(Kind Of) – (Probably Not Really a) Barros Jarpa

What defines a sandwich? Not the definition of the word “sandwich,” there’s plenty of hand-wringing readily available going around already on that topic. But what defines a specific sandwich? What makes a Philly a Philly and a Reuben a Reuben? Is it the meat/protein? It seems that the “Chicken Philly” is a common variation of the Philly, but perhaps the added specification to the name inherently suggests that a chicken Philly is not truly a Philly, for if it was, you’d just call it a Philly. And I’m generally the first to exclaim, “Come on, that’s not a Reuben!” anytime a Turkey Reuben is spotted on a menu (or worse yet, a turkey and coleslaw “Reuben”). It sure does seem to be largely dependent on the protein. But then again, what about a Reuben without kraut, or with unfermented cabbage, or with some other leafy replacement completely? What about Philly ingredients on slices of Wonder Bread? Are those things a Reuben and a Philly, or are they simply, respectively, a corned beef on rye and a roast beef on white?

I don’t know if I’m fully equipped to answer these questions. And while I’m pretty sure I got close, I don’t know that the sandwich I created and consumed can truly be called a Barros Jarpa. What I do know is that the sandwich I created and consumed can be described as “delicious.”

As so many things start, this sandwich started with me trying to decide what to have for supper one evening. Jim’s post on the Barros Jarpa had gone out earlier in the day, and the more I thought about it, the more it sounded appealing. The Hispanic grocery store a few blocks from my apartment bakes bolillo rolls every morning, always has cheap avocados, and probably has ham and an appropriate cheese (so I thought at the time). So off I trod toward Supermercado Nuestra Familia.

At this point it’s worth mentioning that my intent was to build a sandwich inspired more by Jim’s post what with bolillos and avocados and such, than by the actual list, which suggests the Barros Jarpa is simply ham and cheese on sliced bread. I’m not looking to trudge through the trials and tribulations that Jim traversed, though, I’m just trying to whip up a quick dinner.

The bolillo and avocado were both readily available upon entering the grocery store. No problemo there. I hit the dairy section next. While they carry a variety of cheeses, Mantecoso is not one of them. Upon further examination, as far as I could tell, the gouda that was suggested to be a top-flight choice in Jim’s post was also not readily available. After perusing what was available, I found something that seemed like it would fit the bill.

This is something called Asadero, described on the label as “A delicious farm fresh buttery flavor. A spectacular melt, great for sandwiches!” Well hey, “Mantecoso” literally means buttery, and my intent is to make a sandwich, so this sounds like it’s just what need. Let’s give this baby a whirl! A quick Googling suggests that this is also known as Oaxaca cheese, which is described as “a white, semihard cheese from Mexico, similar to unaged Monterey Jack, but with a mozzarella-like string cheese texture.” That seems about right.

Now all I need is ham. Well that should be easy. I wander over to the meat counter and walk up and down a couple of times and there’s… there’s no ham. There’s skirt steak, stew beef, ground beef, oxtail, seafood, chicken wings, chicken breast, bacon, chorizo… No ham. Weird. I did eventually find some generic, pre-packaged, thinly sliced ham-like substance, but ultimately decided that using decent non-ham meat would yield a more palatable sandwich than using that weak excuse for ham. After an uncomfortable amount of time spent pacing back and forth about the meat counter, I finally decided. “Fuck it, let’s go with chorizo.” It still comes from a pig, after all.

The chorizo from this grocery is one that I purchase and consume regularly, as it is coarsely ground which leads to a texture that I find pleasing, it is not overly greasy but has enough fat content that making patties from it is a reasonable endeavor, and seasoned beautifully with just the right amount of paprika to provide assertive spice and smokey flavor without being overbearing. The point where I asked the lady behind the counter to measure me out a half-pound of chorizo is the point where I admitted to myself that I probably wasn’t about to make a proper Barros Jarpa.

I checked out and walked home. I poured a beer. I formed the chorizo into two patties, fired up two frying pans, put the chorizo patties in one and split the bolillo rolls, buttered them, and threw them in the other. When the chorizo was well cooked on one side, I flipped the patties and threw some cheese on top to get it nice and melty. I sliced an avocado in the meantime.

Easy as 1, 2, 3.

And then the assembly.

The sandwich tasted even more delicious than it looked. The cheese had a slight saltiness to it that kind of made up for the saltiness that I was missing out on by using a non-cured meat like ham. The chorizo was smoky and spicy, the cheese gooey but sticky enough to hold everything together, the avocados were buttery, and the bread was crisp and chewy. All together I had just about every component I could have wanted working together in unison.The whole, in this case, was most definitely greater than the sum of its parts.

I didn’t set out here to do a lot of research or a lot of trial and error, and though I’d initially intended to make something leaning toward traditional, I didn’t feel bad when it didn’t turn out that way. In the end, I’m just a regular dude who set out to make a delicious sandwich for supper, and in that way my Not-Really-Barros-Jarpa was a wild success. I may not make it into any Chilean newspapers, but I hope that the spirit of this sandwich is something that Barros Jarpa purists can still appreciate.

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