The Cuban sandwich at Blue Wing Saloon put chef Pablo Aguilar in a real pickle. Literally.
You see, his kitchen staff could easily brine cucumbers, blending in just the right amount of sugar and bite. But that would mean ordering crates of the vegetable and devoting precious space to pickling barrels.
It might have been an outright predicament, especially for a restaurant dedicated to crafting dishes from scratch. But the Cuban sandwich turned out to be so popular it left little time for brining in house.
After all, Aguilar and his staff already cure the pork in brine for a day or two before hefting it onto the smoker. And that accounts for just one layer of the storied sandwich.
Keep in mind the Cuban sandwich is essentially ham and cheese, with a spread of mustard. Yet it pits city against city, even rousing conflicting international claims. Almost certainly a hand me down from Cuban street fare known as the mixto, both Miami and Tampa claim the sandwich as their own — with one crucial difference.
Tampa tradition calls for — no, insists upon — a layer of Genoa salami over the pork and ham that are the foundation of a Miami Cuban. On the rest, most are in agreement: a tangy cheese (usually Swiss), mustard and pickles arranged between bread and pressed in a plancha, which is similar to a panini press.
So why the competing claims? Often spurious claims trace the invention of the sandwich to a restaurant in Miami or a neighborhood in Tampa, carefully alluding to waves of immigrants that supposedly introduced this or that to the mix. Tampa’s city government even declared it a community icon.
“I don’t know why it’s so good,” Aguilar said. “But when you bite into it — ‘Oh, man, this is good.’”
Indeed, the Cuban sandwich at Blue Wing satisfies all the senses. And it does this in a manner so unassuming — and at the same time so cunning — you are caught completely off guard.
The hewn savor of pork burrows under a breezy, almost sweet bite of Black Forest ham. Slices of Provolone lend a creamy note to each, with a nibble of tartness that startles the ham to life. Aguilar stills the sharp sting of Dijon with a little mayonnaise, which also adds richness to the cheese. On the crust, a bittersweet char vies for attention. And bringing all of this together is the pickle.
These hearty slivers sling a briney bite that picks up on the calmed mustard and gives it a stir. They also offer a sedate sugary loll that finds comfort in both the ham and pork. But there’s more — an herbal waft familiar in traces of smoke from the grill, as well as blisters of heat charred into the crust.
It’s a sandwich that is full and lofty, but also nonchalant. By pressing, the ingredients come together, the juices drift and intermingle, the flavors become indistinct and radiant at the same time.
You know it’s a beautiful thing, but you cannot at that moment understand why. After all — ham, cheese, bread? This from the makings of a mundane American diner spread?
“It is just good,” Aguilar agreed, still struggling to come to terms with the Cuban. In fact, he orders two or three a week himself.
Oh, the use of Provolone, the addition of Black Forest ham may not pass muster in Florida. Aguilar really doesn’t mind. He even considered using a smoked cheese to add some acrid heft to the composition.
But then he stepped back.
“I like it just the way it is,” he said.
Dave Faries can be reached at 900-2016
