Upon entering the front door, I felt my nose suddenly twitch; and, I sneezed (into my elbow, of course...as is my habit). Perhaps, there was some surreptitious dust hovering nearby. However, I probably just caught a whiff of exhaust that was emitted by a passing car (no doubt, from a late model Ford or Chevy, with a lost driver, that shouldn't have been on M Street in the first place).
Anyway, given what I had heard about Bub and Pop's, there was, certainly, nothing to sneeze at; and, since I had, it was an inauspicious beginning that I had to remedy. The best way to do so would be to order some sandwiches--enough to share--and appease the Sandwich Gods. Perhaps, they would allow me to be won over in convincing fashion; and, indeed, given my good fortune, that's exactly what happened.
It was the Bolognese Parmesan that made the first impression. All I could think was, "Wow, what a ballsy sandwich!" And, it quite literally was. Between two taut pieces of bread (from a wholesomely crisp hoagie loaf), the sandwich showcased Bub and Pop's take on a classic Bolognese ragù. While the original iteration would have featured crumbles of beef or pork, this version, in contrast, was the mother of all Bolognese sauces (with huge beefy meatballs, lumps of pork belly, and chunks of tender brisket all wedded together in a homemade tomato sauce topped with arugula, caramelized onions, and a snowy cap of shaved provolone, mozzarella, and pecorino romano). Forget the fettuccine or pappardelle. This is how to eat a Bolognese!
Bub and Pop's take on a Chicago style Italian beef sandwich, which they dubbed, "The Real Obama," was no slouch either (regardless of one's political leanings). This persuasive sandwich, featuring thinly sliced tender braised brisket, giardiniera, and aged provolone, was a simpler concoction to be sure; but, it was every bit the equal of the Bolognese Parmesan. Of the sandwiches that I tried, the roast pork sandwich, by default, took the bronze...if only because its featured porchetta, which was very good--bathed as it was in a fine gremolata and punctuated by the addition of broccoli rabe--was not as insanely delicate and moist as everything else had been.
At the counter, an array of housemade pickles were laid out in enticing jars; and, eyeing one that seemed a bit more unusual than the others, I ordered the pickled watermelon. But, as I learned later, the watermelon, in fact, needed a day or two more of festering; so, my substitute choice was the pepper hash, which consisted of sweet and sour Napa cabbage, bell peppers, and green and red jalapeños among other ingredients. The sweet, sour, and spicy flavors, melding together into a potent, incisive whole, ended up being a fine accompaniment.
Walking out to my table to deliver the hash, after explaining that the pickled watermelon wasn't ready, was none other than Chef Jon Taub himself; or, at least, I assumed the confident, apologetic figure was him. "I'm sorry," he said. Later, the woman at the counter who had taken my order (and, who seemed to fit the bill as "Bub" from the image on the storefront) brought out an order of kettle chips and explained that they were on-the-house. What an unexpectedly nice gesture that was.
What DC gains with the arrival of Bub and Pop's is a legitimate sandwich shop that unabashedly fills a void. DC isn't exactly known as a Mecca of great Italian sandwiches...well, of any kind of sandwiches, really. That Bub and Pop's does what they do so well at 18th & M Streets, where hoards of lunchtime diners (and late night revelers too) need them the most, is no small matter.
I left impressed enough; and, yes, rather than sneezing on my way out as I had when I entered, I smiled instead and took in a deep breath. For a sandwich lover such as me, my sinuses were clear for sure. read more