Native New Yorker here. Twenty years living in south Minneapolis and I still talk like I’m driving a cab in Flatbush. No amount of wind chill, craft beer, or hotdish can wean that out of me.
But just because I don’t speak “Minnesotan” doesn’t mean I haven’t become one. True story: I love it here. My friends in New York don’t believe me, and that’s fine—their loss. From the arts to sports to frozen custard to summer nights on the deck, it’s all good. I’m even OK with cutting pizza into rectangles, as long as you use the good cheese, fresh veggies, and house-made sausage. And trust me: Traffic on the Crosstown is nothing compared to the Triborough Bridge on a Friday afternoon in July.
But there’s one thing about eating out in Minneapolis that still bugs me. It’s the lack of heroes—not cops or fire fighters, but those long sandwiches on thick bread found all over that nebulous region you know as “back East.” Call it a sub. Call it a grinder. Call it a hoagie. Call it whatever you want, but there aren’t enough places selling ‘em around here, and I shouldn’t have to drive to Jersey Mike’s in Richfield or Edina to get one…