Between the Bread

Many countries not known for making sandwiches eat foods that are suspiciously similar. Take arepas, a specialty of Venezuela and Columbia: a sort of doughy bun made with cornmeal that's grilled or fried and stuffed with meat, cheese, and other fillings. Almost like a South American marriage of the taco and corn dog concepts, eaten like a sandwich.

San Francisco's Pica Pica Maize Kitchen goes even further with the maize'wich, an invention that replaces the arepa's corn flour cake with sweet corn bread instead. After purchasing a Pica Pica offer from FreshGuide, I recently headed to dinner at the super-casual, order-at-the-counter eatery on the edge of the Mission.

The menu is simple and sandwich-y: your choice of three vehicles (arepa, maize'wich, or the tortilla-like cachapas) stuffed with one of eight fillings. Fillings range from chicken salad and avocado to shredded beef with gouda.

I ordered an arepa with the vegetarian filling (pictured directly above): grilled tofu, plaintains, avocado, black beans, and a side of spicy cream. Served with no sides, it seemed like a small dinner, but in the end I was stuffed. The plaintains were remarkably delicious and the tofu pretty tasty, though the black beans were a bit bland. The arepa, however, was to die for. You could pretty much put anything in that little pocket and I'd eat it.

Andrew got a maize'wich, which may have been even better than the arepa, and his filling, the Pernil, was flavorful too: sweet pulled pork with tomatoes and avocado. With the richer filling, he probably could have had the less bold arepa, while the maize'wich might have been better for my vegetarian sammie. But overall, the food was yummy, including the yuca fries.

Though I love the Nebraska Reuben story, it isn't the one told most often. That would be the tale of Arnold Reuben of New York, NY.

According to Joan Nathan, author of Jewish Cooking in America, Reuben opened his first deli in 1915 and, like many first-generation deli owners, he was a German immigrant. By 1920, he had a 24-hour restaurant on 82nd and Broadway, serving big sandwiches to actors and nighthawks.

The folklore behind the sandwich is as follows: an actress came into the restaurant and requested a big sandwich. In a story told in a letter from Arnold Reuben's daughter, her dad put together a sammie made from ham, turkey, Swiss cheese, cole slaw, and Russian dressing on rye:

He served it to the lady who said, "Gee, Reuben, this is the best sandwich I ever ate. You ought to call it an Annette Seelos Special." To which he replied, "Like hell I will. I'll call it a Reuben's Special."

He may have called it a Reuben, but it's not what we call a Reuben, so it would seem the Omaha invention story carries more weight. Arnold's son, Arnold Reuben Jr., attempted to remedy this later in life by telling yet another invention story. In 1993, he told the St. Petersburg Times that the sandwich was invented in the 1930s, when the chef made him a meal of corned beef, Swiss cheese, and sauerkraut on pumpernickel.

Revisionist history or true story? Either way, you've got to give credit to Arnold Jr. for understanding that when it comes to sandwich history, the best or loudest storytellers usually win. So which invention tale do you believe?

Rarely do we have proof of a sandwich's invention. It's not as if the creators draw up documentation and have it notarized; usually they're just hungry. So the Reuben, as with many foods, has several origin stories. I like the one about Reuben Kulakofsky, an Omaha grocer said to have made up the sandwich in 1925.

In Nebraska, home of sandwich precursor the bierock, beef and cabbage were a familiar combination, and according to lore, the corned beef/Swiss cheese/sauerkraut on rye combo was first conceived at the Blackstone Hotel in Omaha.

Like Earl of Sandwich John Montagu, who is credited with inventing the first sandwich during a long card game, Kulakofsky (often called Reuben Kay) needed to nosh while playing cards and supposedly came up with the Reuben to feed his late-night poker buddies. Like the hot brown sandwich, you might call the Reuben a pioneering drunk food.

The hotel's owner, Charles Schimmel, added the sammie to the menu and named it after Reuben; in 1956, the sandwich won a national competition, providing the first documentation of the name for the Oxford English Dictionary. A Nebraska newspaper columnist dug up menus from the 1930s and '40s that featured Reubens, though Mr. Kulakofsky's obituary made no mention of his claim to fame.

I actually have a friend of a friend whose grandmother's great uncle was Reuben Kulakofsky — four degrees of separation — but he didn't hear stories about the Reuben at his grandmother's knee or anything. Maybe Reuben was just too humble, because it's another not-so-humble inventor who typically gets credit for the Reuben. Stay tuned.

