Cambozola Ribeye Steak and Portobello Sandwiches with Fig Jam

One of the ways I’ve always approached the creation of new menu items, whether it’s for a food truck or a casual restaurant, is to start with something super familiar and approachable, and then make creative twists and additions to create a whole new dish. That’s the kind of sentence that made a lot of sense when it only existed in my brain, but now seems super trite and obvious now that I’ve committed it to type. But this approach to menu design works in two ways.

First, presenting what may be new foods in a familiar way makes them super approachable for someone that may otherwise be reluctant to try something new. You can put braised beef cheeks, pickled ramps, roasted Hen of the Woods mushrooms and gorgonzola crema (hang on, I should write this down) into the most artful arrangement on the plate as you can imagine, and there’s a certain portion of the population that will refuse to try it, no matter how carefully you’ve smeared your sauce on the plate or arranged all of your dish’s elements into little festive piles. Stack all of those same components on a hand-pressed corn tortilla and present it as a taco, however, and more people will be more willing to try it. Everyone knows what a taco is, or a grilled cheese, or a pizza, and couching your ideas in a “safe” vehicle can make them more approachable.

Second, it’s a whole lot of fun. When your brain has settled on “cheesesteak,” for example, it knows what it’s getting: Some shaved steak, some sautéed onions, a river of melted Cheez Wiz. The original is great, sure, but pulling this kind of last minute switcheroo on your idiot brain is one of the fun parts of eating.

This sandwich takes that familiar form, with a few palate-confusing changes that elevate the humble cheesesteak to gourmet meal. We use Cambozola (a soft, rindy triple cream cheese, with a thin vein of gorgonzola running through the center), thin-sliced charred ribeye steak, baby portobello mushrooms, deep-fried crispy onion strings, and a thin layer of store-bought fig jam, because soft cheese and fig jam are best friends that go together like, well, soft cheese and fig jam.

The resulting sandwich owes a debt of gratitude to the Philadelphia classic, while managing to be something entirely new: Intensely earthy and smoky, with the hints of fire and funkiness that make food worth eating, and surprise hits of sweetness from the fig to cut through all of that richness.