Topophilia Au Jus

I’ll begin with the title of this post.

“Topophilia” comes from the Greek topos meaning ‘place’ and philia meaning ‘love of’ – so it literally means the love of a place and is usually mixed with the shared sense of cultural identity that people in that place develop.  It’s why people from New York City are proud of calling themselves ‘New Yorkers’ or speak of having a ‘New York state of mind.’  “Au jus” comes from French and means “with juice.”  I am a proud, native-born Angeleno from Los Angeles.  If there’s one thing Angelenos love to argue about, besides the quickest way to get to Dodger stadium, it is over who invented the French Dip sandwich, often served with juice (au jus) for dipping.  You could say I like my beloved town with a side of juice for dipping.

And yes, I’ve come down on one side of the sandwich argument.  The right side!

I don’t think there is any doubt that the sandwich, a savory mess (a proper French Dip should be messy!) of a French roll stuffed with roast beef (and nothing else!) and dipped in jus (note, it’s dipped in jus, not au jus, as the ‘au’ means “with,” and you wouldn’t dip your sandwich in “with juice” would you?), originated with Philippe Mathieu, a French immigrant who came to Los Angeles in 1903 and opened a deli at at 617 Alameda St. in 1908.  It was here that the first French Dip sandwich was made ten years later, in 1918.

But there are those, whom I like to call wrong, who claim the sandwich was invented a full ten years before that at Cole’s Pacific Electric Buffet, the oldest bar/eatery in Los Angeles in the same location founded in 1908 by Henry Cole on the ground floor of the Pacific Electric Building, which served as the main terminal for the Pacific Electric Railway – LA’s famous and now defunct “Red Cars.” 

Defenders of the Cole’s story insist it was Henry Cole who first dipped the French bread in jus at the request of a customer who had recently had dental work done – the French bread was too hard and it hurt the customer’s teeth, so Henry dipped it in the jus to soften it; when other customers, with perfectly good teeth, saw Henry dip the bread, they requested he do the same for them, and voila… the French Dip was born.  I should point out that Henry Cole also operated Los Angeles’ first check cashing service from the restaurant, and was later arrested, in 1942, by the federal government for fraud.  Cole’s was designated a Los Angeles Historic-Cultural Monument in 1989, and is no doubt significant and hallowed ground for Angelenos; it even resembles the bar in the film Who Framed Roger Rabbit, (or rather, the bar in Who Framed Roger Rabbit resembles it) in which corporate interests want to “erase” Toontown where the Toons (cartoon characters) live and build a freeway on the land, decommissioning the railway system to force people to use it – which actually occurred in real life when the building of the Hollywood Freeway displaced landmarks such as Hollywood legend Rudolph Valentino’s former home in Whitley Heights to make way for the highway which led to the demise of the Red Car.  Perhaps they are bitter that the Red Cars which brought them hundreds of thousands of customers met such an ignominious end because of the freeways.  But inventors of the French Dip they are not.

The evidence for Philippe’s is far more substantial.  Descendants of the family that bought the deli from Philippe Mathieu in 1927 have re-branded the restaurant as “Philippe The Original,” relocating it to its current location at 1001 North Alameda St. (above) in 1951 to make way for the aforementioned construction of the Hollywood Freeway (LA’s second oldest freeway, after the Arroyo Seco Parkway, now called the “Pasadena Freeway”) from the Cahuenga Pass to the downtown area.  According to the “About Us” page on the Philippe The Original website:

In 1918, in the process of making a policeman a sandwich, Mathieu accidentally dropped the sliced french roll into the roasting pan, which was filled with hot juices from the oven. The policeman said he’d still take the sandwich and left. The next day, the same policeman returned with some friends asking for more dipped sandwiches. The rest they say is history.

Sounds plausible.  But on an episode of the TV show Cheap Eats, fourth generation co-owner Mark Massengill told a different story, even citing a different year:

It originated in 1917.  Philippe Mathieu was carving a roast beef sandwich for a fireman and the bread accidentally dropped into the roasting pan…

And none other than Philippe Mathieu’s own grandson, Philippe Guilhem, told the Los Angeles Times in a 2008 interview:

One day a fireman complained that his roll was stale.  It was probably a Monday and the roll was a leftover from the weekend.  My grandfather was a thrifty person.  He said, “Give me the damn thing back.” He dipped it in the juices and said, “You happy now?”

Philippe Guilhem was closer to the source than Philippe’s modern management, but he was still telling a story that was at best secondhand and already around ninety years old.  The actual closest we can get to a primary source with firsthand knowledge is a 1951 Los Angeles Times interview with Philippe Mathieu himself on the occasion of Philippe’s relocating to make way for the Hollywood Freeway:

One day a police officer asked me if I would mind splitting one of these large loaves of French bread and filling it with “some of the delicious roast pork.”  I was not too busy, so I said, “Sure.”  Then he asked me to “please cut it in half… I’ve got a friend outside who can eat it.”  Then he asked for some pickles, onions and olives.  Then we started making French-roll sandwiches for those who had smaller appetites.  One day a customer saw some gravy in the bottom of a large pan of roast meat.  He asked me if I would mind dipping one side of the French roll in that gravy.  I did, and right away five or six others wanted the same.

I’ll get to why I believe Philippe’s story in a minute, but first:  pork?  dressed with pickles, onions, and olives?  As a connoisseur of French Dips – I’ve been known to stop looking over a restaurant’s menu as soon as I see the sandwich listed as on offer – I am a purist.  Roast Beef.  And nothing else.  I don’t even like it when they put cheese (usually Swiss) on it.  But even I had to acknowledge the fact that my research for this post turned up early 20th century newspaper articles and advertisements as early as 1930 with mention of a “pork sandwich” – one advertisement read, “Try this one – something new, French Dipped Pork Sandwich.”

Hmm, well… okay.  But what about the name?  It stands to reason a French immigrant doing the dipping in a city where his nationality (and accent) probably stood out lent the sandwich its moniker.  But “French Dip” was probably ironic – an era-specific double entendre.

You see, around the turn of the century (circa 1898), women’s fashion advertisements began promoting dresses with what was referred to as a “French dip;” a dress with a French dip sported a drop in the waist to below the belt.  It was extremely common and appeared in newspaper advertisements for both dresses and then later men’s and women’s jackets – it was supposed to give the wearer a thinner appearance.

Cole’s story is too neat and tidy, too made-to-order.  And Henry Cole was German – why not call it a “German Dip?”  Philippe’s story is compelling precisely because the different versions (policeman, fireman, stale bread) sound like a family’s oral history where minor details often conflict in the iterations told over a long period of time by different people, not to mention the fact that we have a published, firsthand account from Philippe Mathieu himself in that 1951 interview.  And while I do not believe a French Dip should be made with anything other than roast beef, the discrepancy between pork and roast beef as the sandwich’s main ingredient lends to the genuineness of the story from those associated with Philippe’s because it allows for the invention to evolve over time (like most do) as opposed to springing into being fully formed.

At Phillippe The Original today, you can order your French Dip made with roast beef or pork; lamb, turkey, ham, and pastrami are also on offer.  You know how I feel about that.  However, De gustibus non disputandum est (“In matters of taste, there can be no disputes”). And, I should note, Philippe’s does not serve the sandwich au jus; when you order it at the carving station, your carver will dip the sliced French roll with tongs into a pan of hot, savory jus. You specify whether you want it dipped once, twice, or thrice (called “wet”).

But pickles, onions, and olives?  No.  Just no.