St. James, and an overload on hyperlinks

I really don't need to write yet another blog entry about either this place or this sandwich, considering the relative frequency at which they appear in my thoughts and in my writing (also here)

So a picture (or a few) will have to suffice, courtesy of the fantastic and utterly adorable digital camera that was given to me for Christmas by my fantastic and utterly adorable mother! As you may have surmised, I got the mozzarella. After having tried sandwiches with roast beef and smokey blue cheese, with turkey and avocado and basil and tomato and sharp white cheddar (varying between Beecher's and Grafton), and with gruyere and caramelized onions on a really nutty grainy bread (like a dressed-up, all-grown-up grilled cheese), I see now that this one is my favorite. As I wrote that last sentence, "gruyere" was just on the tip of my tongue and I was going crazy trying to think of the name of this fantastic cheese that I eat all the time. I found the St. James website and was blown away by how engaging and interactive and well-designed it is. It's only fitting, I guess. You should definitely investigate. Now I'd die for the piave with salami rosa, spicy radish sprouts, garlic mayo, and dijon mustard on toasted rye. MMMM. Next time, I might just try that one (although I keep saying that about literally every single thing on the menu and really just hope one day I'll be brave (and rich) enough to walk in and order each and every thing.

But I digress. Hopefully my pictures are sufficient testimony to the Fra Mani salami and fresh basil pine nut pesto and lovely white meltiness that completely blankets the ciabatta. There's also a photo of my really yummy blood orange soda, simply because it tastes the way a sundress feels at Jazz Fest.




Note the impossibly poetic layers of salami and cheese, with the pesto as a tasteful and artfully executed garnish that isn't overpowering at all. It's the ultimate sidekick -- supportive but not overbearing.


And here's the drink of perfection.

The perfect snack for a sunny Sunday afternoon.

If you haven't yet tasted the sheer joy that is a Honeycrisp apple, I highly recommend that you run to your nearest grocery store and pick one up. I found mine at Whole Foods so you'll probably have luck there.

For a while, I thought an apple was an apple. I remember picking up a copy of Cook's Illustrated that featured a recipe for apple pie, and the writer detailed an extensive search for the perfect "pie apple." I remember thinking: pie apple? What happened to the simple days of red delicious, green delicious, and yellow delicious? Since 4th grade, my apple lexicon has expanded a bit -- it now includes Fiji, gala, pink lady, Braeburn -- but I still don't think I could explicate to you the subtle nuances of firmness, juiciness, or flavor. Apples are sweet and firm enough to fill my tummy and that's pretty much all that matters.

But today at the grocery, I happened upon the Honeycrisp and was quite honestly attracted not by its lovely two-toned color, its pleasing aroma, or its satisfying firmness. No, I was allured by its name, and I think that now, after having eaten one of the apples myself, I am at the very least qualified to say that this apple is everything its name cracks it up to be: sweet, sweet like honey and crisp, crisp, crisp. As soon as I bit into it, juice literally poured onto my lap- it's ambrosia. According to Wikipedia, these criteria make it the ideal snack apple. Whatever, that works for me.

I'll also take this opportunity to get in a quick word in favor of Tillamook white cheddar cheese. It's a little too creamy and the apple's a little too sweet for the two to be paired together, but on their own, they are both remarkable.