"Corn in the Coop"

I know I said that I would never dare make my own bread again - but I tend to vacillate and dither on my definitive and decisive statements, particularly when it comes to my renouncing of things. For instance, I've renounced pants about a dozen times since the first day I could pull off a pair of shorts this summer, but when goosepumps came to shudders, I would hesitantly acquiesce to breaking out a pair of jeans.

Yet I digress.

I know I said that I would never dare make my own bread again, but when I came up with the idea of making cornbread for a pertly named chicken and egg sandwich, I just couldn't resist. I was also thrilled to discover that baking cornbread was actually more like baking cookies than bread - no yeast, to waiting, no fuss, and certainly no muss.


This was a pretty straightforward sandwich, with its deliciousness lying in its simplicity:

1) cornbread
2) grilled chicken thighs doused in smoke spice and spicy tequila BBQ sauce
3) a sunny side up egg, sprinkled with pepper, fried in some butter

The only thing that went somewhat wrong was that the cornbread was so dense, it just fell apart when you picked it up. It was also so dense that it sat in my stomach for hours, conjuring nary an appetite  for dinner later. That's not to say I didn't have any, though.

THE REVIEW

Nothing slips more smoothly down the esophagus than a sweet series of alliteration. But if the devout sandwich pilgrim desires a sweetening of the pot, he/she should put in that little extra effort to concoct a pun to help things slide down all the more delightfully. And what better than some 'Corn in the Coop', the most stomach-tinglingly punny hoagie this side of Old Mother Hubbard's backyard chicken roost, to wash down over lunch with a tall glass of cow maternity juice.

THE BREAD

Cornbread, that devoted staple of cowboys and California hippies, makes up the delightful pair of pastries encircling this 'wich. Homebaked, straight out of the oven and onto the plate, what more can you ask for? Perhaps some bread that doesn't disintegrate comically in your hands (it was the trick candle of the magical eating disappearing act world), but that was of little consequence. Arrogant bastard 5/5

THE MEAT

Once there was a lonely high-school nerd named Bill. Pimple-faced, gangly, notorious for getting picked last. One day poor little Bill was walking home and saw a group of gorgeous women settling around a grill in the afternoon sun. Then and there he resolved to become wealthy and powerful enough to have the same power as that grill. That, my friends is the story of how barbequed chicken started Microsoft. Not surprisingly, it worked similar wonders on this sandwich. Shake on some tequila sauce, and you're staring down a feast more delicious than any forlorn desert cowboy could have dreamed of while snuggling his horse. Shame on the chef for so cunningly exploiting my culinary weakness. Arrogant Bastard 5/5

THE REST

Now typically, I borrow my life philosophy from Samuel L in 'The Spirit'. I don't like egg on my face. Unless that egg comes from a sandwich whose cup so overfloweth with delicious juices, chickens and eggs that it hath nowhere else to go but onto my face. That, my friends, is a glob I'll gladly accept on my face. Unibroue. 4/5

THE OUTLANDISHNESS

This sandwich was a strike right outta left field. Unexpected and surprisingly delicious, it arose like the Cloverfield monster out of nowhere to wreak havoc on my tastebuds and sock me a good solid punch to the gut. Preposterous? Perhaps not, but still a damn delicious gastrointestinal pal to have winding his way through my belly. Unibroue 4/5

THE OVERALL

I enjoyed this sandwich so much, I briefly contemplated leaving Sofia for it. Unfortunately, our passionate romance (between the sandwich and I, not that old Italian bag) burned too fast and too bright to last longer than it took me to open and close my mouth twenty-nine times. And so, desolate and lonely, I had to abandon my dreams of an exclusive sandwich-love future, and go back to the depressingly much-less-edible girl with whom I reside. Arrogant Bastard. 5/5

"The Drunken Count of Monte Cristo"

There's a Monte Cristo sandwich, there's the best Monte Cristo sandwich, i.e., the Count, and then there's the Drunken Count of Monte Cristo sandwich. And that's what I eventually chose to embark on.
 
Initially, I had set out for the mere title of the Count of Monte Cristo. I figured I could just destroy any ordinariness associated with the typical hero and bump it up a few notches of excellence. But then a trip to the Atwater Market, in combination with our already alcoholic themed spice cabinet, took it to an even greater level. Here is a list of the Count's boozy auxiliaries:

1. Johnny Walker Red (already in possession)
2. Club House Limited Edition Wild Whiskey Smoked BBQ Spice (already in possession)
3. President's Choice Tequila Habanero BBQ Sauce (already in possession)
4. Crunchy Grainy Whiskey Mustard (newly acquired)
5. Aged Whiskey Cheddar (newly acquired)

It quickly became obvious that the Count had been hitting the bottle when he hit the table. But the remaining ingredients contained less moonshine and more muscle:




1. Pork Tenderloin. This is a favourite of mine: tender, moist, safe to serve on the raw side, and always a quick cook. Despite the Countless (hahaha!) times I've prepared this meat, I've never tried to braise it... how could it possibly be more tender?!? I had to find out.

First I seared it quickly with the Wild Whiskey Smoked BBQ Spice and Tequila Habanero BBQ Sauce to give it a crispy, tipsy crust. Then I placed it in some Braisin' Brine.






