Sandwich Philosophy

The first thing I learned to cook was a fried egg, but the first thing I remember preparing for others was a sandwich. As a kid, my house was reliably stocked with some sort of cold cut or two, usually a sliceable cheese or two (for some reason, usually Muenster or Cheddar and never American), a loaf of sliced bread, usually white, and a variety of condiments and vegetables. I used to take orders from family members and set up a small production line, laying out the bread, spreading mayonnaise on one, mustard on another, both mustard and mayo on the next, putting lettuce on all, sprouts on my sister’s, tomatoes or sliced avocado on my dad’s, etc. The entire process, from taking the orders to customizing each one, the assembly line, the delivery, seeing their eyes widen at the sandwich’s height or girth or all-round appeal, their delight in its deliciousness – all of this thrilled me in a way that I think is pretty universal for a lot of people who cook. You either have it or you don’t – but there’s a certain very distinct pleasure that comes from preparing food for someone. I would become more intimate with this pleasure, and experience its depths as well as its many unexpected facets, but our introduction, I believe, was made through the sandwich.

In later years, I would make sandwiches professionally, and in doing so, learned even more about things that make this honest, humble food eaten by honest, humble people, a success. Some of these places I worked serviced very professional, very discerning, every day sandwich eaters, guys who would often have to eat their lunch in the cab of their truck or on the hood of their car or somewhere else similarly inconvenient for most other types of foods. Since these guys also had a relatively wide range of options at lunch time, I also learned to pay attention to the end experience, and to imagine it as I constructed the sandwich. I’ll never understand sandwich places that build monstrous creations that sound clever or look good but are impossible to take a bite of without completely disintegrating. On the most granular level, a lot of this has to do with choosing the wrong bread, but on a more philosophical level, it has more to do with not really envisioning or caring about the end experience when one designs the sandwich.

I also really enjoy the controversy and regional loyalty that surrounds different types of sandwiches. There’s a lot that’s been written about the history of the hoagie, sub, poor boy, grinder, etc. A lot of different places lay claim to the legacy or genesis of different types of sandwiches – I mean shit, going back to the famous Earl who decided to eat cold roast beef between two pieces of toast because he was on some sort of streak at the gambling table (not sure if it was hot or cold) and didn’t want to leave for a “proper” meal – and my general feeling is that there are probably grains of truth to many of the creation myths. There also seems to be a correlation between the quality and dedication to sandwiches and areas where large communities of Italians settled in America. To wit: in my experience, Philly does extraordinary things with many different kinds of sandwiches, both hot and cold, and Boston and Providence both know exactly what they’re doing when it comes to subs and such. New York is notable because a very respectable cold cut sandwich is available 24 hours a day within a maximum 3-block walk from any point in the city. Bodegas tend to carry the Boars Head line of meats, which is several rungs up from much of the processed abominations that fill supermarket delis across the country, and because the culture is so focused on deli sandwiches, turnover is reliably high enough at even the most sketchy and out of the way bodega to ensure freshness. This is only a bit annoying when you start getting into the meats with Italian salumes – you really don’t want Boar’s Head salami or capicola or pepperoni, let alone prosciutto. But for turkeys and hams you’re in very reliable shape with Boar’s Head from a NYC bodega.

As for other places: parts of New Jersey and Chicago are reputed to do notable things with their own types of sandwiches – I wouldn’t know enough about either to certify this true or false, but I don’t have too many great things to say about either place, especially culinarily. My educated guess about Chicago’s entry into the sandwich canon is that it’s totally overblown, overhyped by Chicagoans as the greatest thing ever that you just can’t get anywhere else but you haven’t really lived until you eat an unholy portion of, but the reality is that it’s pretty meh, and like most things in Chicago, is just another case of Chicagoans celebrating mediocrity. And as far as Jersey is concerned, you know what? My guess is it’s some pale shadow of something that either New York or Philly does really well. New Orleans also has a love affair with the sandwich, which they call a poboy or a poor boy, and have a pretty convincing origin myth as to why. I find these most compelling when we’re dealing with fried seafood – namely oysters, shrimp, or crawfish – but other versions are good too. Again, a lot of what makes a city’s sandwiches good is the bread that seems to be its most ubiquitous – to be honest, it has to be pretty soft, and if you’re talking about a sub shape, rather than a roll or pocket or something, it’s got to be one that’s malleable enough to remain connected on one of the long sides.

My late night or lunchtime deli go to is turkey, swiss cheese, lettuce, tomato, and mayo on a roll, which I’ve been ordering some variation of since the cafeteria in 3^rd grade. I like something a little bit spicy and a little bit acidic on it – pepperoncini or banana peppers are perfect and my favorite, but a lot of people around here don’t carry them. In Philly they’re ubiquitous, and in Boston and Providence they have something called “hots” which could be any number of iterations of vaguely piquante pepper, usually marinated in a mild brine or sometimes ground into almost a paste-like consistency. Hots is really important to an Italian Sub and I miss it around here. I’m not going to include any sort of recipe for a turkey sandwich, aside from general rules that I consider sacrosanct and from which you should be able to approximate the turkey sandwich I like best; the three recipes here are the way that I think is best to make three of my favorite sandwiches in the world that have endless variations and are sadly often fucked up. I’m not saying this is the only way to make delicious renditions of these sandwiches, but these are my favorites.

Here are the general rules that I follow:

• Always place meat and cheese next to each other. So you should stack turkey, swiss, then tomatoes, then pickles, then lettuce, not turkey, tomato, lettuce, pickle, and then cheese.
• Always put whatever condiment you’re using – mayo, mustard, etc – on both the alpha and omega piece of bread. That is to say, butter both sides.
• Cut your vegetables in a way that makes the most sense for its co-inhabitants as well as the type of bread. For instance, sometimes tomatoes are best sliced, sometimes cubed.
• If you’re not eating or serving the sandwich right away, think about which ingredients might sog up the bread and ruin the sandwich, and keep those separate until ready to serve, if possible. Some hot sandwiches, in my opinion, actually do a bit better spending a few minutes wrapped in foil – the extra cooking/steaming time allows the ingredients to sort of glom together and into the bread. But in any case, you should know how wait time is going to affect your sandwich.
• Symmetry and manageability are two explicit ideals of every sandwich. Regarding symmetry: it’s not that the sandwich should be constructed symmetrically – meat on the bottom and veggies on the top is fine – but each bite should be equal to every other bite. There should be no bites that are principally bread and lettuce, for instance, nor any that contain so much meat that there is no balance with mayo. You are commingling meats, cheeses, vegetables, bread, and some sort of dressing, and each should be equally present in every bite. With regards to manageability: do not construct something difficult to eat or that cannot maintain its own distinct identity. If there are pieces falling all over the place as you eat, you have failed. If at any point you need to pick up a fork to finish what remains of your sandwich, you have failed.