I've made no secret about my life's great ambition being to invent a sandwich that will bear my name for generations to come. This has proven a more difficult task than you might imagine. For one thing, apart from coming up with the actual sandwich itself, I can't quite land upon a proper name. "The Marc" is just too generic- any chump who shares my name can try to steal the glory that should rightfully be mine. "The Healy" is just too obvious, and in Ireland the reputation of the name is already associated with prison rioters, defrocked clerics, and (largely baseless) accusations of horse thievery. But difficulties aside, I am confident that at some point I will be able to marry bread, spread, meat and moniker to make culinary magic that will re-write sandwich history.
Our local library has a little cafe that was advertising their special- a sandwich called "The Lowrie." It was some trifling little turkey number with nothing particularly memorable about it, and I thought it unfair that this "Lowrie" character should enjoy such an honor for having slapped together an entirely forgettable sandwich. Of course, the green-eyed monster was rearing his ugly head. I resolved to go back to the drawing board with one of my earlier experiments that had previously failed to bear fruit- a novel combination of two great sandwiches that, properly combined, could be even better: the venerable "Reuben" and the celebrated "Cubano." Best yet, it had a couple of catchy naming possibilities that came virtually ready-made: The "Reubano" or "Cuban Reuben." Think of a Reuben sandwich on a pumpernickel baguette, grilled on a panino press. It was a clever idea, I thought, even if I couldn't make it my signature sandwich. The problem, however, was the bread.
"Pumpernickel" and "baguette" are mutually exclusive bread concepts in the minds of most people. At one point I had tried to solve that problem by making my own loaf, which yielded a particularly effective doorstop but little in the way of edible bread. In all honesty, I'm not much of a baker (despite being a fair cook in other respects), so I figured I would outsource this step in the process. Thus I commissioned the bakery experts at one of our local grocery stores to produce a pumpernickel baguette on my behalf as a special order. They cheerfully accepted the commission, although the results left me questioning whether these hairnetted, beaproned ladies were, in fact, experienced artisanal bread bakers or, as I was increasingly suspecting, mere worker drones who had been trained to pull pre-made loaves out of an oven at the sound of a bell as reliably as a dog can be made to salivate. As congenial as they were, the pumpernickel baguette they produced would surely never help my sandwich star rise.
But with my resolve newly bolstered by the sheer injustice of this "Lowrie" person's new-found fame, I endeavored to try again. This time, I went to a DIFFERENT grocery store in town, and submitted the same request. The bakery worker responded initially with a vacant stare, and ultimately replied by shaking her head and telling me that it couldn't be done. "Why not?" I asked. "We get all our baguette dough frozen" she explained. You would think I had asked her to spin straw into gold. I pointed to a rack of baguette loaf pans about six feet away and said, "Can't you just form the pumpernickel dough into a long, skinny loaf and bake it on the baguette pan?" At that point she enlisted the help of another worker, who was as skeptical as her companion about the feasibility of the request. "THIS is the only pumpernickel we have." she said, motioning to a large loaf about half as long and twice as wide as a typical baguette. Again, I suggested that she simply roll the dough out longer and skinnier and give it a go on the baguette rack. She looked at the loaf, and I imagined her, in miniature, suspended in a thought bubble above her head, measuring the loaf lengthwise and then again across with an imaginary tape measure. Presently she agreed with some reluctance to give it a try without making any promises about the results. I told them I would be by the next day to pick it up. As I was walking away I heard her murmuring to her associate "We work the other dough into different shapes, why not the pumpernickel?" like she had just come up with a brilliant idea on her own.
You might think the concept of the Reubano is kind of an obvious idea, but breaking through that bread barrier seems to be a challenge, not only in its execution, but even in terms of its conception. When I picked up the baguette the next day, however, I was pleased to discover that at first glance it certainly appeared to be a perfectly serviceable baguette, a bit flatter than normal, and of course the color of a strong coffee, but the slightly flattened shape was even better for the purpose I had in mind. "And they said it COULDN'T be done" I said to myself as I walked to the self-checkout lane.
I scanned my bread and let it slide down the conveyor belt to the bagging area, where the store clerk who was overseeing the self-check took notice of it. "This is new!" she quipped, picking up my bread and eyeing it quizzickally, albeit admiringly. "What are you going to make with it?" she queried. I told her my plan, and her eyes widened and she gave an understanding nod. "I had a Cuban once!" she exclaimed enthusiastically, adding "That's a good sandwich!". She continued: "You know where I had it?" and then she looked around warily, as if she was afraid of being seen talking to me (I get that a lot). She strode over to me and, invading my personal space just a bit, said in a low voice "I had one at the MEXICAN bakery at Highland and Randall." She said "Mexican" slowly, widening her mouth a bit to emphasize it. She gave me the impression that she was sharing confidential information. I'm always more than a bit stunned, not to mention uncomfortable, when I run into old school locals who regard the reality of twenty-first century immigration streams and their consequences as akin to an infectious disease or some unfortunate act of God. They say "The new manager is MEXICAN" in the same tone as if they might say "He's got THE CANCER" or, "She's dating AN ALBINO."
