…if what they want is GOOD food.

When I walked into Lucca Ravioli in San Francisco’s Mission District to buy some meat for a muffuletta sandwich, the first thing the clerk asked me was whether or not I had made my olive salad yet.  After letting him know that I had a few recipes in mind, the guy literally thrust a jar of Granzella’s Muffuletta Mix into my hands.  Letting me know that he was a New Orleans native, he assured me that this was the olive salad to use if I was looking to make anything close to an authentic “m00-fa-la-ta” sandwich (I later came to find out the stuff is made in Northern California).  I pride myself on making almost everything on my blog from scratch, so the thought of using a prepared olive salad seemed a bit out of my comfort zone.  However, after taking a good hard look at the ingredients contained within Granzella’s New Orleans style mix, I knew I was in good hands.   A mix of Sicilian and Greek olives, red pepper, pickled cauliflower, carrots, celery, mushrooms, artichokes, vinegar and olive oil, there was no doubt that this wouldn’t make for an extraordinary sandwich.

After purchasing the necessary meat and cheese for my sandwich, I was faced with another dilemma in finding the appropriate loaf of bread for the recipe.  This ingredient, as it would turn out, would prove to be the most difficult to locate.  After looking in a handful of supermarkets and bakeries I was at a loss to find anything remotely similar to the iconic round Italian loaf that makes these sandwiches so magical.  So, like any good home cook, I set out to bake the loaf myself.  With so few offerings on the internet for such an obscure recipe, I went with what I could find and was met with terrific results.  With all the necessary ingredients in line, I set out to make the best muffuletta possible outside of New Orleans.

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I didn’t eat many sloppy joes growing up. Maybe my parents ate one too many soggy renditions during their own childhood, but for whatever reason this was an item that was rarely seen on the dinner menu at my house.  It turns out that my lack of experience with these saucy, loose meat burgers puts me in a minority among friends who all recount fond memories of eating them on a near weekly basis. For me, sloppy joes have always represented your typical lunch counter fodder: a half simmering pot of reddish-brown mystery meat smashed between a sodden, dissolve-on-contact bun. For them, Mom cracking open a can of Manwich stood out as a true suppertime treat in a lineup of otherwise dismal home-cooked fare.

It wasn’t until I came across a recipe for this iconic American sandwich in a recent issue of Cook’s Illustrated Magazine that I decided to give sloppy joes another look.  As usual, it looked as though the editors had found a few ways to rid the dish of it’s usual shortcomings and breath new life into an old favorite.  So, with a pound of ground beef sitting in the freezer and few extra homemade buns lying around from my fried chicken sandwiches, I set out to see what I’d been missing all these years.

The results were nothing short of spectacular.  Robust and beefy with a pleasant brightness coming from the addition of tomato puree, these joes were unlike anything I’d tasted in the past.  Gone was the typical grainy, greasy texture, replaced with a consistency that was pleasantly thick, yet saucy enough to blend seamlessly with the tender, pillow-soft bun.

Now to convince my parents to give them a shot.

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I have a confession to make — I make roast beef specifically for the sandwiches. As good as it is warm, dripping with juices and fresh from the oven, roast beef takes on an entirely different identity when it’s cold, thinly sliced and piled high on top of good bread. Another reason I love making roast beef sandwiches? Horseradish. I can’t get enough of the stuff and truthfully, can’t find a better application (outside of prime rib) than when its teamed up with creamy mayonnaise inside of a sandwich.

Curious about what type of cheese people typically ask for on their roast beef sandwiches, I asked the checkout guy at the supermarket what he would choose. After a momentary pause he looked at me with a puzzled expression and responded sheepishly with,”Cheddar?” After asking several more of my friends and family the same question, I came away with similar, unsure responses. Realizing that sandwiches, like ones favorite pizza toppings, are very much tied to individual tastes, I figured there was no use trying to produce an archetypical version and decided to experiment. So, with some leftover dill from my Turkish stuffed grape leaves and what was left of a container of cream cheese in the fridge, I put together this piquant spread that adds a flavorful twist to an old favorite.

I’ve gone with something less traditional here, but what do you think belongs on a roast beef sandwich?

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