Unique to Chicagoland, Italian beef is a shaft of bread loaded with thin-sliced beef in garlicky gravy. It rarely is eaten while seated. Most joints that serve beefs (the word “sandwich” is redundant) provide a chest-high counter for customers to stand at, unwrap the butcher-paper serving shroud, and scarf ’em down. Regular beef eaters know that to avoid gravy dripping onto shirtfront and forearms, one must lean forward, elbows on the counter and feet back the way police position a man about to be frisked. This allows the eater to tear off big chaws of bread and beef as all the excess gravy and meat shreds fall onto the wrapper, which has become a handy drop cloth.
An Italian beef garnished with both giardiniera and peppers.
An Italian beef shop is not the sort of place where waiters patiently explain the menu—most have no written menu—and order-takers are famously brusque, so it is wise to get to the head of the line knowing Italian beef jargon. A request for “double-dipped” means the entire sandwich will be momentarily submerged in gravy after it’s assembled. Conversely, “dry” tells the server to pluck a heap of beef from the pan with tongs and let excess juice drip away before inserting it into the bread. Say “hot” and the beef will be topped with the fiery pickled-vegetable relish called giardiniera; “sweet” refers to a garnish of roasted peppers. “Combo”—the only possible improvement for Italian beef (cheese is sacrilege!)—means the sandwich gets freighted with a length of charcoal-cooked Italian sausage.
Traditionally, Italian beef stands are in neighborhoods that also have vendors of Italian ice, the summertime slush that makes so good a sandwich companion or postprandial refresher.