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Few words in the English language have the onomatopoeic charm of “slop.” Its initial consonants evoke dirt and slickness, the rounded “O” and slapping “P” the liquid thud of goop hitting a surface at speed. Pigs feast on slop. Clogged sinks overflow with it. AI systems create it. It’s not a term of glamor or sophistication, but at Farley’s, a new counter-service restaurant in Bed-Stuy specializing in sloppy joe sandwiches, it takes on a tone of respect, even awe. “Would you like slop on your sandwich?” you might be asked when ordering takeout. The alternative is a serving of slop in a takeout soup container, with the sandwich bun packaged separately—when you’re ready to sit down and eat, you can make your own. If you're hesitating between ordering, say, a traditional sandwich and several innovative menu items, you may be praised for finally making your choice with a phrase that may never have been uttered before the establishment opened: “This is slop.”
The sloppy Joe is an underrated icon of American cuisine, several notches below the respectability of its more famous fast-food cousins like the hamburger and the chili dog. The sandwich, which features ground meat (usually beef) smothered in a thick, sweet tomato sauce, has become the poster child for the terrible school lunch, a cliché that is usually associated with hairnets, dirty aprons, and other cafeteria grotesqueries. “I know how you kids like them sloppy!” exclaims a wild-eyed waitress in Billy Madison, Adam Sandler’s 1995 satirical film about the downsides of a lower education. Of course, it’s a grossly unfair characterization of the waitress, who, given her profession of feeding hungry children, should be seen as a saint rather than a monster. It's also unfair to the sloppy joe, which even in its most sloppy form is a truly wonderful dish. My own memories of school cafeterias are mostly of gristle and chicken sandwiches, microwaved until warm in their individual sealed packages. A sloppy joe made to order, even modestly, would be a real treat.
The sandwich’s reputation has been, if inconsistently, revived in recent years. Mini-chain Schnipper’s has a decent, mega-meat version; a superb vegan version that used to be on the Superiority Burger menu might convert even the most skeptical meat lover or snob. But Farley’s, with its all-chowder menu and retro flair, makes the most compelling case for rethinking the Joe chowder. There are seven chowder varieties (developed by co-owners Samuel Saverans and Matt Buentello, in consultation with chef Fred Hua), all based on the foundational “mother” sauce of the traditional Joe chowder. Original Joe is sauce, meat; Classic is a little spicy, the mixture tinted with Worcestershire sauce and a hint of celery. It’s good, but it’s not necessarily the Sloppy Joe of my dreams. Things get more interesting when you try different variations. The Cuban Joe tops the slop with cubes of ham, pickles, Swiss cheese, and yellow mustard. The Cajun Joe tops the standard slop with shrimp and chopped andouille, creating a kind of étouffée in a bun. The Mekong Joe—my personal favorite, and one of the most delicious sandwiches I’ve had this year—is a delicious combination of Southeast Asian ingredients, including flavorful fish sauce, spicy birdseye chili, bold Thai red curry, and rich coconut; crab meat mixed into the slop gives it a special kick.
Sourse: newyorker.com
