Two weeks ago I made a weekend trip with six friends to Memphis, TN. We were there for a music festival, but the best stories I’ve brought back revolve around food.
We knew from the start we needed to find a good barbecue place and a good wings place. Through talking with the locals, we discovered the Bar-B-Que Shop – I split a slab of ribs that earned all the cliché rib accolades: tender, juicy, fall-off-the-bone – it was pork nirvana. The dry rub was fantastic enough, but the sauce there was a unique smoky-sweet blend I can still taste.
Our stop the next day – a joint called Ching’s Wings – was no less spectacular. It was in a rough part of town, but I believe it only added to the place’s authenticity. The wings were meaty and the sauce was excellent, but the real winner here was the “orange mound punch,” some voodoo brew of Kool-Aid that I swear packed 10 times the legal limit of sugar. I’m afraid to go to the dentist for fear of cavities induced by this saccharine drink, but it will have been well worth it.
Ching’s was also where I first became aware that I am a Yankee. My friends and I weren’t the only white people in the place, but when we walked in, I swear everyone turned around to look before we even said a word. Our waitress was fun about it and said she “would get a picture of us Yankees,” but unfortunately it never happened.
But while I highly recommend the Bar-B-Que Shop and Ching’s, this column is about the last restaurant we tried on our pseudo-culinary tour. We had spotted Super Submarine Sandwich Shop on our first day and knew our trip would not be complete without it.
That’s because it’s a Chinese sub shop.
When we read the store’s sign that first day, it instantly became a topic of conversation.
“What do they serve?”
“It says right there – sub sandwiches!”
“I know, but what kind? Like Chinese sandwiches?”
“Is there even such a thing?”
This mystery proved too provoking to pass up. So, tired as we were from standing in mud and listening to blaring music for the past two days, we trudged into Super Submarine Sandwich Shop early on a wet, gray Sunday afternoon.
My apprehension heightened as I approached the door and came closer to that massive sign. It was one thing to see it from afar, but passing under that giant, beaming woman holding a titanic sandwich the way a person carries a 60-inch TV was intimidating to a Yankee like me.
I mustered my courage, and stepped inside.
At this point, I’d like to coin a new phrase: “knick-tacks.” This refers to especially tacky knickknacks.
Scattered knick-tacks abounded on the walls and wood-paneled partitions. As in many Chinese restaurants, dishes like General Tso’s chicken and Mongolian beef were illustrated in pictures on a backlit menu.
The sandwich portion of the menu lacked such glitz – a list of sandwiches were shoddily assembled by plastic black letters that stuck onto a wall grid. The grid, which I assume last looked white in 1993, had been yellowed by the cruel nature of time and deep fryers.
The sandwiches were typical: Italian, Ruben, Philly cheese steak, etc.
This disappointed me. Where was that only-in-Memphis signature item? Where was the sandwich that Guy Fieri of “Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives” would proclaim in his saucy dialect was “fresh, funky, and full of flavor?”
Sure, a place that served Chinese food and sandwiches was unique in and of itself, but that was not enough. I wanted a fusion. An orange chicken po’ boy sandwich would do, or perhaps a teriyaki beef hoagie.
And then I found it.
The missing link.
Dangling at the bottom of the sandwich list, it radiated with Far-East flare among its garden-variety contemporaries.
Uname.
“Ooh-nah-may.” I tried the pronunciation in my head. “Or is it ooh-nah-mee?” I also wondered what it comprised of. My first thought was seaweed. Then I considered it may be a type of sushi sandwich. All I knew was that it was the exotic, unique sandwich I had been looking for.
Having already ordered sweet and sour chicken myself, a friend went to ask about the mystery sandwich.
He soon walked back to the table trying to suppress his laughter.
“U-name,” he said.
“What?” I asked, not understanding.
“You name what you want on the sandwich. That’s what it is.”
Dejected and a bit embarrassed by my Yankee snobbery, I accepted there was no exotic, truly unique faire here.
That said, I’m glad I had visited the Super Submarine Sandwich Shop. It’s one of those places I can now mention to anyone who’s been to Memphis. It’s a lot like Wall Drug in South Dakota. I’m sure anyone who’s made the drive up to Mount Rushmore knows exactly what I’m talking about.
So if you’re ever in Memphis, do give the Super Submarine Sandwich Shop a try. You’ll be glad you did – maybe not for the food, but for the experience.
