The fantasy "Hot Brown"

that's simultaneously the best AND worst name for any kind of food

Hello, clowns!

It was fun talking to you in last week’s AMA comment thread! You all had some pretty fun(ny) questions, and a lot of them. I hope I got to all of you.

There’ll only be one edition of the newsletter this week (I know, boo) as I’m heading out of town for work soon. I’m flying out to Louisville, Kentucky for a few days, and when I asked people about what food to try while I was out there, I kept getting the same answer: I had to try a Hot Brown.

A “Hot Brown.” I hot browned my pants just now. Hot Brown. That’s simultaneously the best and the worst name I’ve ever heard for anything (aside maybe from a “loose meat sandwich”). Truth be told, I’ve heard about these things before, and I’ve seen them featured in magazine articles and food TV shows. They’re a signature Louisville dish, and one of those must-have items if you’re a tourist, apparently.

When I told Davida that I was planning on getting one, we both laughed about the name. Then she confessed that even though she’d heard of a Hot Brown, she didn’t exactly know what a Hot Brown was. A lightbulb went off in my dim bulbous head and I started laughing.

I asked her to stop everything she was doing, write down what she thought a Hot Brown could possibly be, and send it to me.

Here’s what she said:

I feel like it’s usually sandwiches that have catchy, non-specific names. I’m picturing white bread. With the kind of floppy beef they serve in hospitals, that's, like, suspiciously metallic. And gravy, kind of like an Italian beef, but maybe thicker?

I'm thinking this thing is really soggy and by the time you get it it's all fucked up and congealed. And I imagine it's got those really thin fried onions on it, and maybe some kind of processed cheese. Or provolone?

I really want there to be something exciting on it, like peppers or something, but I know there isn't. But these things often have a really out-of-place ingredient, so I'm going to go with steak fries. Like on the sandwich. I hate steak fries; they're like eating drywall. Anyway, that's what I think is on a hot brown, and it comes with one of those frilly toothpicks and a side of coleslaw. Because I said so.

So today, clowns, I present to you not just a Hot Brown, but a “Hot Brown” as conceived by someone who doesn’t actually know what one is.

I bought all of the things Davida mentioned in her fantasy hot brown, including cheap white bread from Aldi, prepackaged roast beef, processed white cheese, onions, steak fries, and jarred gravy.

I promised her I’d follow her directions as precisely as I could, because I wanted to respect her creative genius.

I first started by tackling the most work-intensive portion of the sandwich, and that was the “really thin fried onions.”

I proceeded by thickly slicing onions, then I tossed them in seasoned flour and did a horrible job frying them off. I was off to a hell of a start. Davida was gonna love this sandwich.

If I had waited one ass hair longer, these things would have been pitch black.

By the way, in the land of food writing, nothing’s ever actually burnt. It’s “charred.” And charred means there’s more flavor, don’t you understand? God, you’re so uneducated.

Then I air-fried some frozen steak fries, which we can all agree are bullshit, right?

I’ve only had good steak fries a few times, and even then, they were so unremarkable that I don’t remember where I got them. Just the mere mention of a steak fry makes my mouth get dry and shrivel up, since I can just picture how mealy they always are in the center.

Also that weird Stormtrooper-looking glove in front of the oven is in fact my oven glove. And yes, it’s supposed to look like a Stormtrooper glove, since it’s an officially licensed piece of Star Wars gear. It’s also the worst oven glove I’ve ever owned. Davida hates that fucking thing.

In preparation for the sandwich’s assembly, I toasted a piece of bread and started to spread butter on it.

As I scraped the butter on top, I heard Davida ask suspiciously, “What’s that sound?”

“I’m buttering the toast for the sandwich,” I said.

“I didn’t say anything about toasting it,” she replied.

I re-read her description of a Hot Brown and sure enough, there was no mention of toast anywhere. I stood humbly corrected. I guess she really did expect hospital food for lunch. And that’s how I ended up eating a piece of toast as a snack.

