Shut Up and Eat, the subject of this week's Last Supper review, serves oversized, boldly-flavored sandwiches that have all the visual swagger of the name, but eat like intelligently constructed, thoughtfully-portioned things. You can pick them all up, you can take a bite without wearing it ear-to-ear, and the bread will still be doing its job at the end. As I hope was clear in the review, I love this "truck-to-table" success story. While I hope they are able to expand, a conversation with the chef one afternoon reveals a team still fine-tuning their initial operation. They must mean Quickbooks or something, because on all five visits—during quiet after-breakfast lulls and at the height of the lunch rush—the only thing I could find to be miffed about was that the table in the back by the restrooms was a bit drafty. But I am a cold-bodied person whose hands and feet are chilled when he beds down, and colder when he wakes up.
Here, as is tradition, are my terrible photographs of the food, taken in worried moments, Photoshopped without repeatable technique.
They make their own biscuits and English muffins, which are excellent in terms of flavor, texture, and performance. "Their biscuit performs well," is a possible sentence one can say.
A cozy view from the counter on a brisk winter morning.
The roast pork in this sandwich is very well-cooked, but I'm personally not jazzed by this bass note of an ingredient, and would have doctored this up with some spice and pickled things. Roast pork lovers, though: you have your sandwich.
I was with a four-year old kid who ended up eating half this despite a typical diet of popcorn and Slurpees. It had strong greens and peppers; he was unfazed.
They told me not to publicize this bread choice. I can see why: It is not nearly as beautiful as their version, which was designed with a feeling man's eye. I think it was under-laden with vegetables for take-out, as well. But: it ate so, so perfectly. Sorry, guys.