The Call of the Sandwich

April 28 2007, 4:40am

California Sandwiches 244 Claremont Street 416-603-3317 Lunch for two with sodas and tax (no tip): $18.50 California Sandwiches spends nothing on advertising. Less is spent on décor. The World Series Poker pinball machine (which replaced the Sopranos pinball which replaced the Elvis pinball) sits mostly unused. Bright orange walls, a cobwebbed espresso machine, and a photo of Italy’s 2006 soccer team do little to inspire romantic conversation. The storefront sits on a short, one-way side street in little Italy. The light bulb in the basement restroom flickers incessantly like set decoration in one of those new horror movies where teenagers get tortured for two hours. No one just strolls past California and decides to get something to eat. They come looking.

The menu, a tribute to simplicity that hasn’t changed since 1967 (except for the removal of baloney) could fit on a sandwich board or ankle tattoo. It is simply: veal sandwich ($6.95), chicken sandwich ($6.95), steak sandwich ($6.95), meatball sandwich ($5.75), eggplant sandwich ($6.50), and sausage sandwich ($5.50). No one’s going to come in here and ask the girl at the counter with the hoop earrings what the specials are tonight. About 8 ounces of veal, chicken, or eggplant are breaded, shallow fried, drenched in tomato sauce, and entombed in a kaiser the size of a Nerf football. All sandwiches come in sweet (which means mild), medium, or hot courtesy of roasted jalapeño peppers that tend to lurk in the centre. Beware the presumption that the outer ring with its perimeter of jalapeno juice represents the spice level of the whole sandwich.

I know some people who say that their bodies tell them what they need throughout the day like ,”eat some greens”, or “you need protein”, or, “it’s time for an energy burst”. But it seems unlikely that a sane body ever whispers a reminder to stuff it with one of California’s veal sandwiches. Most will confess that half a sandwich is sufficient but I’ve never heard of that happening. The first bite of this effrontery to moderation is crunchy and sauce slides across my cheek as I greedily tackle the outer edge. The chicken is still juicy and with the third bite I wish I’d ordered two. I keep wolfing until a cache of jalapenos is excavated by the seventh bite. This slows me down a bit. The eighth bite finishes the first half and dispels the illusion that I want or need two of these. But then the ninth bite brings sadness that I’m closer to the end than the beginning. At bite twelve I’m already going through pre-withdrawal and I regret not savouring bite six more. I can’t even talk about bite 15. An unsauced protrusion of chicken adds crisp nostalgia to the penultimate bite. And the last morsel is bittersweet. It’s criminal what I’ve just done to my body but clearly I couldn’t do this on a regular basis (even though I do) so it doesn’t make me feel guilty (that’s what I tell myself).

Now I’m no friend of baby cows. I have no qualms about taking their tenderloin, poaching it to rare in milk, and rolling it in crushed pistachios. But if you’re going to bread it, fry it, sauce it, and bun it, then it may as well be chicken. The steak and pork sausage are grilled (the steak’s a little chewy) and I haven’t eaten a meatball since I was 10 (my old man made meatballs that were literally just an unseasoned sphere of ground beef with wedges of uncooked onions) so I can’t vouch for it. For a dollar they’ll add provolone, mushrooms, or sweet peppers. But really, it’s such a tower of starch, protein, and fat flavour already. A word about ordering. This place is popular. There are a half-dozen locations throughout the city but the original on Claremont is still choked with loyal hot Italian sandwich fanatics. Expect a lineup of paramedics, cops, plasterers, tow-truck drivers, and firefighters around quittin’ time. Call orders in, especially since the menu selection is unlikely to stump anyone. Last summer I formed a pear-shaped habit of two sandwiches a week. Part way through the summer I started ordering sandwiches under the name Tony or Vince. Corey’s sandwiches were almost always ready when I came to pick them up but Tony’s sandwiches were always ready to go and he got a little smile too. I’m just saying when in Rome you know…