I am smitten.

Oh Reuben. How I love thee.

With you, man has mastered the sandwich. You make the turkey club cower for mercy. The patty melt averts its eyes. Even the mighty monte cristo walks away in shame.

I will find you, Reuben, where you most expect me to: any fine establishment, or shithole, at which you are prepared. The best amongst you will be documented here, for all to share in your majesty.

Let those who have gone before me lead the way. And I, Reuben R. Reuben, will share tales of your glory.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Beverly Hills Hotel coffee shop

It's worth it alone to bask in the pink and blue Art Deco goodness.
This is the mist hidden and unswanky eateries at the Bev Hills Hotel.
The Reuben is not on the menu, but if you ask, they give you a knowing look and get it done.
For those of you who like less meat (and you know who you are), this sammy is solid. Each bite has well-conceived proportions, mingling for a moment before they melt into each other.
Huge bonus points for toasting, and then grilling the bread, an extra step which results in maximum crunch.
I didn't stay long enough to see if Avril Lavigne had one, but I'm gonna go with no. Cottage cheese and a speedball? Eggs Benedict and a guitar lesson?


  1. You are just the man to pen the biopic "Adorably Angry: The Avril Lavigne Story."

    Speaking as your cardiologist, I am troubled by your apparent new pace of one Reuben per day.

  2. This is Reuben Kincade...I don't have much to say about the sandwich. I just wanted to let you knuckleheads know that I'm fixing up the bus and putting the band back together (even though I'm pretty sure I'm dead).