An announcement of Tour de Hamdel candidacy.
Last time on the campaign trail: the Tuna Melt.
I watched PCU while running on the treadmill and don’t remember much besides George Clinton’s appearance at a Port Chester University kegger. If only parties at Columbia could hijack Parliament-Funkadelic for impromptu concerts. Alas, we’re stuck with a nightmare set of top 40 hits. After attending one too many Parties in the U.S.A., I swore off frat row. To revise, after suffering through one “Party in the U.S.A.” playlist, I abandoned the possibility of entertainment along 114th Street. Operation Ivy League turned a once greasy skeezing block into a ghost town. Tumbleweed substitutes for empty beer cases on the street corner; bustiered harlots no longer beckon from Campo’s swinging saloon doors. It’s a quiet semester at Columbia so far—we badly need Mr. Wiggles to make the Mothership Connection. We want George Clinton. Someone start a write-in campaign.
Another fall and the Tour knocks sweetly on my dorm room door. Nine sandwiches left:
the Clinton
the Lewinsky
the Cheese Steak
the Chicken Cheese Steak
the Twister
the Pallone
the Cordon Blue
the Pepper Steak
the Let It Ride
So it shall be written, so they shall be eaten.
I started the year with the Clinton, a sandwich presumably named for big Bill. Chicken salad, bacon, lettuce, and tomato on a toasted hero certainly sounds like a fitting sandwich for our arterially challenged 42nd President. Hamdel also offers the Lewinsky, complete with a squirt of secret sauce. Cross-pollination? Hopefully, the Lewinsky delivers more sex appeal than the Clinton. I hated it. In fact, I refused to finish the sandwich, which violates a sacred commandment: thou must finish every sandwich. When it comes to chicken salad, however, I don’t mess around. Not that the Clinton hides a secret funk. Instead, it simply lacks any discernible flavor. That chicken salad, a dubious product of refrigeration technology, tastes dry, barely mayonnaised, not even touched with a single crunchy salt crystal. A few shriveled bacon strips run through the sandwich center. I took two bites and refused, on principle, to suffer such a pathetic dinner. Onward to Amir’s for a whole wheat pita pocket stuffed with shish kabab beef.
I would not order this sandwich again. Dr. Funkenstein has told me to lay off bad sandwiches for a while.
Next: the Lewinsky (chicken cutlet, melted mozzarella, tomato, and secret sauce on a toasted hero).
