Resembling a fortress of red brick, The Other Place sits on a knob overlooking the suburban bustle of Greentree Road. Takeout and delivery are your only options as the interiors barely contain a counter, some stools, and a cash register, let alone a kitchen full of diligent, skilled cooks. As Kay and I awaited an order to eat at home after a session with our chiropractor, I was in awe of these culinary craftsmen, watching them chop, fry, shuffle pizzas in and out of a foreboding, massive oven as if they were pucks, and quickly assemble salads, the flames and angry, spitting grease barely affecting their concentration. These were short order masters at work, and they made their tasks look to be instinctual.
What we drove back to Beechview with were a colossus of bread called The Stallion and a flat box full of zucchini strips.
Named after characters from the "Rocky" series of films, The Other Place's "Knock 'Em Out Hoagies" are all served on entire (!) loaves of Mancini's bread. When I saw them on the menu, I immediately felt challenged by the one made with Genoa salami, baked ham, pepperoni, provolone, hot peppers, black olives, lettuce, tomato, onion, and Italian dressing.
"Yo," it said to me with a New York accent bristling with belligerence. "I bet you can't take me."
"I beat bigger sandwiches than you," I snapped back.
"Heh. I ain't no Battleship," it said with a casual disdain.
"You sure ain't," I replied eyeballing it up and down, setting off a chorus of "ooohhhs."
From there, my living room turned into an arena, and soon the Stallion and I circling each other in a tomato-stained boxing ring.
Round 1 saw me dominate the crowd favorite, crunching through the chewy, tough bread, and into the layers of spice, heat, oil, and tang, savory and sweet colliding like dueling rams. Densely packed with delicatessen meats, the grinder began to wear on my jaw muscles. I felt sore, swollen, like I'd taken too many jabs.
"He's runnin' outta gas," I heard a grizzled, old voice say after Round 3.
I would regain my composure after seeing Kay with tears in her eyes upon the conclusion of Round 8 as I contemplated telling the referee "No mas."
Someone sounding like Jim Lampley would exclaim "This is a war!!!" in Round 10 when I and The Stallion had to be separated after the bell sounded. My bodyshots were clearly beginning to pay dividends, frustrating the wily veteran.
With 45 seconds left in the 12th and final round, I would connect with a beautiful haymaker worthy of a highlight reel, giving the referee ample time to count to 10, ensuring that a timekeeper would not save The Stallion from defeat.
A Michael Buffer figure would appear and announce my win as Kay kissed my cheek. I disregarded a shady Don King-like person who claimed he'd "take me to the top" as well as a typically long-winded Larry Merchant analogue who still refused to take me as a serious contender.
We would celebrate victory with crispy, wafer-thin boards of consummately fried zucchini. Topped with slightly sharp parmesan crumbles, they were dunked in a tart marinara for maximum enjoyment.
"I've fought better. But not many." I told the defeated hero as we exchanged handshakes.
"Hey, you know, that's how it is, you know, in this game," my weary adversary said. "Yo, meet my wife. Adrian, get ovah here."
Ya wanna eat a REAL zep? Blow off that dorky Fogle kid and head over to that place on the hill. Y'know, The Other Place?
And now a word from *ahem* The Stallion itself.
"Yo, Richman. I keep seein' you on TV, you know, callin' out these sandwiches. When you gonna come down here and try me? What? You duckin' me?"