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| - You'll have to forgive me. I live in Los Angeles where there is valet parking for hamburgers and top chefs have food trucks that can be found here, there and everywhere. A burger with a side of fries smothered in Duck Confit with White Truffle Sauce - so perhaps the bar is a tad higher than here in - ack - Pittsburgh where I found myself searching for sustenance before attending the wedding that brought me here. I only hope the godawful mess I actually ate doesn't rear it's ugly head mid-ceremony.
It sounded like such a novel concept, a sandwich with all the sides just piled on. After all, it's all going to the same place, right? Having been born and raised in Chicago it was a familiar concept. The noble Chicago Dog, a study in contradictions: sweet and sour, spicy and mild, hot and cold - a veritable melange that blends and tantalizes from the first bite to the last. Yes! I'll try it!
With my omnivore brother and his lovely wife I made my way through the chilly streets of downtown Pittsburgh on this frosty Saturday. A bustling little metropolis, scant parking so (I am shamed to admit) I pulled in a nearby lot that charged an $8 flt fee. A small price to pay, I reasoned, for a gastronomic delight as has been described here. Yes, as I said, I'm from out of town.
On to the main event - my bro and his bride went with the signature piece, the pastrami sandwich. I opted for the Hot Sausage with cheese. May god have mercy on my gastrointestinal tract.
It is a wonder how a sandwich with so many things can be so uniformly bland. Perhaps it starts with the niggardly portions of actual meat - when confronted with this sandwich in profile it is hard to find under the wad of soggy fries and tasteless cole slaw. The liquid in the slaw makes the bread begin to disintegrate almost immediately so that should you be as foolhardy as I and actually attempt to eat this mess it will be all over the table in short order.
I ate it - I admit that. I'm not proud of it, but I was that hungry. The saving grace of the near-complete lack of any discernable seasoning is that I don't have an aftertaste to suffer through, but the leaden ball in the pit of my stomach promises to make up for that with a trip or two to the bathroom in the hopefully not too distant future.
I would eat at McDonalds before I went back here. Please - don't fall for the raves here. It's pure, unadulterated crap.
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