Whenever somebody asks us to dinner at Coerper’s – or Jackson Grill or Eddie Martini’s or any of the dry-aging and “how-would-you-like-that-cooked”? gaggle for that matter – the instinctive gastrointestinal impulse cries “Why?” Not only do such call-first joints warrant practical concerns: bank account status, reservations, table manners, an ironed shirt. But our hang-up has always been more of an ephemeral one. Namely, what if our steak is served without cheese?
Then there’s our long-held stance on ribeye and such: unapologetically Anti-Atkins. Why knife-and-fork what you can get pre-chopped, in tender moist bits, packaged in fluffy, satisfying baked carbs, just asking to be hand-scooped like a puffy newborn? No sawing necessary and you can even get some hot peppers and onions in there. And then, of course, as long as you’re at it with the doctoring, if the kitchen might have a cheesestuff handy, preferably processed and of an unnaturally bright hue, we’ll take extra.
What our gut, truly, always seeks: something like that long-defunct Marquette munchies bastion, Ziggy’s. It was one of those joints where you could tolerate an intolerable shop-keep, because the food – namely the cheese steak – was so good you could tell yourself he was but part of the local color.
So, No Reservations. And while that’s a name probably copyrighted or some such lawyer business, it’s a handle that would fit for the first in a series meant to categorize, expound, and over-think on the foodstuffs that make us happiest. The comfort foods, the greasy spoons, the late-night spots out of the way. The places not fit for visiting parents, perfect for after-hours. If the grub is served in a wrapper or foil and over a Formica table, or for at-home, inebriated consumption, all the better. And here we’re looking for spots where they serve their steak, probably ribeye, maybe, but impossible to tell such as it is diced into smithereens and barely visible under so many rivulets of melty cheese whiz, in one of those bundle deals of all good things.
Thus, officially, these are the tastiest packages of bovine available in Milwaukee.
6. Philly Way “Cheese Lovers with Peppers and Onions”
The old stalwart. Hanging on amidst the condo-ification and Honey I Shrunk the Plate-ization of Walker’s Point. But all the Meraki’s and Morel’s in the world can’t infringe upon the classic concept of good beef, flat-topped and diced, pocketed by a warm roll, set to swim on the creamy seas of cheese whiz.
Sure, that Philadelphia Magazine placard, indicating they were once named “Best Cheese Steak Outside Philadelphia” has been hanging there forever. Yes, there’s probably been a rich gamut of worthy winners of same said title since. And of course a classic cheesesteak is actually so basic as to almost be boring. So, some simple riffs can be welcome.
Say, what if we put more cheese on this guy!?
And, lo, we have the “Cheese Lovers.”
Provolone, American, and Whiz almost overpower the meat. And we almost want it to, such is the satisfaction in the gummy, melty chomps. Everything is kept surprisingly intact by a billowy soft, slightly warmed roll. The addition of jalapenos and cooked-to-death onions is our own attempt to bop a riff on the tradition, lend a bit more taste personality. But it’s really all about that slight caramelization on the chopped ribeye, the Noble-worthy genius of the Whiz. Those two well-executed components that make the meat package taste like paying respect to a slightly ridiculous, completely delicious bit of East Coast caloric lineage.
5. Blue Star Cafe “Beef Suqar Sandwich”
Does anybody know anything about Somali food? Does anybody even know this place is here?
It’s hard not to wonder both, as you find yourself hunkered down on Farwell, next to another nail salon, pondering the little-known world of beef “suqar,” steering a torpedo of mushed meat toward your mouth hole. Suqar somehow just means “small,” which is disappointing in its non-exotica. But depth of flavor belies simple explanation and makes it impossible to not feel in-the-know.
As a sandwich, we find this to be most attuned to the New Orleans po' boy “dressed” topping theory. Simple: a hoagie roll, mayo, lettuce, tomatoes, with only whiffs of green peppers and a smattering of onions. New Orleans culture flows naturally from Afro-Caribbean spots, while the cuisine is also deeply rooted in the cooking of Italy – which is one of the major culinary mothers of Somalia, too. Having another oniony bite, we noted this as a most cultural, world-viewing voyage of meat sweats.
So - from Italy to Africa, with whispers of the Crescent City, to our gut, arriving in a less-than-non descript strip mall in the shadow of Brady Street. But it’s really a work of sandwich simplicity: let the tender, diced beef shine. Of course you can, and should, kick it up with their spicy green sauce. “It's salsa,” we mentioned to the proprietor recently, almost accusatorily, which was met with a nod and a “you got me” shoulders shrug. And so it is, with jalapenos and garlic intimately entwined. And like any good salsa, it takes this sandwich to yet another place entirely.
4. Story Hill BKC “Sirloin Steak Sandwich”
Somewhere on this list must reside a foodie-approved selection. With a menu description that hints at the meat’s singular source, an ingredient you’ve never heard of, and a hefty sticker price indicative of quality. And so, here, deliciously, moistly, is the top-shelf, small-batch dose. Story Hill touts their Angus (how much more did that word mean before being Mc-co-opted?), with a topping known as shallot butter, served at $13 a pop.