To me, a good Reuben sandwich is like a good cocktail. It combines ingredients I don't typically consume on their own — say, corned beef and thousand island dressing, or gin and tonic water — to invent a flavor that's new and magical. The same could be said for any good sandwich, I suppose, but the Reuben fascinates me most of all, partly because it's the only way I'll eat corned beef or thousand island dressing.

Unlike many American sandwiches, the Reuben's formula is universally agreed upon. Walk into any neighborhood deli, and the Reuben is the same: corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese, rye, and the dreaded orangey dressing, comfortingly warmed and sliced in half. Dating back to 1914 or 1925 depending on who you believe, the Reuben contains so much American sandwich history between its rye bread, following in the footsteps of the rural German bierock, urban Jewish delis, and late-night drunken eats everywhere.

Not surprisingly, the Reuben also has a conflicted history, with several people staking a claim to its invention, so this week, I'm serving up a series of posts all about the Reuben. So come back and come hungry.

The onion frittata breakfast sandwich at 'Wichcraft is one of my current (and all-time) faves; I have to keep myself from ordering it every single time I'm there. The chutney-like roasted tomatoes, sharp white cheddar, and perfectly tidy egg patty motivate me when I have to go downtown to run obligatory errands.

Last weekend, house boy came with me, which means I got to order my old fave and try something new: ah, the beauty of going half-and-half. Andrew selected one of the cold sandwiches I've been curious to try: tuna with fennel, black olives, and thinly sliced lemons like you get on sushi rolls. I liked it so much I happily traded my other half of onion frittata. The buoyant, flaky fish and olives offered the flavor of nicoise, but the lemon and fennel added a tangy freshness. Remarkably delicious.

Any other 'wichcraft sandwiches I should try? The anchovy and pulled pork are my other go-tos.

• Chick-Fil-A's spicy chicken biscuit: why, yes, I'd try it — Slashfood
• Whoa: the foie and bacon PB&J at Lafitte does it up — SFoodie
• Dave's Pasta in Somerville makes a mean Cubano too — Simply Sandwiches
• A sandwich a day: Reuben at Jake's in Milwaukee — Serious Eats
• Studying the art of the Danish open-face sandwich — NPR
• A delicious sandwich for Trader Joe's devotees — YumSugar

Last night's post happy hour dinner: sweet pulled pork sandwich with North Carolina-style mustard BBQ sauce at Memphis Minnie's, one of the stops on my 10-sandwich tour of the US in San Francisco.

What began as a pocketful of beef and cabbage eventually led to the Reuben we know and love today. Similar to the Cornish pasties popular in Michigan by way of Cornwall, the bierock is a sort of German calzone made from yeasty dough stuffed with beef, cabbage, and onions.

This portable sandwich precursor arrived in the Great Plains thanks to Germans who migrated from Russia to the Nebraska and Kansas farmland. Cabbage is a classic cold weather crop, and bierocks can warm you right up. The name bierock is probably related to the Russian pirozhki, another type of meat-stuffed dough dish. Perhaps not coincidentally, one of the several origin stories about the Reuben sandwich (more on that later) starts in Nebraska.

Baked in a half-moon or bun shape, bierocks are also called cabbage burgers, something my house boy remembers from growing up in Wyoming and is always threatening to make. Other fans refer to it as a runza, which inspired an entire chain of "ovenstuff'd sandwiches" in Nebraska. These oblong baked sammies look suspiciously similar to the cheesesteak pretzels that debuted last year.

Have you ever been to Runza or eaten a cabbage burger or bierock?

Source: Fork Fingers Chopsticks

In my sandwich world, the holidays mean two things: homemade cornmeal molasses bread (baked by my father- or brother-in-law) and Honey Baked Ham, which always seems to make an appearance.

I look forward to both special ingredients all year, not to mention the occasional mini-sandwiches at holiday parties. As we bid farewell to 2010, here are three of the special sammies I had the pleasure of eating this holiday season.

Homemade cornmeal molasses bread elevates a standard turkey, cheese, and spinach sandwich with pickles (pictured above) to gourmet levels.

Honey Baked Ham, served on Christmas Eve, is reborn as post-Christmas leftovers on my father-in-law's homemade dinner rolls.

I got giddy when I saw these miniature lobster rolls at a holiday party, though they didn't taste quite as cute as they looked. Still, I appreciate the sentiment.

What sandwiches did you eat this holiday season?