothers ran a South Philadelphia stall and worked hard slinging the popular fast food during these Depression years. With hot dogs weighing heavily on Pat’s mind most of the time, it’s not surprising that one day he wanted a change.

He sent off for a pound of steak (cost: seven cents) and decided that instead of tube meat he was going to rustle up something different on his hot dog griddle. He combined the meat, which was thinly sliced, with some cut onion and put them onto an Italian roll. This mouthwatering grease-fiesta of a sandwich wasn’t meant for customers; Pat planned for it to be
his
own hot dog break.

Enter an unnamed cabbie who wouldn’t take no for an answer. A popular spot for the working man, Pat and Harry’s hot dog stand was a regular haunt for taxi drivers. One happened to come for a dog just when Pat was about to enjoy his diverting meal. The customer took one look at the sandwich—and, probably more importantly, smelled it—and told him to forget the hot dog. He wanted Pat’s meal. A businessman first, Pat agreed to sell it for a dime.

And thus the basis for the Philly cheesesteak was born. In reality, it could have had a short life if not for the aforementioned cabbie, who was smitten by the new dish. He began telling his fellow hacks about it and before long they were lining up asking for the same sandwich. Pat and Harry were hot dog men, but they saw a great opportunity. So in came the new steak sandwich. The pair ultimately opened up Pat’s King of Steaks not far from the original stall.

Over the years the sandwich has evolved. Cheese was added in the 1950s with Cheez Whiz becoming the preferred choice of purists (though I’m not sure you should use
purists
with any mention of Cheez Whiz). Provolone or American can be used, but you shouldn’t stray too far from the basic cheese options. One-time presidential candidate John Kerry got grief for asking for swiss cheese. The request, along with Kerry’s dainty style of eating the beast of a sandwich, led one local newspaperman to write that “the man who would be president of the people was photographed delicately gripping the sandwich with his fingertips like he’s some kind of Boston blue blood playing the piccolo.”

Other popular additions include sautéed mushrooms with ketchup and sweet peppers sometimes thrown in. There is even appropriate language: Customers are meant to ask for a sandwich “wit” or “wit out” various toppings.

Regrettably, these being the tough streets of South Philly, the complete story of the cheesesteak is not a fairy tale. By the 1950s, the Olivieris had heated competition from other steak sandwich establishments. In 1966 Geno’s Steaks set up shop right across the street. Geno’s owner Joey Vento has long claimed his family first added the cheese to the cheesesteak, and the two shops have been in a heated—but good-natured—sandwich war since.

The battles don’t stop there. In the 1970s, Pat left the business to move to Southern California. A legal tussle broke out between Pat’s son and Harry’s children over ownership of the now iconic spot (famed guests have included Presidents Bill Clinton and Barack Obama, and the restaurant had a cameo in the Oscar-winning movie
Rocky
). One of Harry’s children, Frank, bought out the business, but a fight broke out again in 2006 when the current owner, Frank Jr., sued his cousin Rick (Pat’s grandson), who was running a competing cheesesteak stand, for trademark infringement. At least it’s the type of scrapping that would have made Rocky Balboa proud.