THE COOKBOOK TEST #0036: PAISAN'S IN MEMORIAM

INSTALLMENT #0036 (FREE) THE LEGEND OF PAISAN'S / TACKLING THE GARIBALDI / PORTA ADDENDUM

Dear Readers,

You may have noticed that this newsletter comes out with military predictability - every Sunday, 7am, come hell, high water, or cholesterol results. But a guy's got to take a break once in a while, and now seems like a pretty good time - the last cookbook I did (Plantasia) was a pretty intense rollercoaster of shopping and prep, and I need to shift it down a gear so that I don't burn out. So no authoritative deep-dive into Turkish cuisine or whatever this week - I just can't hack making a handful of sideboard recipes and then marinating and prepping a giant piece of meat for 36 hours.

But for me, "taking a break" can't mean "actually taking a break." That would be too easy, and your inboxes would be too devoid of delicious storytelling. So instead of actually giving myself a week off, this week I'm pursuing a bit of a passion project.

I grew up in Madison, Wisconsin in the 1980s. The restaurant scene was diverse and inspired (Madison was and remains a college town and the seat of statewide government), but you wouldn't necessarily guess that from the brief roster of places my parents took me and my brother for dinner: Upstairs Downstairs Deli, Michael's Frozen Custard, Pizza Pit (takeout only) [1], Yen Ching, Brat und Brau, and last but definitely not least, Paisan's. 

Located in the heart of the UW-Madison campus (just a stone's throw from the offices of the Daily Cardinal, where I'd later spend many, many hours as a writer and editor), Paisan's was a dark, cavernous warren of cozy tables and booths where red lead and pasta ruled the roost, the tavern-cut pizza was topped with chopped onions as a default, and even the salads ate like hearty sandwiches.

Paisan's closed a few years ago (it's survived by a sister restaurant, Porta Bella), but its comforting, workmanlike food lives on in my heart and in the hearts of Madisonians everywhere. First and foremost, the restaurant did an absolutely killer hot Italian sandwich called the Garibaldi that was a favorite of many locals, my wife Becca included.

So in honor of Becca and everyone who might crave an at-home Garibaldi, here's my attempt to reverse engineer a really satisfying lunchtime staple. For what it’s worth, while I bought bread that was a little too robust (a French baguette), I otherwise seemed to hit the nail on the head in terms of flavor and proportions. So if you shop a little more carefully for your loaf, you’ll be able to enjoy a legitimate and authentic Garibaldi experience, minus the chewiness.

at your service,

James

TACKLING THE GARIBALDI

What makes a Garibaldi a Garibaldi? Well, it should have some heat - you could choose banana peppers or plain old green peppers, but the pro move was to say "both." And it should have some heat - like physical, radiant heat - because it spends some time under the broiler to melt the pepper jack cheese and give the meat a touch of crispy carbon. It has real substance - two kinds of meat and plenty of melted cheese - but it also has enough sliced and chopped peppers and tomato to keep it crispy and interesting, so it isn't just a monotonous mountain of carbs and protein. And while I haven't been able to track down whether the real deal comes with mayo or dressing, I dressed mine with a reasonably sober amount of thousand island in order to provide a little uniting richness and unctuous texture throughout.

The sandwich's name deserves a brief shout-out - it's named for Giuseppe Garibaldi, the patriot credited in part with uniting the modern nation of Italy in the later part of the 19th Century. It's also a bit of an ironic name - Italy is such a diverse, complex, and sprawling place from a culinary perspective, while the Garibaldi sandwich represents a tiny, American-facing tip of the food iceberg: a sliver of the Calabrian/Sicilian flavor library by way of the tiny funnel that is Italian-American diaspora fare.

In terms of making this thing, we're looking at a few major steps: toasting the bread, broiling the hot part of the sandwich, and then dressing and assembling the cold part of the sandwich.

For the hot part of the sandwich, I took some cues from my experience of building bigass scratch-made muffaletta sandwiches - curling up and staggering the sliced meats and cheeses so they don't compress into a single depressing block of protein. You want evenly spaced gaps so the sandwich is light and easy to bite through, and you want your proteins evenly distributed so you don't have a big cheesy meaty side and a disappointing, scarcely-topped, deserted side of the sandwich, too. 

So I like to fold my sliced meats and cheeses and alternate 45 degree placements so they're almost like a series of Xs going along the sandwich, repeating (in the opposite way) with the next topping, and so forth.

"Sandwich artist" played a little like a joke when Subway introduced the term to the national discourse, but, seriously, if you're going to make a really good sandwich you have to keep your thinking cap on and make sure your texture and distribution results in a delightful experience for your guests.

At any rate: the Garibaldi is a truly satisfying sandwich - balanced in terms of texture and flavor, and substantial without being overbearing. 

GARIBALDI SANDWICH
Makes two 6" sandwiches

12 inch piece of Italian bread, cut in half lengthwise
2 Tbsp butter, melted and cooled
12 large round slices of salami
About 3 oz. of pit or breakfast ham, shredded or cut into small slices
About 3 oz. pepperjack cheese, sliced thinly
1-2 Tbsp Thousand Island dressing
1/2 tomato, sliced thinly
1/2 small green pepper, chopped finely
Pickled sliced banana peppers, several Tbsp

Preheat oven to 450 F

Toast your bread on a sheet pan, openfaced and brushed with melted butter, for about 5-8 minutes, until lightly browned

Layer bread with folded salami, criscrossing and overlapping

Layer salami with ham pieces, barely overlapping

Cover meats with pepperjack cheese, slices folded, crisscrossing and overlapping

Preheat oven to broil (high)

Return sandwich to oven for 2-3 minutes, until cheese is thoroughly melted and edge of meats begin to char. You want your sandwich good and punished by the furnaces of Mordor, but not actively on fire.

Brush sandwich with dressing, layer tomato slices barely overlapping, and then top with layer of chopped peppers to finish

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Historically speaking, I've never been much of a salad guy, and when you look at the way the Porta Salad - one of my favorites from my childhood - is constructed, you'll probably understand why.

The Porta is constructed more or less like a really robust sandwich, minus the bread, plus some lettuce and dressing - it's loaded with meats and cheeses (plural!) and further fortified with the addition of chickpeas. Although it can work as a side to a meal (such as the Garibaldi) I also really dig this salad as a main unto itself, as it's substantial enough to fill you up while being (relatively) light enough to keep you moving. Hey, it’s light compared to pizza, alright?

PORTA SALAD
Makes two really hearty salads or 3-4 side salads

1 head iceberg lettuce, cored, washed, dried, chopped
1 cup canned chickpeas, rinsed, drained
3 oz. cheddar in small cubes
2 oz. sliced honey ham, cut into small pieces
2 oz. sliced turkey, cut into small pieces
4 oz. mozzarella, chopped into small cubes
2 oz. salami (sausage or sliced) chopped into small cubes or pieces
Dressing of your choice (I prefer French)

Top lettuce with all of your various toppings and dressing, then toss lightly.

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[1] For a long time, Pizza Pit's logo was a silhouette of the devil, which was pretty undeniably badass. It was a sad day when they ditched Old Scratch for a couple boring lightning bolts.