The other day, after a wild-goose chase searching for masa (I was going to try making tortillas, but I guess we’re stuck with Old El Paso) left me empty-handed, I wanted something quick and filling. Nick came home later than usual, hungry for a big sandwich. He hit on Philly cheesesteaks, which sounded pretty good to me, and somehow we ended up at the supermarket at 8pm staring in frustration at the beef cuts. Did we want bavette? Onglet? Filet? Faux-filet? Paleron? Rumsteck? Being hungry did not help matters. I knew that onglet is hanger steak and faux-filet is sirloin. Rumsteck is probably rump, but is that or is it not what we’re looking for? And it all seems pretty expensive. After some debate, we bought the faux-filet. We debated buying hot sauce and decided to skip it in favor of the cayenne we had at home. Then we went to the cheese aisle, determined to find the crappiest, most processed cheese there. Much to our surprise, we found not one, but two brands of what appeared to be American cheese (it wasn’t labeled as such, but if it looks like Kraft singles…). Then to the bakery section, where I chose the only baguette left that didn’t look like it had been manhandled or smashed. Ingredients procured, it was time to cook.
I’m sure this photo will cause many of you to cry out in disgust. That lovely piece of meat next to that package of “cheese.” Yes, we could have gone the high-end route, but I don’t think that’s the point of the Philly cheesesteak. We set our shame aside and got to work. Nick sliced and sautéed an onion, while I researched beef cuts in French. I managed to find a hexalingual website, where you can cross-reference the names of the different cuts. Never again will I be at a loss in the meat department or at a butcher! Meanwhile, Nick sliced the sirloin thinly and sautéed it with a little salt and cayenne.
Then it was time to make the sandwiches. With the baguette cut in half and split lengthwise, we lined each piece with cheese and filled it with beef and onions. More cheese on the top, and into the oven to melt a bit.
Yuenglings being thin on the ground over here, we washed it down with tallboys of Heineken. It was a gut bomb, but it really hit the spot.