At any rate, I brought my bounty home and indeed, it made the best Reubano yet, but I'm still fine-tuning the concept. I'm close to adding another sandwich to my culinary repertoire, but still in pursuit of that elusive, eponymous creation that will put me in the Sandwich Hall Of Fame right between "The Earl" and ol' Reuben himself, whoever the heck HE was.
Our local library has a little cafe that was advertising their special- a sandwich called "The Lowrie." It was some trifling little turkey number with nothing particularly memorable about it, and I thought it unfair that this "Lowrie" character should enjoy such an honor for having slapped together an entirely forgettable sandwich. Of course, the green-eyed monster was rearing his ugly head. I resolved to go back to the drawing board with one of my earlier experiments that had previously failed to bear fruit- a novel combination of two great sandwiches that, properly combined, could be even better: the venerable "Reuben" and the celebrated "Cubano." Best yet, it had a couple of catchy naming possibilities that came virtually ready-made: The "Reubano" or "Cuban Reuben." Think of a Reuben sandwich on a pumpernickel baguette, grilled on a panino press. It was a clever idea, I thought, even if I couldn't make it my signature sandwich. The problem, however, was the bread.
"Pumpernickel" and "baguette" are mutually exclusive bread concepts in the minds of most people. At one point I had tried to solve that problem by making my own loaf, which yielded a particularly effective doorstop but little in the way of edible bread. In all honesty, I'm not much of a baker (despite being a fair cook in other respects), so I figured I would outsource this step in the process. Thus I commissioned the bakery experts at one of our local grocery stores to produce a pumpernickel baguette on my behalf as a special order. They cheerfully accepted the commission, although the results left me questioning whether these hairnetted, beaproned ladies were, in fact, experienced artisanal bread bakers or, as I was increasingly suspecting, mere worker drones who had been trained to pull pre-made loaves out of an oven at the sound of a bell as reliably as a dog can be made to salivate. As congenial as they were, the pumpernickel baguette they produced would surely never help my sandwich star rise.
But with my resolve newly bolstered by the sheer injustice of this "Lowrie" person's new-found fame, I endeavored to try again. This time, I went to a DIFFERENT grocery store in town, and submitted the same request. The bakery worker responded initially with a vacant stare, and ultimately replied by shaking her head and telling me that it couldn't be done. "Why not?" I asked. "We get all our baguette dough frozen" she explained. You would think I had asked her to spin straw into gold. I pointed to a rack of baguette loaf pans about six feet away and said, "Can't you just form the pumpernickel dough into a long, skinny loaf and bake it on the baguette pan?" At that point she enlisted the help of another worker, who was as skeptical as her companion about the feasibility of the request. "THIS is the only pumpernickel we have." she said, motioning to a large loaf about half as long and twice as wide as a typical baguette. Again, I suggested that she simply roll the dough out longer and skinnier and give it a go on the baguette rack. She looked at the loaf, and I imagined her, in miniature, suspended in a thought bubble above her head, measuring the loaf lengthwise and then again across with an imaginary tape measure. Presently she agreed with some reluctance to give it a try without making any promises about the results. I told them I would be by the next day to pick it up. As I was walking away I heard her murmuring to her associate "We work the other dough into different shapes, why not the pumpernickel?" like she had just come up with a brilliant idea on her own.
You might think the concept of the Reubano is kind of an obvious idea, but breaking through that bread barrier seems to be a challenge, not only in its execution, but even in terms of its conception. When I picked up the baguette the next day, however, I was pleased to discover that at first glance it certainly appeared to be a perfectly serviceable baguette, a bit flatter than normal, and of course the color of a strong coffee, but the slightly flattened shape was even better for the purpose I had in mind. "And they said it COULDN'T be done" I said to myself as I walked to the self-checkout lane.
I scanned my bread and let it slide down the conveyor belt to the bagging area, where the store clerk who was overseeing the self-check took notice of it. "This is new!" she quipped, picking up my bread and eyeing it quizzickally, albeit admiringly. "What are you going to make with it?" she queried. I told her my plan, and her eyes widened and she gave an understanding nod. "I had a Cuban once!" she exclaimed enthusiastically, adding "That's a good sandwich!". She continued: "You know where I had it?" and then she looked around warily, as if she was afraid of being seen talking to me (I get that a lot). She strode over to me and, invading my personal space just a bit, said in a low voice "I had one at the MEXICAN bakery at Highland and Randall." She said "Mexican" slowly, widening her mouth a bit to emphasize it. She gave me the impression that she was sharing confidential information. I'm always more than a bit stunned, not to mention uncomfortable, when I run into old school locals who regard the reality of twenty-first century immigration streams and their consequences as akin to an infectious disease or some unfortunate act of God. They say "The new manager is MEXICAN" in the same tone as if they might say "He's got THE CANCER" or, "She's dating AN ALBINO."
At any rate, I brought my bounty home and indeed, it made the best Reubano yet, but I'm still fine-tuning the concept. I'm close to adding another sandwich to my culinary repertoire, but still in pursuit of that elusive, eponymous creation that will put me in the Sandwich Hall Of Fame right between "The Earl" and ol' Reuben himself, whoever the heck HE was.
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