2. Braisin' Moonshine Brine. I have to say, when this was complete, I feared it would be too boozy to be enjoyed as a result of its pungent odour. Chicken broth, water, SO MUCH Johnny Walker Red, and another healthy dose of Wild Whiskey Smoked BBQ Spice. Allow to sit in 450 degree oven as long as patience will allow. Roughly 30 minutes. The pork was removed, sliced, and placed back into the Braisin' Brine to soak and make it even more succulent, but a select cup or two went on to do bigger and better things.


3. The Sauce. Some of the Braisin' Brine was simmered down to 50% of its original volume, mixed with a dash of flour and maple syrup for thickness and sweetness, and strained to remove any unattractive chunks that would make my neuroses nervous. Served in a tumbler beside the finished product. Which brings me to the last but certainly not least delicious portion of the proceedings.

4. The Bread. I did a good job with this considering I thought it would be a quasi-failure. Originally, I wanted to buy an unsliced loaf of brioche or challah (Jewish egg bread) for some thick, home-sliced French Toast (which is, as anyone with any propensity of predilection towards sandwiches knows, the defining aspect between the Monte Cristo and a boring ham and cheese sandwich), but, amazingly enough, I couldn't locate any in a French Canadian market place. I ended up getting some individual challah buns at a major chain grocer. I then delicately cut off the crusts with a gentle touch, doused them in a simple egg, cinnamon, and vanilla mix, and let them brown in some butter. But what, you ask on the edge of your seat in anticipation, happens next?

5. The Rest. Melt some Whiskey Aged Cheddar on one side of the french toast as the second side cooks, smear Crunchy Grainy Whiskey Mustard on the opposite slice, load with slices of Moonshine Brined pork, and pour the sauce over top.

Damn I'm good.

THE REVIEW

For those uninitiated with the diversity of breakfast sandwiches (and I must ashamedly now admit that I appear to be one of them), the Monte Cristo is a ham and cheese served between two dripping slices of french toast and NOT, as I had childishly supposed, a daring sandwich of lost love, daring escapes, immense fortunes and revenge. The very idea of a sandwich that could accomplish such dizzying heights of perfection is a notion too fantastic to imagine. Unless it is an ESP sandwich. And so my mouth approached it with the highest of expectations. To find out, dear reader, if it lived up to its name or was banished to the deepest cells of the Chateau d'If, read on.*

*WARNING: Many Count of Monte Cristo reference will be made in this review. My advice: go read the book before sitting down to digest this review. Or the sandwich, for that matter.

THE BREAD

Now there's a problem faced when evaluating a sandwich that ALREADY EXISTS. Though it contradicts all the tenets of the ESP constitution regarding boldness, daring and originality, I had never had a Monte Cristo before, so I'll treat everything as new, regardless of the consequences.

FRENCH TOAST AS BREAD??! How incredibly absurd. Only a mad-man would attempt to incorporate something that stands alone as a full meal into the delivery device for a further meal! If it hadn't already been done millions of times before, I'd be prepared to eat my socks over the very proposition. Instead I got to eat this, and it was AMAZING. Ten revenge stabs out of ten. Arrogant Bastard. 5/5

THE MEAT

Ham is for children. An entire pork roast is the meal for a man so manly he spends a vast fortune destroying everyone who even sneezed on him without apologizing. Generously douse that roast in Jack Daniels, tequila BBQ sauce and whiskey mustard, and you've got yourself some meat to make Chuck Norris whimper in fear. Put that pork in a sandwich and you're facing down a tower of protein so prolific to make the Old Spice guy AND the Dos Equis grandpa shit their pants. Five public shame-ings resulting in suicide out of five. Arrogant Bastard. 5/5

THE REST

The sandwich was generously accompanied by my choice of a Whiskey Aged Cheddar and some Whiskey mustard. Not terribly inventive, but sometimes less is more, and this way I got to focus on the meat and booze. You'd think the chef knew me well, or something. seven staged kidnappings out of eight. Unibroue. 4/5

DELICIOSITY

Now the Monte Cristo is supposed to be a breakfast sandwich, and though delicious is delicious at any time of day, this version of the MC would have gone down SPECTACULARLY in the a.m. Especially if served with a meaty breakfast drank like a Cesar to kick off an indulgent day of languor. Still great, but, as Dantes would counsel, you must know when to pick your battle. Serve this up after a heavy night of imbibing, and this sandwich would be OUT OF THIS WORLD. Arrogant Bastard, 5/5

THE OUTLANDISHNESS

Adding some whiskey to a sandwich already widely available at your local Denny's, while a thoroughly appreciated addition (and a change that would absolutely change my aversion to Denny's), is about as outlandish as taking off your pants at Seaworld. It's simply been done too many times to shock anyone any more. Blame the availability of child porn, if you must, but a Drunken Count just doesn't have the same power to shock the taste-buds anymore. A slithering 3 denouncing-your-friend-to-a-revolutionary-tribunals out of 9. Belle Gueule.

Food baby.

Though revenge is a dish served cold, this version of the Count found that everyone's much happier when you add a healthy splash of whiskey in your sandwich.