One Man, One Sandwich

Some Pilsen restaurants, like Nuevo Leon and Carnitas Uruapan, have emerged out of storied national traditions or multigenerational sagas; their cuisines have spent hundreds of years developing and marinating in culture and family. Then there’s Andorka’s Sandwich Shop on 21st and Halsted, which opened earlier this month. This joint, Pilsen’s youngest sandwich emporium, is the brainchild of just one dude: Matt Andorka. Or rather, as Andorka is quick to point out, one dude and that dude’s fiancé, Jen, who helped him build the restaurant from the shell of a long-abandoned Pilsen cafe and works the counter with him on the weekends.

The Andorka’s establishment, like Andorka himself, is unassuming but inviting, approachable but not flagrant. The shop is announced on the street not by any flashy sign but by an A-frame whiteboard that says “ANDORKA’S SANDWICH SHOP: COFFEE, TEA, SANDWICHES,” and the decor inside is approximately (and appropriately) ninety percent sandwich-themed and ten percent Chicago-themed. There is a dusty tape recording machine and a black zeppelin hanging from the ceiling that says, in block letters, “SANDWICH.” Another zeppelin—Led, that is—also streams down from the ceiling fairly often, in between Rolling Stones songs and the occasional Hendrix superhit.

Customer traffic is lacking in Andorka’s young, quaint establishment (which nonetheless feels years old with its weathered wood floors and “vintage” furniture), giving lunch-goers the option to stand in front of the counter and watch their sandwich being built, hold a conversation with Andorka about how the beef sandwich he’s making for them was his 5am breakfast every day on a farm in Washington state, crack a joke or two while sipping on the complimentary tarragon and lemon-infused water, and come away from the experience unsure whether Andorka is trying (in vain) to emulate a ma and pa shop or if he has no other choice.

The menu itself is modest: it boasts a total of eight sandwiches, plus a couple of generic salads and homemade potato chips. With the exception of the braised goat, tempeh, and hummus sandwiches, it reads like a list of things your parent might have packed for your lunch in grade school, save for the fact that most of them are made with inventive, memorable spreads like tomato mayo and horseradish cream cheese.

If you’re feeling something light and fresh, but indelibly tasty, opt for the turkey sandwich. The first thing on the menu, this layman’s sandwich often feels tried and tired—a last resort option for quick meals on the go—but this one’s crunchy cucumber and arugula combination, paired with the aforementioned tomato mayo, combine in your mouth to taste, oddly enough, like you’re eating a sushi roll, with bread instead of sticky rice. The deli sliced turkey meat is perfectly honey roasted, and is a clear step up from the mustard-slathered days of yore.

Most notable, though, is the goat sandwich. Its tender tomato-braised meat feels fresh-off-the-bone, and the poblano sour cream, made by stewing poblano peppers and mixing them with sour cream, melts into the goat (and vice versa) so well that it’s difficult to discern whether this sandwich’s star power is all meat or all cream. It’s probably both. The goat is so full of flavor, it doesn’t quite feel like it came out of the kitchen of the unassuming Andorka.

Considerably less extraordinary than the turkey and goat is the roast beef, smothered with horseradish cream cheese—a concept pungent and repelling in theory, but masterful in practice. It’s reminiscent of onion and chive cream cheese, and balances the onion and arugula fixings surprisingly well, though the sandwich could use some more crispness.

The sandwiches are served stag, but potato chips made in-house can be purchased for an overpriced $2.50. The crunch isn’t quite there, and they’re undersalted and overgreased, so hold off on these unless you truly can’t bear to eat a sandwich by itself.

The sandwiches, it must be stressed, are delicious. The meat is succulent, the bread is made fresh in-house, the sauce combinations are original, and even fixings like arugula and red onion are memorable. For sandwiches smaller than some versions of the iPhone, $8 and $9 price tags are a little steep, especially considering sides aren’t included (nothing much to see in that direction anyway). But then again, all the ingredients are either made on-site or locally sourced. Andorka’s isn’t a place you purposely venture to Pilsen for, but if you’re in the area and want food that won’t give you gas, come for the sandwiches, stay for the dad rock tunes, and hold off on the potato chips.

Andorka’s Sandwich Shop, 2110 S. Halsted St. Tues-Sat, 9am-5pm. (312)763-6916. andorkas.com

Correction January 20, 2015: Due to an editing error, an earlier version of this article misstated the date of Andorka’s opening.