Cuzzy's steak sandwich makes all others tremble with fear

Cuzzy's steak sandwich is so imposing it moonlights as a bouncer at a biker bar
Cuzzy's steak sandwich is so imposing it moonlights as a bouncer at a biker bar
Hannah Sayle

The steak sandwich oeuvre is rank with imposters. Most restaurants offer sliced meat so meekly apportioned you'll need a platoon of Sherpas to find it. Or they'll present you with a glob of processed brown stuff made from a cow who was always picked last in kickball. 

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Clearly this is no way to treat the Emperor of Meats. The word "steak" implies a feast. It is meant to satiate the appetites of lumberjacks and nose tackles. 

So Cuzzy's bar in the scenic North Loop chose a simple remedy: It cooked up an actual steak, then stuffed it between two slices of bread (cue the warbling angels). Behold: a steak sandwich worthy of its name.

Let's go to the scoreboard, shall we?

The steak: We're not talking about those dainty things served at fashionable joints where people actually know what gluten is. This is a solid six-incher of brawny deliciocity, large enough to bat cleanup on your softball team or beat an Abrams tank in arm wrestling. 

It arrives slathered with grilled mushrooms and onions on what we're tempted to call Texas toast. Unfortunately, Texas is a state of full of candy-asses who are afraid to go to Chipotle without an assault rifle. So let's just use the technical term: giant pieces of white bread.

The sides: For $12.99, this leviathan comes with an escort of kettle chips and a pickle. But if you're willing to kick in an extra buck, that staple of junior high cafeterias awaits. We speak now of the noble delicacy known as the tater tot, surely the world's most underrated form of processed potato.  

The vibe: Cuzzy's isn't much to look at. It's an old box of a bar wallpapered with U.S. currency defaced by its customers. But the clientele is lousy with decent Americans: the steel-toed boot crowd, North Loop office workers, and Twins fans (Target Field is three blocks away). Americana be thy name.

The service: Much too fabulous. The waitresses are cheery, down-home, and swift afoot. The food comes faster than you can complete your story about that time you fought an antelope in the Saskatchewan wilderness. (It may be a lie, but it's a good story.) It's a friendly joint, a neighborhood bar without pretense.

507 Washington Ave. N.

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