I’m 36 years old and I have lived in Chicago for the past 10 years. Except for a year spent living in Finland after high school, I was born and raised in Jamestown, N.Y., a small town about 70 miles south of Buffalo.
I spent nearly two years working as a short-order cook in a bar that specialized in Buffalo Wings (back home we simply call them “chicken wings”), so whenever I get a craving for them, I can whip up a batch that will put most local Chicago bars to shame.
I talk with my parents on the phone and exchange e-mails with them on a weekly basis. I chat with my friends via the Internet while online gaming.
There are very few things from home that I am truly without and I have never been homesick at all in my entire life, not even when I was 18 and on my way to live in Europe for a year.
Well, I’ve never been homesick until I read Tribune staff reporter Rex W. Huppke’s “What the heck is a `beef on weck’? Tasty treat is rarely seen outside New York–it’s all because of the roll” (News, June 21).
Huppke’s right. You cannot get the real thing outside of Western New York.
I’ve tried making them myself, even going so far as making my own rolls from scratch.
I once had a half-dozen rolls sent next-day airmail by my parents.
I’ve even tried the sandwich at Keefer’s Kaffe in Chicago that Huppke mentions.
While all of these attempts have yielded something that was good, none of them was good enough.
Huppke’s article reminded me that I haven’t been home in almost four years and now, for the first time ever, I am homesick.
Just don’t tell my friends and family that I’m not homesick for them, but rather for a simple sandwich.
