Eats + Drinks

Chews Local: A new sandwich worth getting out of bed for—at any time of day.

MARK McWATERS / Photos by Fred Lopez

What’s not to love about a sandwich space with so much funk woven into its atmosphere and baked into each dish? Nothing, if you ask Orlando’s famous food critic Scott Joseph, who anointed Pammie’s Sammies with one of his coveted Foodster Awards.

On this particular lunch break, we let fate be our guide. We closed our eyes and let our menu-picking finger land on a brand-new tasty treat called The Local. We swear, it happened just like that. It’s in the magazine, so it has to be true.

But the big nom nom news here is not the name (though who are we to argue?)—it’s that this is one sensational sandwich. Just like its published namesake, The Local starts with a blank canvas—in this case, a fresh-baked Kaiser roll, toothy and soft. A thick smear of mayo acts as a primer, giving the egg a place to nest.

And the egg is the superstar here—scrambled, by the way. Many argue for building a sandwich with fried eggs, but we contend that this choice allows the cheddar to meld into the scramble folds, with strips of fresh bacon crushing into the cheesy eggs. Follow that up with a creamy, healthy, fatty mix of garden-fresh avocado, and you’ve got yourself a finger-lickin’ Local layered masterpiece.

The one thing we can’t pin down about it, though, is its taste taxonomy. For lunch lovers, it’s a two-fisted feast that keeps the best part of a BLT and trades out the LT for way better sandwich stuff. For the egg-all-day, hangover crowd, what we’re really talking is BEC—bacon, egg, and cheese.

Whatever you call it, one bite will have you grinning till breakfast bits crumble out of your mouth.

Next time you’re at Pammie’s, ask for The Local. Let them decide whether you mean the magazine or the meal.

Life, Love, and Whiskey, Neat

Author Tarin Scarbrough

Whiskey might have been my first love. I spent my college days waiting tables and mingled with adults who had been in the drinking game much longer than I. Maybe in an effort to seem more grown up and to help fit in, I started drinking as they did. One day, I followed suit, ordered a whiskey and ginger ale, and everything changed. I actually liked what I was drinking! It had so much flavor and character compared to those other lackluster drinks. Turns out, one could drink alcohol without simple syrups and fruity juices and still enjoy the taste.

When I joined The Chef’s Table team in 2012, my passion for whiskey strengthened. I met a group of likeminded people who knew so much more about the spirit than I did, and I craved their knowledge. We would spend countless hours dissecting American versus Canadian whiskey, analyzing the different styles of Scotch, opening my mind and palate to showcase the depth and range that is whiskey.

During this time, I met my other first love, and he also loved the spirit. We started traveling the country in search of great whiskey bars. We had a private collection that grew to more than 75 bottles, and graciously welcomed all to our home to sample them.

He encouraged me to teach classes, which I did, educating women in business on the basics of whiskey and how to enjoy the spirit properly. We went to cocktail events, watching bartenders demonstrate their craft, using the liquor in unique, spirited (pardon the pun) ways. We were involved in a lottery for rare bourbon and drained our savings buying rare or limited-release bottles we would never get our hands on again. Whiskey became as much a part of our identity as anything else, so much so that we even named our dog after Booker Noe, the grandson of Jim Beam.

As we all know, even great love stories sometimes come to an end. After six years, my romantic relationship ended and so followed my relationship with whiskey. We split our collection, and my half of the bottles sat in boxes for months, untouched and unseen, to avoid facing the memories they contained. Eventually, I realized that other drinks, like seltzers and vodka, made me feel less heavy, both metaphorically and physically. I shifted my interests to wine and beer, and stumbled on the opportunity to run my own program at The Attic Door. Life kept going, and somehow I was able to leave this huge part of my life packed away with it.

A couple weeks ago, I had a rough night at work and went to the bar afterward to sulk silently. “Whiskey, neat,” came out of my mouth quickly and involuntarily. I needed comfort, I needed refuge, and whiskey came to my rescue. It just goes to show that passion can be found in the most curious of places and true love will always leave a lasting impression, even if that true love is whiskey.