I have San Franciscan pride in the unique magic of the Mission burrito. But I have the good grace not to claim it is the Only Good Burrito. Tex-Mex does not appeal to my California palate but it is legit; if you think it is the best Mexican food in Los Estados Unidos, I respectfully disagree.
Texas style wet brisket is my favorite American barbecue, but Americans have the good grace to know that we are engaging in joking chauvinism when we claim that Our BBQ Is The Best. This is how we keep the Union together.
To that point, I respect New Yorkers’ smug enthusiasm for their disgusting pizza because they have that little bit of grace to claim that it is the best pizza, not the only good pizza. We are humoring you when all we do is roll our eyes over it. Take the win on having a terrific local style of “Chinese” and the best bagels and the only real pastrami.
Some time ago a colleague of mine rolled over to my desk at work and said, “Hey JK, you know about This Kind Of Thing so I hope you can help me.”
“Already I am flattered. What are you wondering?”
“I just got back from NYC and while I was there I had this pastrami sandwich …”
“Oh yeah. That’s the stuff, Brother.”
“I couldn’t believe it. This pastrami sandwich was a religious experience.”
“No lie. Nothing better in this world.”
“So where do I get that here in San Francisco?”
“Oh my Brother, I am so very sorry. Your average pastrami sandwich in San Francisco is not even going to qualify as a real pastrami sandwich. I can point you to several places where you can get a real one, and a few where you can get a good one. But that sandwich? The one you had in New York? That sandwich is not available in exchange for love or money anywhere closer than Los Angeles, and even there you have to be smart enough to go to Canter’s Deli to get it. There is nothing to be done.”
I also love the regional stuff that does not properly exist at all elsewhere. The weird, delicious toasted ravioli of St. Louis. The gross-yet-magnificent Italian beef sandwich of Chicago, which is Just Not The Same if you get it somewhere else. (Also gotta love the deep dish pizza, though I insist that the best version in the world is weirdly only found in Berkeley.)
But, uh, Cincinnati? If you are going to brag about that … stuff … fine. Call it “chili” if you want, whatever. But you have to warn people that it is a completely different dish, fergawdsake.
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