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.

Monday, May 25, 2009

Mitchell's, Chicago, IL

Reuben R. Reuben is in Chicago, and there he finds himself out with his brother, looking for lunch. The item of choice to be lunched upon was clear.

We found me my Reuben at The Original Mitchell's.

Solid. The beef was corned fairly well, and as always a huge bonus is given for the bread toasted, then grilled.

The half sandwich closeup provides a few bits of insight:
1) the beef was nicely layered, folded on top of itself.
2) My phone camera needs a better focus function
3) This sandwich came without 1000 Island dressing on it.

Perhaps #2 didn't allow you to notice #3, but you are hindered by not having RRR's Reuben-analysis gene.

Mitchelll's loses crucial points for whatever this is being labeled as 1000 Island dressing.

Anyone have a thought here?
Strawberry cream cheese?
Pink spackle?
Silver polish?

Flat out troubling.

I had one sammy swipe's worth, and went dry the rest of the way.

Mitchell's receives huge bonus points for the orange juice coming in a frosted mug. Classy.

The sandwich was left unfinished, in a nod to attempted weight management.

I blame this cherub-faced waitress for nothing, not even the pink spackle, and she received a solid 20% gratuity.

If you see this man, drinking his ice-less water with a spoon, run. If he catches you, ask for tales of Reuben R. Reuben's youth. RRR's brother knows more than he lets on.