Cloud of Magical Smells

Michelle emailed me about a food writing workshop at the Community Writing Center. Here's what resulted:

A Cloud of Magical Smells

There are sub shops on almost every city street corner where I grew up in Wilmington, Delaware. Not the big chains but rather small, crowded, “mom and pop” affairs. They have distinct characters—the stores and the people behind the counters. They are entirely take-out businesses. And every family has its favorite neighborhood shop.

Ours is Casapulla’s. The store hasn’t changed much, if at all, in the more than thirty years since I’ve called Wilmington “home.” It is on an otherwise quiet residential street, and sees a steady flow of traffic all day, and well into the evening. The red brick storefront itself is understated , unremarkable. But open the door and you are enveloped in a cloud of magical smells: olive oil and oregano, grilled steak and onions, hot peppers, fresh bread.

The women behind the counter (and they are almost always all women) are young and old. The older ones have been behind the counter for years, their faces reflect their tired feet; I have always wondered what fate has in store for the younger ones. The phone rings constantly with incoming orders. There are sizzling, scraping, flipping sounds at the grill, and, nearby, those of crinkling paper: torpedo-shaped sandwiches being wrapped from piles of pre-cut, grayish, and very porous newsprint, and then stuffed into brown paper bags … bags and wrappers that will have little spots of olive oil on them by the time they reach their destination. Bags that will, when opened in the car, release their own cloud of magical smells.

Behind the counter are tubs of prepared ingredients: shredded iceberg; sliced tomatoes, white onions, black peppercorn-studded capicola, ham, provolone, and cheap dill pickles; squeeze bottles of inexpensive olive oil; shakers full of salt, pepper, and oregano; a tub filled with spicy pepper relish. These ingredients are the hallmarks of the sandwich of my youth—the order at the counter (taken with the distinct Philadelphia-area accent that is nearly impossible to describe, other than it being simultaneously nasal and phlegmmy; “Coke” sounds like “keewk;” “water” is “woooter;” the day is “bee-u-tee-ful,” emphasis on the “bee”) would have been for a “regular Italian sub with extra pickles and hot peppers.” This is the sandwich I craved while away at college, and then well into my twenties, and beyond. I should note, too, it is a cold sandwich: there are no “baked” subs at Casapulla’s or pretty much anywhere in northern Delaware (except at the increasingly ubiquitous chain eateries). And they can be packed “for travel” so the roll doesn’t get soggy; but they never quite seem like eating the real deal. Close, but not quite right.

Maybe it’s having turned fifty, perhaps it’s an as yet un-researched kind of menopausal change, but now the sandwich I seem to crave when I need comfort food is the cheesesteak. Like they’re made at Casapulla’s—only they’re better, because while they’re cooking, and for several hours afterward, my kitchen (and I) are enveloped in a cloud of magical smells: ones that I thought could only exist in that one place, but that I now know I can create, pretty much whenever, and wherever, I want.

Cheesesteaks Like Casapulla’s—Only Better

You will need: rib-eye steak, onions, red bell peppers, button mushrooms, thinly-sliced provolone, and the best torpedo rolls you can find—not too crusty, and most definitely not whole wheat if you’re shooting for authenticity—in what you think will be appropriate quantities for the number of sandwiches you will be making. While optional, I think you also need hot red cherry peppers. You can find them in the condiment or Italian section of most grocery stores; they are usually sold whole, though sometimes you can find them already pureed to an almost relish-like consistency.

Start by putting the meat in the freezer while you prepare the vegetables. Thinly (this does not mean “paper thin, “ just “thin”) slice the onions, red bell peppers, and mushrooms and set aside. If you have whole red cherry peppers, pull out the stems, put the peppers into a food processor, and pulse them until there are no more large pieces of pepper, and you have a bright red hot pepper relish. Leftover relish keeps indefinitely in the refrigerator. My leftover relish, if there is any, never lasts too long, however … I eat the stuff on everything. Then slice the rolls, not quite all the way through.

Pull the meat out of the freezer. The chilling process makes it easier, I think, to trim away pretty much all of the fat and to slice the steak thinly (here, more toward “paper thin” end of the spectrum). You are now ready to cook your cheesesteaks.

I’ve taken to putting a roasting pan on two burners of the stove on medium heat, pouring in a couple of tablespoons of olive oil in half the pan, and then adding the onions and peppers to the oil, sautéing them relatively slowly so they melt, rather than brown. Once the onions and peppers have started to melt, add the mushrooms to the other half of the pan (I usually turn on the second burner when I add the mushrooms), and let them begin to lose their liquid; they’ll absorb oil from the peppers and onions as you combine them together, moving the sautéed vegetables to one half of the pan. At this point, I like to put the open rolls on the vegetables to steam. To the empty half of the pan, add the thinly sliced steak and sauté until cooked through. When done to your liking, divide the steak into sandwich-size portions and cover each pile with one or two slices of the provolone, and let the provolone melt. If you have space, briefly covering the meat pile(s) with a saucepan cover can help the process move along … if you are like me, you will be so ready to dive into your cheesesteak at this point you won’t want to wait … even for quickly melting cheese.

So, after the cheese has pretty much melted, turn off the burners and begin to assemble your cheesesteaks. Scoop up a portion of the steak and cheese mixture and put it on a roll. Add as much of the vegetable mixture as you like. Then spoon (I am quite liberal with this step, as you might have gathered) the hot cherry pepper relish over all, smoosh shut the bun as best you can, grab some plates and napkins, and you’re ready to feast.

When you return to the kitchen to clean up (or to make yourself a second cheesesteak—it happens), stop for a moment and breathe it all in: your very own cloud of magical smells. You may not want to shower for days.