Phillippe’s and Cole’s

The Great French Dip Controversy

Back in the day when prime seats were $14 and before one could buy tickets on Stub Hub at game time for a massive discount, even pennies on the dollar, I had season tickets to the Dodgers.  An unassuming, soft-spoken, reticent gentleman had the seats directly behind mine in prime foul-ball territory in the orange Loge section.  His demeanor, however, belied his critical importance in the history of Los Angeles, and, in fact, the history of worldwide cuisine.  He was no other than Richard Binder, the owner of Phillippe’s.  I once asked Richard why he never franchised Phillippe’s or served his food in Dodger Stadium (which certainly could use a culinary upgrade).  The only response I ever got was a Yoda-esque enigma.

Great controversies have bedeviled humankind for millennia.  Did Moses truly part the Red Sea?  Was Jesus resurrected from the dead?  Who killed J.R. Ewing?  But the greatest of all, the controversy to dwarf all controversies, is who invented the French Dip sandwich.  Two Los Angeles restaurants, Philippe’s and Cole’s, claim to have invented the sandwich in the early 20th century.   This dispute is so critical, so crucial, so compelling to us foodies that it even has an article in that definitive volume of all human knowledge, the Encyclopedia Britannica:  “According to the founder of Phillippe’s, Philippe Mathieu, the sandwich was invented in 1918 when he accidently dropped a French roll into a juice-filled roasting pan, and the customer said he would eat the “dipped” sandwich anyway.  Cole’s, however, asserts that it created the sandwich in 1908, possibly for a customer with sore gums, who requested that the crunchy bread be softened with meat juice.”  Despite my extensive research into the subject, including trips to the Library of Congress and the Oracle at Delphi, I found that I had as much chance of solving this conundrum as I had of solving the Black Dahlia murder.  Fortunately, the American Association of Neurological Surgeons recently had its annual meeting (party central!) at the Convention Center in downtown which gave me an excuse to visit both litigants to the quarrel.

My first stop was at Phillippe’s, which is located in a turn of the century brick building on Alameda St., adjacent to Union Station and Olvera St.

Phillippe’s is a cafeteria style restaurant where one orders at a massive counter, then walks with one’s tray of food over a sawdust covered floor to communal tables and private booths. 

Ordering at Phillippe’s is reminiscent of ordering soup from the Soup Nazi, lining up in single file until one finally reaches the counter.  When Shangri-La is attained, however, the experience is the antithesis as the ladies behind the counter are delightful and accommodating.  The extensive menu is seen on the chalkboards above.  In addition to the French Dip sandwich, Phillippe’s offers breakfast, chili, soup, dessert and even PB&J.  The sides can be viewed in the chilled glass-enclosed display.  The sandwich can be accompanied by potato salad, coleslaw or macaroni salad; more unusual offerings such as pickled pig’s foot and hard-boiled egg are also available.  After the meat for a French Dip is chosen (beef, pork, lamb, pastrami, ham or turkey) and the cheese is selected (American, Swiss, cheddar or bleu), a climactic decision must be made between single dipping (one side) or double dipping (both sides) of the roll in the au jus.  If so inclined, one can pre-game for nearby Dodger Stadium with beer, wine or even champagne.  

Phillippe’s has the tradition of the ladies at the counter not handling the filthy lucre that is exchanged for the meal.  One places the payment on a tray; I purchased a French Dip sandwich (beef with Swiss cheese), coleslaw and a drink for a Jackson with enough left over for a generous tip. 

Phillippe’s has maintained its outstanding quality for many years (which is why I suspect it was never franchised or served in Chavez Ravine).  The soft French roll does not become mushy with the au jus.  The generous portion of thinly sliced lean roast beef is firm but not chewy.  At each table is a bottle of spicy homemade mustard with the bite of horseradish.  The secret recipe for the mustard has been encrypted by cybersecurity experts at nearby Caltech and is stored on servers in Area 51.  The creamy coleslaw has a slight tanginess of vinegar.  The Diet Coke is…a Diet Coke (your bloated reviewer stopped drinking non-alcoholic calories at age 30).

After a satisfying meal at Phillippe’s, I headed to its archrival, Cole’s, which is also located in downtown on 6^th St. at Main.  The phallus that is L.A. City Hall points out the direction down Spring St.

As can be seen from the sign, Cole’s also claims to be the originator of the French Dip sandwich.  Cole’s has the feel of a speakeasy; one walks five steps below street level to enter the restaurant. 

Cole’s is dark, dark and darker with a mahogany bar and tables lit by hanging red and white globe lamps.  The walls and ceiling are covered with bronze wallpaper and more mahogany.  The decorator channeled New Orleans bordello

One orders from the bartender who delivers the food to the table.  To perform a scientifically valid Level 1 controlled study, I ordered the same spread that I had at Phillippe’s

The meal at Cole’s was disappointing.  The French Dip sandwich comes with the au jus on the side to be poured rather than having the roll served dipped.  This decision was made by the Scott Paper Company to double their national napkin sales.  The crunchy roll is toasted and lightly buttered.  Cole’s offers homemade hot mustard which was textured with bits of horseradish root; unfortunately the crispy roll and the butter do not complement the au jus and the hot mustard.  The meat was a bit chewy and not as flavorful as at Phillippe’s.   Mimicking City Hall, there was a spicy pickle protruding between the two halves of the sandwich.  The bill was $37 with tip; as Cole’s has a full bar I was able to anesthetize myself from the pain of my lightened wallet.

I don’t know if I can sort out the historical controversy of who was the originator of the French Dip.   The best I can do is to leave you with a quote from my favorite movie western, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance:  “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.”