PHOTO BY TIM SLOAN FOR THE WASHINGTON POST

Roy Passin is the innovative force behind Roy's Place

"I'm just getting better every day - ripe, like a Camembert," says Roy Passin, owner of Roy's Place. The amiable septuagenarian sits contentedly, day after day, at his favorite table - the one with a perfect vantage of the front door - so that he can greet regulars as they arrive.

This serene, dimly lit tavern known as Roy's Place, with its red-and-white checkered tablecloths, is a far cry from the beer-swilling, "I can't repeat that story in front of a lady" type of saloon that Passin originally opened in Rockville in 1955.

A graduate of Georgetown's School of Foreign Service and a war veteran, Passin had naively hoped to make an easy profit serving up 25-cent beers to employees fresh from a shift at the nearby Schenley Distillers. He soon realized he was in for far more than he had expected. How soon? "Exactly 22 minutes after buying the joint," harrumphs Passin.

Passin's first cooking venture - an attempt at diminishing drunken brawls - was a Wednesday night, 75-cent, all-you-can-eat buffet featuring fried chicken, spareribs or Passin's specialty, beef brisket. It soon garnered local fame.

After a fire destroyed the original joint, Passin relocated to Rockville's former Cochran Hotel. Although it retained its name and rowdy regulars, Passin transformed the saloon into a lunch counter from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. to accommodate the "suit train" of downtown office workers seeking a hearty lunch.

It was this bustling midday crowd that inspired Passin to heap his famous brisket on some bread and call it the "Whatzit." Folks not only liked it, they clamored for more. Thus began an obsession. Soon Passin threw together the gargantuan "Bender Schmender" (The One and Only 5-Decker Club). The menu describes it as "corned beef, turkey, roast pork, chicken liver pâté and golden brisket with lettuce, tomato, Golden sauce and a psychiatric appointment."

Just like the waistlines of the regular customers, the menu of specialty sandwiches has continued to expand over the years. When the old Cochran building fell victim to urban renewal, Passin packed his menus and moved to the present location in Gaithersburg. The list of sandwiches, numbering 90 when Passin first arrived in Gaithersburg, now weighs in at 196.

"You need a beer just to get through the menu," cautions one local. These are not humble sandwiches. These are flamboyant, awe-inspiring combinations: roast beef with fried oysters, lobster salad and brisket, pork sausage and beans, turkey bosom, crab salad, and Golden Sauce. (Roy's also will accommodate the relatively uninspired sandwiches demanded by customers.) "I've always had a knack for knowing what ingredients to throw together," shrugs Passin.

Most sandwiches are playfully named for real people, although several monikers are the result of his gift for inventing the truth. But the best parts of the menu are the parenthetical clues that hint at the thought process (read: inside joke) behind the naming process. For example, "The Nameless Club" ("Two hours after eating you call us names"), "Mother's Ruin" ("Three sausages and a spot of gin"), "Father's Defeat" ("Three mothers and a lot of gin"), "The Judy, Judy, Judy!!!" ("Is it true your name is Alice?"), and "The Noche d'Amour" ("At my age, Noche de Amour should be a day of rest").

Passin admits to a quick temper as well as a quirky sense of humor. Once an inebriated regular refused to leave, instead demanding to be served a "good cold sandwich." Passin charged him 50 cents - the equivalent of two beers - stormed back to the kitchen, angrily scavenged some stale bread and slapped an ice cube between the two slices. Tossing a pickle beside it, he served it to the drunk, telling him "There's your damn cold sandwich." It's still on the menu, although inflation has driven the price of "The Nothing Burger" up to 64 cents.

Today, the prices are as outrageously varied as the ingredient list. The sandwiches run from $8 to $12 and peak out at $18.95. Adamant about quality, Passin insists that all meats be roasted on site in strict adherence to his recipes. It should come as no surprise that Passin relies on a hefty dose of alcohol - and a few additional antics - to flavor many of his sauces and roast meats. And it works. The secret to his delectable roast pork is simple. "I just pour a couple of glasses of sherry over a 10-pound leg of pork, sprinkle it with cayenne and black pepper, throw on some Louisiana hot sauce, and slather the whole thing with honey before roasting it." Leaning close, he whispers "And then I jump up and down, whirl around and genuflect."

Roy's sauces redefine the word condiment. Almost anything anchored between two slices of bread would benefit from Passin's secret-recipe Golden Sauce. The same goes for the fried finger food - such as kiddie favorite mozzarella sticks ($4.25) and chicken tenders ($4.95). Enthusiasts buy Golden Sauce by the jelly jar. And his blue cheese dressing smells suspiciously of sherry.

As a precaution, all of Roy's sauces and sandwiches are trademarked to discourage duplication. Previous offenders have ended up in court and worse: on Passin's bad side.

Roy's Place is still - and always will be - about Passin. "I've had a good life doing this," he sighs.

Reprinted with permission from The Washington Post March 31, 1999, F7.