BEAR’S the BEEF?

Chicago’s semi-secret sandwich is ready for its close up.

But for the damned hornets this would have been a perfect moment with my 10-year-old son. The 78-degree air is cool for mid-august, the sun is beaming, and we are sitting together at one of the grease-patinated tables outside Johnnie’s Beef in Chicagoland, both thoroughly excited by what’s to come.

Sure, on the outside it looks like a dive, and what you see is what you get—it is in fact a dive. But the food is legit, and for nearly as long as he’s had teeth, I’ve been telling my boy about their sublime Italian beef sandwiches.

I’ve chewed his ear so much over the last few days alone…i worry I’ve oversold it. At long last, we have food in hand and have popped a few fries into our mouths. But before we can unwrap the main course, the swarm catches the scent of sugar and hones in on our lemon ices. In a desperate gambit, I sacrifice my slush on the top of a trash can a few yards away, after only a few sweet sips, in an attempt to placate the relentless insects. The bait works just enough for us to savor the Italian beef sandwiches we’ve been dreaming about in relative peace.

If you’ve never had one, you’re probably wondering, What the hell is an Italian beef sandwich?

The short answer: it’s a Chicago delicacy that features slow-cooked beef, usually a top or bottom round sirloin, sliced thin and returned to its cooking liquids to marinate. When it’s time to assemble the sandwich, the meat is scooped along with a customizable amount of the jus (or “gravy”) and served on French bread with optional sweet or hot peppers (a.k.a. giardiniera). The shorter answer: it’s one of the finest sandwiches anywhere in the world. FX’S critically acclaimed show The Bear, streaming exclusively on Hulu, introduced many folks outside the Second City to the concept of the Italian beef, but it’s still hard to find beyond a fifty-mile radius of Michigan Avenue.

The story of the beef begins roughly a century ago at what were known in Chicago’s Little Italy neighborhood as “peanut weddings” according to Nick Kindelsperger, a food critic for the Chicago Tribune. There are, as you might expect, conflicting tales of who actually invented the sandwich, but it originated in the 1920s and ‘30s as a way to feed a

large number of guests a deliciously flavorful meal without bankrupting the newlyweds. “If you were a poor immigrant and didn’t have a lot of money, it was a way to stretch cheaper beef,” he says. “You’re taking what is essentially the least flavorful part of the cow and you’re transforming it into this obscenely beefy, garlicky creation,” says Kindelsperger. That’s what makes it so special. “It’s human ingenuity over nature.”

For the uninitiated, eating a beef for the first time is an indelible sensory experience. The mixture of garlic, herbs, and meat immediately begins to tease your olfactory. Picking it up, the weight of the sandwich grabs you. Not just because it’s piled high with meat but because if you order yours the way I do—“hot and juicy”—the bread is soaked with the weight of as much of the cooking liquids as it could absorb during a full dunk jus. Take a bite, and the gravy-laden bread melts away, leaving you with a mouthful of beautifully tender, delectable beef, coupled with the fiery heat of the giardiniera.

While some fans like to sketch religious metaphors for the experience and the spots that sell the sandwich, the act of eating one is simultaneously ceremonial and unceremonious. A beef is a “wet” sandwich, inherently messy, and doesn’t travel well. You want to eat it where you bought it, and quickly… never, ever in the car, unless you’re trading it in that very day. If you’re at Johnnie’s, that may mean eating standing up over a counter if the weather is lousy, since they only have outdoor seating. But honestly I would have one in a hail storm.

The Italian beef is nearly perfect, but for its visual presentation. “It’s a little rough around the edges, which is what we like about it,” says Kindelsperger. Honestly, it looks a bit sloppy, which is probably why in The Bear they only show it in glimpses. But beauty, of course, resides in the eye of the beholder of the sandwich.

As a disclaimer, I should tell you, I’m not from Chicago. I’ve never lived there—a six-month stint at a newspaper in Aurora certainly doesn’t count. In all honesty, I’m not particularly fond of the Windy City. Not that I hate it there, but the traffic is the worst in the country, and it has a rather unwelcoming vibe for out-of-towners. My ears bristle when someone calls their drink a “pop,” and a shot of Jeppson’s Malört feels like a strange form of Nordic punishment. That said, I’m willing to suffer a fair bit for the Italian beef.

During that brief stay in the deep ‘burbs of Aurora, I discovered the beef sandwich at the regional chain Portillo’s, and began exploring other purveyors closer to and inside the city limits. Not long after, I found myself truly, madly, deeply in love and lust with the version from Johnnie’s, which is not in fact in Chicago, but rather in the nearby enclave of Elmwood Park. It’s delectably beefy, with a good dose of herbaceous character from their secret spice blend.

Kindelsperger’s preferred beef spot is Al’s Number 1 at the original location on Taylor Street in the city. “I love the spices

Allen White as Carmy outside his sandwich shop in The Bear. Chuck Hodes/fx Italian Beef in Brooklyn; A beef topped with giardiniera from Johnnie’s in Elmwood Park; Inside Mr. Beef in Chicago that they use in their beef. You don’t know exactly what it is, but there’s either cinnamon or clove that really gives the beef a unique flavor profile that is different from other places.” Much like most of the beef-obsessed, he places Johnnie’s in the top echelon.

Thankfully for meat-heads like me who live elsewhere, it’s getting easier to find the sandwich beyond northern Illinois. Portillo’s, which makes a perfectly fine beef (and is better than no beef), has expanded into Florida, Texas, Arizona, and California. For New Yorkers looking for a beef fix, Bobbi’s Italian Beef in Brooklyn’s Cobble Hill neighborhood makes a helluva sandwich. It’s no wonder they were experiencing lines out the door and frequently selling out when they opened roughly nine months ago, according to owner Jason Lux. Half jokingly, he says they now go through about two cows’ worth of meat per week. Looks like I’m not the only one jonesing for Italian beef.

YOU’RE TAKING WHAT IS essentially THE least flavorful PART OF THE COW AND YOU’RE transforming it… IT’S human ingenuity OVER nature.

Back at our hornet-invaded table, we’d come to Chicago on a dual pilgrimage of sorts, to see my baseball-obsessed cub’s first Major League game and eat this sandwich I crave so hard. Sure, it would have been a shorter train ride to see either of our hapless New York teams, but the flight from New York was quick, and watching a game at Wrigley Field is simply one of the best experiences in sports. Sadly, the Cubbies lost to the Royals, but we felt we won.

After luring most of the hornets away from our table, the two of us get to work on our beefs, my bliss building with every bite. Much too quickly, I find myself staring at just a greasy wrapper. When I turn back to my son, I see he has plowed through three quarters of his and is still going—impressive for a kid who usually leaves more than half his food on his plate. So I ask him, “What’s the verdict?” He responds with a smile, “This is the best sandwich ever!”

Had this been TV, the camera would cut to me beaming in the realization that this moment with my son was truly perfect, while the “to be continued” signaled our return next season.