Sandwiches are art. There is no other way to describe it. They are the king of food types, the emperor of cuisine choice, the sultan of substantial food. I have estimated that in the past week alone I have eaten at least twenty sandwiches. While a salad or pasta dish is naturally restricted to one or two meal times only, sandwiches are forever. I would be comfortable with a sandwich for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
I refuse to believe the silly story about some fop playing cards inventing the sandwich. Like a predilection towards war and conflict, sandwiches are deeply encoded within the blocks that make up our fundamental characteristics. I imagine if someone really paid attention to the cave drawings in Lascaux, they would surely discovery a paleolithic croque-monsieur.
The sandwich’s main strength is that of variety: a sandwich can take a broad range of forms and can have anything on it. In a very real sense, there are no rules towards construction. Guidelines perhaps, but not unbreakable rules. I submit to you the kebab, pizza, burger, pide, wrap are all sandwiches trading under different names, possibly for beneficial tax reasons. The sandwich is particularly adept at using leftovers. If you have leftovers, put them between something—possibly bread—add some sauce or some other condiment and then eat. If you say you do not like sandwiches I will look at you as if you have said you do not need oxygen or something else. This is not hyperbole, but hyper-truth. Sandwiches, at the end of the day, are life. Does it not say in the bible “You shall not make for yourself anything but a sandwich?” I rest my case.
Having convinced you to accept the premise that sandwiches are great, I now can only offer a suggestion as to a particularly pleasing configuration.
Take one of those supermarket focaccia rolls. They might be hiding in the ‘avoidable 90s baked goods’ section, along with those little snack sponge fingers, filled with ‘cream’ and mini-‘muffins’ and such like. Turkish bread was my backup plan, the way not leaking oil was BP’s backup plan.
Halve it and then add a few fairly thickish slices of turkey breast. If you make some argument that a reuben must have corned beef, you are right in the same way mass murderers are technically humans. I cannot abide by the fetishism of ‘authenticity’ that exists in the food world. It is small minded and childlike to cry out into the night: “A PIZZA CANNOT HAVE PINEAPPLE ON IT!” Take your argument from authority and go and make a pizza from it, boring person.
Now add some sauerkraut. Mine came in a giant jar that I imagine will last around nine years, or slightly less. I smooshed it in a strainer to get rid of some of the juice first. A nice layer. Now, the secret ingredient: a minor flood of thousand island dressing. Such a pleasant colour. It looks like progress and feels like a socialist challenge to the bland homogeneity of mayonnaise. Could someone check to see if Marx did indeed invent 1000 isld. dressing?
A layer of cheese. Jarlsberg would be ace, but I had tasty so that’s what I used. How can you disagree with a cheese named by its chief attribute? Some pepper! No salt or butter. My other’s sister gave us a sandwich press for Christmas, so I used that. You could of course use a fry pan, but in that case put a plate on top and something heavy on it to squish it down, as if you were some sort of industrial squishing machine.
Cook until done. Slice on the diagonal, obviously. Squirt some more dressing on the plate so you can dip as you go and maybe a pickle or three or four. Oh so lovely.
*(I took pictures on the middle camera—not my phone or the big camera—but foolishly neglected to put it in tulip mode.)
