At some point in the 1980s, I walked from the Shell Building to a Chinese restaurant at 14th and Locust. That space would eventually become the landmark nightclub Tangerine, but this was back in the days well before the (re-re-re-)invention of Washington Avenue, a time when you could buy a sandwich for a couple dollars at a Chinese takeout, as you hiked back to work past a series of shuttered and emptied clothing stores and warehouses. Different days, indeed.
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Then-RFT photographer Mike Deflilippo introduced me to a strangely enduring piece of my personal history with my first St. Paul sandwich, the greasy contents of which had completely soaked the paper bag during our eight-minute walk. Some of the specifics of that day escape me. The restaurant’s name, for example. I do remember that we nicknamed the place Wok the Dog, that the sandwich was the vegetarian version, that it cost less than $2 and that, as much as I enjoyed it, there was a definite sense of queasiness that endured for the rest of the day.
Somehow during that lunch hour, I planted my flag into the St. Paul.
In time, my friend Kurt and I would get interviewed for a PBS special called “Sandwiches That You Will Like,” which still runs, all around the country, nearly 10 years later. After that, I was quoted in the companion book, American Sandwich. In time, St. Paul Magazine featured a micro-feature on the sandwich (available only in St. Louis and definitely not in St. Paul) quoting me once again, with my saying that I didn’t know where the name, or actual recipe, came from. When you’re quoted enough, the story almost becomes its own variant to the old “telephone game,” with official sources claiming the decidedly unofficial, quite incomplete story that “no one really knows where the sandwich was born.” And with every writing stop, I feel compelled to champion this affordable meal-in-a-sack.
So here we are.
Late last week, cruising through Facebook, I came across a fan page for the St. Paul at 4 a.m. This was a clear sign, as I’d not had a St. Paul in a good long while. The realization came that I’m somehow proprietary about the sandwich: If there’s a Facebook page, I need to eat one and share the experience. It’s probably enough of a weird mental/culinary glitch to land me on cable’s “Freaky Eaters.” (I can only hope!) In further truth-finding, I’d legitimately come to miss the gummy, soggy white bread, slathered in mayo. The liberal sprinkling of powered MSG. The crunchy exterior, then gooey interior, of the egg foo young patty. And the nominally healthy trio of toppings: tomatoes, iceberg lettuce, and pickles.
On Friday afternoon, I headed out for a new version of the St. Paul and randomly came across China Kim, a six-week-old restaurant on Morganford, just north of the Bevo Mill. I stopped and ordered up a $3.30 edition of the shrimp St. Paul, that price being the most I’ve ever paid for one. It was a worthwhile venue to stop at, if only for the fact that it was unlike any other Chinese strorefront I’d seen, with absolutely nothing on the walls. Mind you, there was a 10-year-old sprawled on the floor—he just seemed tired as he waited for his fried rice—but there was nada for decorations, not a single successory poster or fish tank in sight.
The diminutive counterman took my order, then disappeared into the kitchen, returning 10 minutes later with the St. Paul. It was the classic sandwich, but was very improperly packaged, placed inside a styrofoam carton, rather than the usual white sandwich paper. Since I’d already busted a small hole in the ozone with that, I punched another one, hauling over to Carondelet Park, for a bit of one-on-one time with my sandwich, eventually finding a rocky ledge above Horseshoe Lake. There, a few fishermen worked the banks, while the distinguishable smell of burning cannabis wafted from a nearby truck. The weather was overcast, then sunny, then spitting the lightest rainfall. Above the mini-lake, I took in the scene, including the fish below me, as they hovered just under the surface.
You can have moments that really speak to a place, and this would’ve qualified as a typical South City one. Hell, I was listening to KSHE on the way over. But it wouldn’t have been complete without that sandwich, no way, no how.
