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 Cheese Steak
the Chicken Cheese Steak
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).