Also apparently I might have eaten a cat hair, now that I’m looking closely at this photo (it’s on the left side of the plate). If I ever invite you over here for dinner, I’m going to warn you early, it’s a trap.

Also, wait, if I’ve ever ingested a cat hair, does that mean I’ve technically eaten cat? Oh, fuck.

Since the toast was nixed, my job got slightly easier.

I contemplated the bread on the plate for a moment. For a second, I felt like a conceptual artist. What I’d achieved, I don’t know. But I did it. I did an art.

Then I draped some of the grocery store roast beef on top, which was pallid and gray, just like Davida wanted.

Did you guys know prepackaged roast beef looks like the way a cloudy winter day feels? I didn’t either. I put it in an appealing north, south, east, west design in order to pay respect to the cardinal directions. Namaste.

I started plopping jarred beef gravy on top, which was a satisfying deep brown color.

This was peak success. My kitchen was starting to feel like a cafeteria.

In order to ensure this thing was maximum levels of soggy, I put gravy beneath it as well.

Then I added the almost bur—I mean “charred,” fried onions on top, along with a sheet of plastic processed Swiss cheese, and nuked it in the microwave for way longer than it deserved.

And finally, I topped the thing with steak fries, the rest of the jar of gravy (!), and some extra fried onions.

As requested, I poked a frilly toothpick into it, for which I’d made a special trip to Target to obtain. This toothpick decision was curious, as it appeared to serve no purpose. But who was I to question Davida’s culinary genius? And as a final touch, I served it with a tiny little side of coleslaw, you know, for vegetables.

I motioned for The Babe to come into the kitchen and signaled that her fantasy Hot Brown was ready. I was deeply nervous. I felt like Guy Fieri unleashing one of his unholy terrors on the world for the first time, like Slappin’ Whappin’ Dumpster Nachos or something.

She said, “Wow. It looks exactly how I imagined it! Well, there was supposed to be a second slice of bread on top, though. Otherwise that toothpick is completely useless.” Whoops.

Then came the moment of truth. Davida carved off a bit of everything with a fork and knife, took a bite, and declared, “This is awesome! This is exactly what I thought a Hot Brown would be like.”

I went in for the kill and tried some myself, and sure enough, the thing was pretty great, and it was all because of the gravy. I would drink a mug of gravy if I could, as I think it is the true nectar of the gods. And the mouth-shriveling steak fries I so dreaded were neutralized completely by the brown sauce into one soggy mush. Magnificent.

So now that we’ve tried Davida’s Hot Brown, I’m sure you’re wondering what an actual Hot Brown is, since I haven’t actually mentioned a single description of it. Let’s see how Davida did in terms of accuracy.

Here’s Wikipedia’s definition of a Hot Brown:

The Hot Brown is an open-faced sandwich of turkey breast and ham and bacon, covered in creamy Mornay sauce and baked or broiled until the bread is crisp and the sauce begins to brown. Cheddar cheese or American cheese may be added for the sauce. Alternatives for garnishes include tomatoes, mushroom slices, and, very rarely, canned peaches.

So Davida’s concept wasn’t too far off, there’s bread, meat, cheese, sauce, and garnishes. Though a real Hot Brown apparently can be garnished with canned peaches, which is kind of hilarious and something I couldn’t have dreamt up myself. (Apparently the original version was served with them, but this is no longer a common practice.)

I did accidentally manage to make hers more accurate by turning it into an open-faced sandwich, but that was my boner. I’m guessing I subconsciously did this, since I already roughly knew what a Hot Brown was.

Based off how we crushed Davida’s version, I’m wondering if the real thing can even compete.

What if Davida’s concoction trounced Louisville’s? That would be perfect. We can dub her “Davida, Champion of Louisville’s Hot Brown Ass.” We’ll see.

And don’t worry, I’ll let you know how she did when I get back.

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Maybe we’ll call this one the Chicago Hot Brown or something. I still can’t get over that name. Most of you know the usual drill, but I’d be grateful if you could share the post on social media, or forward it to everyone you know, to give the newsletter a lil’ pop:

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