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.
Katz's Delicatessen on the Lower East Side arguably has the best pastrami in NYC, but Carnegie Deli has the biggest, without a doubt. Between the Bread reader Danielle recently ordered the $16 Reuben at the famous Midtown deli. All I can say is, OMG.
Write Danielle: "There is bread way down under the piles of pastrami. I added lots of mustard." It's possible to have too much meat, but you can never have too much mustard.
Have you recently eaten a sandwich worth sharing? Send in your sandwich photos to nancy@betweenthebreadblog.com, along with a description of what's on your sandwich.
When I added Tony Luke's to my sand wish list, my friend Kevin reminded me about another legendary Philly joint, the Famous 4th St. Delicatessen. I've never been there, but they are famous for their enormous sammies — hence the name.
Here is a photo of his charming lady friend, Joy, chowing down on one of the deli's Reubens. I haven't seen a sandwich that big since I enjoyed my own giant Reuben at Katz's. And she got soup!
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