Turkey and the Wolf is located in a mostly residential neighborhood called Irish Channel, a few blocks off of busy Magazine Street.
It's a simple operation, with customers ordering at the counter and workers yelling to each other in the kitchen. We arrived right at opening time — 11 a.m. — to beat the crowd, but we weren't the only ones waiting outside when the doors opened.
The menu copies suburban childhood classics — bologna sandwiches, wedge salads, and tacos made with American cheese. With a wave of restaurants "elevating" various cultures' street food, Turkey and the Wolf is serving an updated version of the nutritionally empty foods that many Americans ate growing up in the '80s and '90s.
I ordered the fried bologna. It is one of the restaurant's best-known sandwiches, made with local bologna, shredded lettuce (or "shrettuce"), American cheese, and — the most revelatory addition — potato chips.
This is a monstrously thick sandwich. I basically had to unhinge my jaw to eat it, and I got mustard and mayo all over my face as I smashed the sandwich into my mouth. But the decadent combination of fried meat and American cheese, cut with the chips and hot mustard, was nothing less than heavenly.
My friend ordered the collard green melt, which Bon Appétit's Knowlton called the "best sandwich I’ve ever crammed into my mouth." The sandwich — served, like all Turkey and the Wolf sandwiches, on mismatched kids' plates — is on rye bread and made with slow-cooked collard greens, cole slaw, Swiss cheese, and pickled cherry pepper dressing.
The Reuben-esque sandwich partners the savory, Swiss-cheese-covered greens with a surprising punch from the pickled cherry pepper. I wouldn't go so far as to call it the best sandwich I've ever eaten — or even the best sandwich I ate at Turkey and the Wolf — but it was pretty damn good.
Beyond sandwiches, the wedge salad was enough to convince me that iceberg lettuce is due for a comeback. The crisp, over-sized wedge is covered with everything bagel "crunchy stuff," which I now believe should be a wedge salad standard.
Turkey and the Wolf also serves up cocktails, with prices topping out at $9. Intrigued by the combination of tequila, paprika, almond milk, and sweet potato syrup, I ordered the "Nothing Goes According to Plan," a tasty drink with an almost pumpkin-spice-like kick.
I also snuck a sip of my friend's refreshing and delicious E-Honda's Hundred Hand Slap, made with pecan vodka, satsuma shrub, and soda.
Halfway through my sandwich — plus sampling others' meals — I was stuffed. But, the food was so good that I pushed onward.
Turkey and the Wolf's sandwiches are pretty incredible. I ate the bologna sandwich a week ago, and I've thought about it almost every day since. I loved it so much, I made it my iPhone background. But, does a handful of tasty sandwiches mean that Turkey and the Wolf is actually the best new restaurant in America?
The thing that tips any restaurant towards or away from true greatness is its atmosphere — the experience as a whole. Many see the low-budget goofiness as part of Turkey and the Wolf's charm. Others believe the restaurant has received unearned praise with it tongue-in-cheek takes on childhood classics.
"If the ownership and staff of Turkey and the Wolf were to be replaced exclusively with black New Orleanians, it would hardly be interesting to most food publications," chef and writer Tunde Wey wrote in the San Francisco Chronicle. "Its kitsch would be deigned bad design; its off-kilter take on conventional staples would be judged too baroque and gauche; that charming laid-back service would be registered as rude and incompetent."
