Teesside’s Parmo, Not Necessarily A Sandwich

I have been bamboozled, suckered, fooled into writing about this particular Northeastern English delicacy. Delicacy is in fact the wrong word–the Parmo is anything but delicate. Originally a breaded pork cutlet–often served with chicken instead these days–fried up crisp, then covered in bechamel sauce and cheddar cheese before being finished under a broiler, it’s been estimated that a standard order of parmo and chips runs around 2600 calories. And it is most certainly not a sandwich, despite a contingent of UK Tiktokers who have vocally encouraged me to try it.

I’m getting ahead of myself though. The Parmo story starts in Middlesbrough, which Wikipedia describes as “a port town in North Yorkshire” but that one commenter on Instagram vehemently denied was associated with Yorkshire at all. I understand this impulse–I come from West Central Illinois and I have had to correct so many Chicagoans who believe that anything south of I-80 is Southern Illinois. Middlesbrough is part of the Teesside area, a small group of towns on and around the River Tees in the northeast of England. Depending on the map you look at, parts of Teesside may be included in North Yorkshire, or it may appear as a separate entity. I cannot claim to understand English geography.

According to most accounts of the dish’s origin (though this article alone of those I’ve read mentioned a few other potential origins, the consensus seems to be with Nicos), a Greek-American named Nicos Harris, a US Army cook who, when wounded in France during World War II, was brought back to England to recover. The stories do not, generally, recount the details of his stay in hospital but they agree that once the war was over, he had grown to enjoy England so much that he settled there and opened a restaurant in Middlesbrough called the American Grill. It wasn’t until the following decade–1958 in particular–that he invented the Parmo.

Parmo, as you might imagine, is short for Parmigiana, much like we in the US might say “chicken parm” or “eggplant parm.” There is no parmesan cheese in the parmo–but that is not what the word Parmigiana means. It means from (or in the style of) Parma, the city in Northern Italy where Parmesan cheese (and for that matter Prosciutto di Parma) originates. The original Italian dish called Parmigiana consists of fried slices of eggplant alternated in layers with tomato sauce and cheese and baked. The Veal Parmigiana or Chicken Parmigiana served at your local red sauce spot is an adaptation of this vegetarian dish to our meat-centric American tastes.

And the Parmo further adapts that American dish to British tastes. The original 1958 Teesside Parmo swaps out veal for pork, and instead of a bright and acidic tomato sauce, it uses a creamy bechamel. This is topped with shredded cheddar cheese and broiled to melt and brown the cheese. It’s a hugely popular takeaway dish in Teesside but until 2018, despite a number of articles predating that year that I’ve found online about it, was not well known outside the area.

But the judges also raved about the dish, with one of them proclaiming chicken parmo the “next big thing,” even going so far as to cringily utter the words “hashtag parmo.” Perhaps the dividing line between “little-known takeout curiosity” and “national sensation” is not so clear-cut, but in the past 6 years the Parmo has been spreading its reach across England, in Sheffield, in Newcastle, even a chain with locations in York and London.

And somewhere along the way, some of those locations–in fact maybe a lot of them–starting selling a “Parmo Burger” as well. Of course, in the UK and Australia and some other Commonwealth nations, “burger” does not indicate a sandwich featuring cooked ground beef but rather, any old main ingredient as long as it’s served in a round bun.

So when I recreated the dish, I aimed not for the super-high-calorie takeout tradition, but for the scaled-down, slightly fancier, not-quite-cheffy version I’d seen when reading about that MasterChef episode. I butterflied chicken breasts (ineptly) and breaded them with seasoned flour, egg wash, and a panko/Parmesan cheese mixture.

From there, turning the breaded chicken into Parmo required only Bechamel sauce–a fairly standard version, seasoned with salt and black pepper and freshly planed nutmeg–and grated cheddar cheese–white Cheddar, since the Brits will complain bitterly to the ends of the earth that any yellow cheese cannot possibly be real cheddar. (And since the term “Cheddar” has no Protected Designation of Origin, cheddar cheeses are made all over the world. I will not claim that this is a true “West Country Farmhouse Cheddar” but cheddar it is.)

To make the Parmo, first ladle bechamel liberally over the top surface of the chicken breast, then sprinkle shredded cheddar over the top and broil until the cheese is melted and browned a bit.

My cabbage slaw was made with thin slices of red cabbage, shredded carrots and red onion, apple cider vinegar, salt, pepper, celery seed, dried dill, and a little bit of honey and olive oil, roughly following this recipe.

To plate was simple enough–a bed of red cabbage, half of a chicken parmo (otherwise there’d be no room left on the plate!), and a fairly uncheffy smear of beetroot ketchup

That beetroot ketchup by the way–it’s pretty spectacular, if you like the flavor of beets which I understand to be a tall order. I myself have frequently described them as tasting like “sweet dirt.” But if you’re curious, I used this recipe and I wouldn’t say that it is spicy the way Anthony O’Shaughnessy described his beetroot ketchup, the combination of the sweet beets, brown sugar, the warm spices and the cider vinegar will wake up your mouth.

The combination of the Parmesan and panko breading, the nutmeg of the bechamel, and the slight browning under the broiler brought a surprising nuttiness out of the cheddar that was nicely offset by the aromatic pungency of the cabbage slaw and the extreme sweet/sour kick of the beetroot ketchup.

But how well does it sandwich?

The typical parmo burger that I’ve seen tends toward the typical burger toppings–ketchup and shredded lettuce, perhaps some slices of tomato and onion. Others steer closer to what I’ve made here, complete with toasted brioche bun and red cabbage slaw. One Middlesbrough-based chain called Manjaro’s, claiming to be “King of the Parmos,” offers a “Hot Shot Parmo Burger” with onion, mushrooms, peppers, and pepperoni.

But I’m happy with this version.

In sandwich form, the extreme flavor swings of the beetroot ketchup and the cabbage slaw are a bit more muted, but the nice bechamel flavor and the good, sharp, nutty browned melted cheddar lead the way, with those sides taking the role of condiments.

So yes, the Parmo burger does turn out to be a sandwich, despite the dish as a whole not having much to do with sandwiches at all. I’m sure some British readers would rather have seen me take down the full 2600+ calorie takeout-style parmo & chips than the cheffier, ever-so-slightly-healthier version I chose, but I have no regrets.