Elevating the simple sandwich
Key: Components are experienced individually
It’s a better-than-even bet that if you’re perusing this column, you know how to fill two slices of bread with something delicious. After all, membership in the Club for People-WhoKnow-How-to-Read-ButCan’t-Make-a-Sandwich is mostly limited to a handful of hideous human-cow hybrids on the lam from Dr. Moreau’s Island of Lost Souls. What would they know from sandwiches anyway?
Hybrid or not, we are all of us imperfect creatures fashioning imperfect creations, meaning there’s always room for improvement to our hallowed midday repast. Read on, then, o ye non-possessors of bovine DNA.
Why you need to learn this
If you’re anything like me (may God have mercy upon your soul), lunch is one of your top three favorite meals. And since nothing says “lunch” more than a sandwich, why not make that sandwich a shining, glorious tribute to the Celebrated Foods of Earth?
The steps you take
First, I want to remind you of the one capital-T Truth that pervades the universe. Ready? Get out your pencils: “There’s no accounting for taste.” Got it? You’re partial to rough denim jeans, for example, while I prefer supple leather chaps. (Did I just type that out loud?) Or, more on-topic, even though you’re the roast beef and Swiss type, I’d never proselytize on behalf of my heinously tasty deviled ham. And that’s because there’s no such thing as “The Perfect Sandwich.”
I will suggest, however, that, regardless of the sandwich you fancy, there are steps you can take to ensure it’s as good as can be. It’s like the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. That bichon frise wasn’t the best dog on the planet; it was just the closest to its Platonic ideal. Dig?
Something to remember is that the components of a sandwich are experienced individually rather than subsumed, Borg-like, into the whole. Unlike, say, a beef stew, where the ingredients are all simmered together, each ingredient in a sandwich is experienced individually. The bread, the mayo, the lettuce — every individual item is there to be tasted.
Now, between your cupboard and your fridge, you’ve probably got more than half a hatful of yummy things to put into a sandwich: your delicious leftover roast chicken, a jar of excellent peanut butter, a can of high-quality tuna. Notice those descriptors: “delicious,” “excellent” and “high-quality.” The first step to a great sandwich is great ingredients. And nothing, in my stupid opinion, is as important as the bread, and that’s where we’ll start with the handy suggestions.
1. Bread
Bread, of course, is the one thing that all sandwiches have in common. Oh, sure, throw a jibarito in my face, why don’t you, crowing about how that Puerto Rican-style sandwich and its Latin cousins replace the bread with flattened and fried plantain slices. And now that you’re brimming with righteous indignation, you may as well continue: “Ooh, and what about those sandwiches that use two deepfried chicken scallopini instead of bread?”
OK, Lumpy, I’ll give you the jibarito, with the caveat that, at least those plantains are starchy like bread. As for that other abomination, sure, you can call a hamburger between two chicken breasts a sandwich. And I can dress my duck in a vest and call him Jeeves, but he’s still not going to buttle me my brandy Alexander, is he? That chicken monstrosity is a sandwich like Dracula’s a bat: Everything’s cute and tasty until somebody gets their neck punctured.
So, look, here’s my point: You need bread for your sandwich, but, the kind of bread is entirely a matter of taste. My kids like that gnarly bread with whole grains and bits of nuts and shards of fossilized teeth. Blech. Me, I like plain white bread.
Lastly, I know again what you’re thinking: “Toast? Not toast?” Sweet mother of Pine-Sol, do I have to decide everything for you? Just get some good bread, and do with it what you will.
2. Condiments
This one sounds obvious, but, stay with me: When using condiments like mayo or mustard, spread them evenly and generously across the entire interior surface of the bread. Oh, stop rolling your eyes. Ignore this piece of advice and that last bite of sandwich will be as dry and tasteless as Caligula’s day planner.
3. Layering
This is also important: Whatever you place on your sandwich, whether meats or cheeses or the crumbled remains of Nefertiti’s funerary roast, be sure they’re layered evenly so that each bite is as consistent as a Venus Williams backhand.
4. Height
And, finally, and I know this disputes the theories of many respected sandwiterians: Never make a sandwich whose height exceeds the diameter of your yawning maw. My Kendall College colleague, chef Elaine Sikorski, has coined a word, “eatability,” to evaluate the entire experience of consuming whatever it is. I’m thinking of those milehigh hamburgers that have become such a rage these days, the ones that are only enjoyed to their fullest back on the Island of Lost Souls by human-rattlesnake hybrids who have to dislocate their lower jaw just to fit the darn thing in.
Eatability also means layering the ingredients in such a manner so as not to have them cascading unfettered from the first bite onto Madge’s Chanel bustier.
In short, all of this advice adds up to just one overarching thought: Make all your sandwiches with love.
Now, go fix us some lunch.