If I’d had the appetite, I would have made this a competition. Two restaurants with two different vibes that claim they invented the French dip sandwich. Both places were established in 1908 in Los Angeles. (For a short article about it’s origins check out Snopes.com) But instead of a taste test, my personal tour guide and foodie companion, Alex, suggested we grab sandwiches at Philippe The Original’s and drinks at Cole’s Original French Dip. Philippe’s is the casual, inexpensive joint and Cole’s is a hip, vintage restaurant with full bar (Sounds like it would be reversed, right?). There’s sawdust in every nook and cranny at Philippe’s and old photographs on the brick walls. Customers order and pay at the counter, then eat at wood booths or tables. The service is fast and friendly.
I kept it simple and ordered a French dip beef sandwich with jack cheese, but there was a slew of deli sides and beers you could add to your meal. The sandwiches were meant to remain simple, I felt, not many toppings were available except for Philippe’s horseradish mustard that sat in an unmarked squirt bottle on every table. Alex ordered the pork sandwich (no cheese) with potato salad and apple pie. It seemed much more like Pennsylvania Dutch than French, but Alex suggested that the only reason they call it “French dipped” is because the sandwich is dipped in the juice of the meat, in French au jus. (Another reason could be that it is served on a French roll.)
The place was packed with what seemed mostly working class patrons and tourists. We found an empty booth by the restrooms at the back of the restaurant and dug in. I’m not much of a meat eater but this really hit the spot. It was simple and delicious, just meat, cheese and bread. It’s funny how those three ingredients can yield so many different flavor combinations. Or, how they can be delicious or disgusting depending on the preparation. I heard a man in front of me order a sandwich “double dipped” and I thought maybe I’d try that next time. The only thing that would have made this sandwich better would be more jus (and if the cheese were melted).
I tasted Alex’s apple pie and potato salad, but they both hit too close to home for me, not something my curious palate was in the mood for. The horseradish mayonnaise was the kicker. I squirted a blob on my plate and tasted the tiniest bit on my fork. Even that much woke up my taste buds, but I wanted more. I dipped my sandwich in the orange sauce and took a bite. I could feel the horseradish in my nose and down my throat. Maybe a little less next time.
After that belly filling and nose clearing sandwich, we were ready for drinks. Cole’s was only a metro ride away and as we walked down the street toward the neon sign, Alex explained to me that Cole’s was part of 213, a group of bars in downtown L.A. that pride themselves in their mixology. No red bull vodkas here. Likewise, no college wallet specials. But what you do get is a well-crafted, multi-layered concoction of quality spirits and fresh flavors (I noticed a bunch of bright green mint and a glass overflowing with plump, red raspberries at the end of the bar - fresh) I ordered a 1929 Cosmopolitan since it was the most familiar drink on the menu. But it was surprisingly not as familiar as I thought. The recipe was the original 1929 recipe and the presentation shaved off all the Sex and the City glitz. This was no “Cosmo.” Its full citrus flavor made it worthy of the more authoritative “Cosmopolitan.” We sipped and savored our drinks until the last drop. As we left, I glanced over the shoulders of diners eating their french dip sandwiches. The French dips looked the same to me, but they were accompanied by a tangle of golden shoe-string fries. Okay, Cole’s Original French Dip, I’ll be back for round two.