And really, it’s worth more. Thin slices of sirloin are tender, a perfect medium-rare with traces of blood and juice and the kind of cheffiness where somebody bends at the waist to inspect doneness level with scrunched eyebrows. Yet the meat is piled high enough to dominate every bite with primordial, caveman-y masculinity. Truffle peppercorn mayo is gooped on the bottom of the bun, nearly inspiring a Fieri-esque comment about how condiments are better when they come from the underside of the bite. But there is plenty else to fist bump about. Namely, the softest seeded roll imaginable. And the simple fact that this is the one place where you don’t have to ask for hot sauce – it’s right on the table, homemade, and probably worthy of an artisinal label. Maybe foodies, sometimes, have a point.
3. North Avenue Grill “North Ave Cheesesteak”
We’ve never known what to make of this place. Is it one of those nouveau diners with spendy American food straight out of Williamsburg or the West Loop? Is it actually an old-school hidden Tosa gem, a la Ted’s? Do we want breakfast and a mug of coffee and the newspaper at the counter? Or a fancy burger and craft beer? Then we tried the cheesesteak and stopped with cultural pigeonhole-striving.
Appearing as tight and manicured as the newly suburban-hip stretch of the street it’s named for, the sandwich doesn’t initially inspire thoughts of fat guy-food greatness. But gander inside that French roll and it’s actually a perfect homogenization of happy: shaved steak, crisped chili peppers and onions, melty pepper jack, each element chopped fine, coalesced into a tasty, tidy muddle where every bite is of a piece. The inside of the bun is flat-topped to a carmely black char, the outside left fluffy, soft, sheeny, more than sufficient for holding everything together in a piping, well-ordered package of meat-cheese love.
In fact, it’s almost too neat, eating clean and never offering the living-on-the-edge risk of steak falling out the back or rendering embarrassing bites. You can even go ahead and eat one at the counter, in plain view of jealous table-waiters. But it’s immense, and immensely satisfying nonetheless. To the point where pancakes almost seem silly.
2. Chubby's “Chubby’s Cheesesteak”
It’s hard to believe there was an East Side late-night dining scene before Chubby’s. That Pizza Shuttle and Chopstix were sufficient for the whole of the up-late, college-y bar quarter. And while the hours are what sparked our relationship, the onion rings acting as the side piece to keep things interesting, it was probably a simple condiment that sprouted pure love: mayo.
Sure, everything about this sandwich is near perfect. It starts with the Sciortino roll, always so fresh and soft, somehow, no matter the hour. It extends to the ribeye, which is diced into tiny soft bits like the man at the grill is vehemently working out deep-rooted mommy issues with his BBQ spatula. And then there’s the pleasantly harsh brace of raw onion, the tomatoes swimming through for brightness, the Whiz, cascading about, free to run so many courses due to minimal resistance from such bitty chunks of steak. But there’s something about the oil slick of mayo to the inside of the roll. It just ties everything together in a slippery, fatty, sauced bomb of sandwich decadence.
It’s actually secondary that they deliver, and that it’s the best drunk food in town. Chubby’s, through the last decade, has become the new, better Philly Way. Which we guess means it’s about a half step from South Street.
1. Ashley's Que “The Prince”
There’s a mythical South Side of Chicago meat monstrosity, an area which knows a thing or three about meat monstrosities, that combines roast beef, gyro meat, corned beef, mayo, tzatziki sauce, cheese, onions and giardiniera. The so-called “Jim Shoe” sandwich might exist only in mind for Milwaukeeans, and maybe for good reason. But “The Prince” surely hints at the cross-cultural cow plus-one mélange that holds sway in White Sox territory.
There is chopped steak. And there is lamb. And there is cucumber sauce, a pepper mix, mayo, fried onions, and shredded jack cheese. Still, those are words, a mere alignment of many letters, and you might never understand the complete inadequacy of the alphabet until you see one. In person the shimmering package is something to behold: a sweating, heaping meat mess. At once tightly constructed and always-dripping, the flavors are effusive, seeming to hit every corner of the mouth: tangy, saucy, here's a giardinera bit, there's a jalapeno pop, gooey cheese swarming relentlessly throughout. The mayo is smooth, the lamby Greekness is tart and bracing. The bread isn't much to write home, or Yelp, about. Or maybe it was, before being pummeled by a deluge of grease and sauce and delicious, effervescent juice that soaks everything - through the plastic wrap and the brown bag, if you’re lucky enough to get the sandwich to-go and enjoy it with some sinful, gluttonous, let-it-get-all-over-your-face privacy.
Yes, it is that weird gross/delicious paradox that comes straight from steaky fat guy heaven and causes Instagram accounts to be unfollowed. Amateurs are prone to meat sweats and worse if taking down a whole one in a single sitting. It’s warranted though – especially when you find yourself, inevitably, if you're a person of taste, craving this same sandwich the very next day. Most still go to Ashley’s for the BBQ, which is fine. But try one of these and you’ll see that’s a bit like going to Philly for a steak salad. And like you’ve been missing the potential in every one of your meat meals.
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