There’s No Brooklyn Roast Beef. Just Roast Beef in Brooklyn.

Brennan and Carr's Hot Roast Beef Dipped

I had an epiphany the other day. It came just as a white-jacketed waiter set down what was my second roast beef sandwich of the night. This one sat proudly in a puddle of its own jus, like a toddler splashing in the bath.

At that moment, I realized, Brooklyn roast beef is not a Foodigenous.

Roll-N-Roast Beef N Cheez

Don’t get me wrong, I know damn well there’s excellent roast beef all over the BK. That juicy, perfectly pink sandwich served at Brennan & Carr. The thinly sliced, cheese-lacquered Roll-N-Roaster I’d inhaled minutes earlier. Original John’s thick, beefy gravy dripping from every bite. These are some of the best sandwiches in the country, actually.

But just because it’s delicious doesn’t make it a foodigenous.

There is no “Brooklyn roast beef.” There is only roast beef in Brooklyn.

And that’s not a knock — it’s a (dramatic pause) distinction.

The Best Roast Beef in Brooklyn

Pulling up to Roll-N-Roaster in Sheepshead Bay for the first time ignites all the feels. The giant neon letters, yellow-and-white striped awnings, and grandiose entrance make you feel like you’re about to walk into a fast-food joint — albeit one that got pumped at the gym and never looked back.

You half expect to catch Vinnie and the rest of the Sweat Hogs chopping it up in one of the canary-yellow booths beneath those gaudy amber chandeliers. The place is a time capsule, practically unchanged since it opened in 1970. It bleeds “The Me Decade” with intention. But the smell of beef filling your nostrils brings you back to the present. As you walk toward the giant backlit menu to place your order, you already know— this is going to be special.

The rolls are baked fresh daily, sturdy enough to hold piles of thinly shaved roast beef or turkey — though the burgers are low-key delicious, too. Hot melted Cheez advertisements are everywhere and can be poured over just about anything. And it's a must on the potato chip-cut fries. Pair your fried shrimp cup or clam chowder with lemonade, a milkshake… or a $60 bottle of Moët — true story (third column). The food arrives fresh and unapologetically matter of fact, served on a paper plate set on an elementary school-style cafeteria tray.

About a mile down Nostrand Avenue sits the granddad of roast beef: Brennan & Carr, slinging beef from its rustic little outpost since 1938. The cozy interior feels more like a no-frills cabin upstate than a Brooklyn sandwich shop with absolutely no hipster irony. Grab a warm cup of beef broth — or clam chowder if you’re feeling nautical — before ordering your hot beef sandwich.

And when you order, speak the language. Ask for a dip. Just the meat? That’s a Dingle Dangle. The whole sandwich? Double Dip. Want it fully baptized in jus and eaten with a fork? That’s a K.F.J. — a knife-and-fork job swimming in juice. This is comfort food at its best. Each bite of the slightly thicker medium rare sandwich makes you yearn for the next before you even swallow. This is perfected simplicity. Meat, bread and jus.

So that epiphany I was talking about? It wasn’t about roast beef. It was about realizing that the local spots tucked away in obscure parts of the country — the ones that served kids who now bring their own kids and grandkids — deserve to be written about just as much as the foods that spawned copycats and rivalries.

Because legacy — the kind built by places like Brennan & Carr and Roll-N-Roaster — matters too. And there are a lot more of those stories out there.