Judging pit beef sandwiches, like sno-balls and crab cakes, is a fool's game. Everybody thinks that little stand near their house is better than all the others. And they may be right, as the rules are arbitrary and intangible, for the most part. But when you put slices of tender pit beef on a fresh-baked hard roll, a skirmish erupts. The mouth is at first confused and unsure: I'm so used to eating pit beef on mealy factory bread, I don't know what to make of this. The brain feels a little guilty. Is this gourmet? Should I enjoy regular old sliced beef on fancy bread? Does this make me French?
The crisis is existential, if only in a culinary sense. Yet the stomach, brain, and mouth manage to resolve the conflict at the treaty table (which happens to look like an orange lunch tray). Only a few loose strands of onion and drops of horseradish remain after the talks finish. No one will accuse you of treason if you enjoy pit beef on artisan bread, especially if there's no evidence of the conflict.
