After a Kid ‘n Play listening party at my uncle’s garage apartment, we discovered our appetites soon overpowered our dancing needs. The Yellow Belly food truck sat just down the street waiting to finish us off with some hearty food goodness. We ordered in the cold and waited inside an old phone booth for our food to get itself ready. When the Flying Swine (pork wings served on local greens tossed in their signature vinaigrette with blue cheese crumbles) came out, it screamed authenticity. The meat was tense at the bite, and then it fell tenderly and cleanly from the bone. It was a savory little basket, and the vinaigrette covered the local greens with ease and brightness.
We then dove mouth-first into the Yellow Submarine, their Italian meatball sub with signature marinara, smoked provolone, goat cheese, and sweet Italian peppers on a bollio roll. The meatballs stayed together well with a rich and well-seasoned meatiness accompanied by the gooey layer of cheese on top. The bollio bun was soft and held everything in well. It was a refreshing sandwich and not heavy as might happen with meatballs, cheese, and peppers. Its freshness had a Mediterranean zest to it, and I would definitely eat another. The winner of the night came next. The Y.B.L.T. triumphed with balance, richness, and incomparable seasoning. It comes with cilantro-fried yellow tomatoes, leaf lettuce, candied bacon, and chipotle aioli on a bollio bun. It continued to show the Yellow Belly’s care and love for the food it serves. Though it appears simple and quaint, the Y.B.L.T. is actually a hearty sandwich that reigned over my taste buds with authority and refinement.
The Yellow Belly was destined to find us, and we were smitten by its delivery of exquisite cuisine. With a crispy chill in the air and socially conscious rap on our minds, we found solace in the sandwiches served hot and fresh under the stars of the New Age. After we got back, we noticed several empty CO2 cartridges and some old issues of Big‘Uns strung about the living room. We immediately realized we should not have left our vagabond friend, Bistro Pisscuff (as he calls himself), alone in the apartment. We offered him a sandwich and let his transgressions slide, for we were too full and too happy to care.
