Between the Bread

I love getting questions from readers, especially when they pertain to sandwich history. This one comes from loyal reader BettyPuff:

"Dear sandwich lady, Can you tell me what the origins of putting butter on a ham sandwich are? I always wonder about the butter."

This is a tough one, since there isn't one definitive reason that almost all early American and British sandwiches feature butter. But butter is undeniably the condiment of choice in 19th century sandwich recipes, such as Eliza Leslie's ham sandwich from 1836.

I don't know what old-timey sandwich makers had against mustard, but I have my theories about the butter. Before they were called sandwiches, these meals were simply referred to as "bread and cheese" or "bread and meat," so butter was a logical addition to what was really a souped-up version of toast.

Also, consider the bread. Before the advent of presliced bread and enzymes added to make it fluffier, sandwich bread was too delicate and crumbly to contain anything but cold, tidy ingredients. Presumably the butter helped soften the bread without making the sandwiches soggy.

Since sandwiches of this era were more of a polite snack for wealthy indulgers than an everyday convenience food, they were designed to be as easy to eat as possible. Most were delicate, crustless, and involved mixing cheese or egg with other ingredients to make a tidy paste. The softer and easier to bite, the better, and in this case, butter made the sliced ham and bread better — that is, softer to the teeth.

Flickr User Robert S. Donovan

The muffuletta is an inspired sandwich — and inspiring, in the case of Schlotzsky's. The fast-food sandwich chain was founded by Don and Delores Dissman after the couple tasted a muffuletta at an Italian grocery store in the French Quarter — most likely Central or Progress. They called their version The Original and made it the only item on the menu at the Austin, TX, sandwich shop they opened in 1971.

The Dissmans' eight-inch sandwich featured genoa and cotto salamis, smoked ham, red onion, lettuce and tomato, black olives, mustard and herb dressing, and melted cheddar, parmesan, mozzarella cheeses. It was the size of a Frisbee and, fittingly, served on one. The Dissmans named their restaurant Schlotzsky's, just because it sounded funny, punctuated by a simple slogan: "One sandwich. It’s that good."

The Original developed an enormous following among students at the nearby University of Texas, and a few years later, Schlotzsky’s started expanding into franchises. It’s now a full-fledged fast-food chain in 35 states (with lingering infamy from a 2004 bankruptcy filing) and it has long since moved beyond the single-sandwich menu. The Original now comes in three sizes, with turkey and ham versions, alongside several other round sammies and pizzas.

The muffuletta's influence on The Original is obvious: The seeded sourdough bun has the same springy consistency as muffuletta bread. The buttons of black olives together with Italian dressing function like olive salad, while crunchy lettuce keeps the toasted bread from turning everything into a melty mess. Essentially, Schlotzsky’s is serving the most successful muffuletta spinoff to millions of quick diners and road trippers who’ve never even heard the word "muffuletta."

Source: Flickr User Code Poet

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?

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.

Chicago's beloved Italian beef sandwich and Buffalo's signature beef on weck taste like they were separated at birth. But it's the nuances that set these regional favorites apart from each other and that other famous juicy roast beef sandwich, the French dip. Here's how to tell them all apart.

The Beef on Weck

Hometown: Buffalo, NY

Origins: Brought to New York by German immigrants in the early 1800s, beef on weck is one of America's oldest sandwiches.

Defining characteristics: Thinly sliced hot roast beef served on a kimmelweck bun, a Kaiser-type roll sprinkled with caraway seeds and salt crystals, and dipped in roasting juices.

Where to try one: Schwabl's in Buffalo or Charlie the Butcher.

Keep reading for the "French" and "Italian" takes on hot roast beef.

I assume that everybody likes sandwiches — at least here in the United States of Sandwich. Then, a co-worker told me that her husband hated sandwiches when they first met, but she enlightened him. Even so, I thought, could anyone really hate sandwiches?

In my sandwich research, I have found someone: H.D. Renner, author of The Origins of Food Habits. In his 1944 book, which I discovered at my public library, Renner goes on quite the antisandwich rant:

The invention of the sandwich and its acceptance as an institution is a typical example of the power of ways of life to prevail over all so-called rules of gastronomy . . . according to all the rules of the sciences governing nutrition the sandwich should never have been born. If a slice of bread is spread with some other appetizing food it is obvious to both eyes and nose what it is, and there is a definite psychological reaction. When, however, the appealing surface is covered by another slice of bread, it is a matter of guesswork to find out what the filling is.

Mr. Renner, if I may: I think you're using too much bread. And I respectfully disagree: when the ratios are correct, I find a two-slice sandwich far more appetizing, and easier to eat, than an open-faced one. But it gets better! Read the rest of his rant.

Perhaps no humble sandwich comes dressed with as many stories as the New Orleans po'boy. Dating back to the 19th century, the fried oyster version was called "the peacemaker" because it was offered to angry wives when their husbands stayed out too late. But it was reborn as the po'boy during the Great Depression, when so many great American sandwiches, including the sloppy Joe, came of age.

The po'boy tale begins in 1929, when New Orleans's streetcar workers went on strike, and Bennie and Clovis Martin — the owners of a local coffee stand and former streetcar workers themselves — announced they would feed the strikers free sandwiches. In a letter to the union, they pledged: "Our Meal is free to any members of Division 194. . . . We are with you till h--l freezes, and when it does, we will furnish blankets to keep you warm."

So what was in these free sammies? You might be surprised.

Americans tend to give sandwiches names: the Reuben, the beef on weck, you we name it. Naming sandwiches is something that our country excels at unlike any other, but the French have one notable exception: the croque monsieur and its mate, the croque madame. The croque monsieur, which sounds slightly less glamorous translated as "crispy mister," (ha!) is an iconic French dish that begins as a humble ham and cheese sandwich. What makes it très magnifique is the combination of bechamel sauce with already decadent gruyere cheese. The white bread is then topped with cheese that's browned in the oven and, in the case of the croque madame, it's finished with an egg.

According to chef Daniel Boulud, the croque monsieur was invented in 1910 at a café on Paris’s Boulevard des Capucines, right around the time the middle class was embracing cafe culture and, in turn, sandwiches. And thank goodness they did. I have had delicious croque monsieurs, but I've actually never ordered one in France. How about you?

The po'boy is one of the country's oldest and most beloved sandwiches. The fried oyster version dates back to the 1800s, when it was nicknamed la mediatrice, or "the peacemaker," because husbands brought them home to placate angry wives. So why should it need saving?

In the New York Times this week, Southern food historian John T. Edge tackles the topic of po'boy preservation ahead of NOLA's Po-Boy Preservation Festival next weekend. I've never had the honor of attending the festival, but I have eaten my fair share of po'boys, like this fried oyster number at Acme Oyster House.

I've also spoken with Katherine and Sandy Whann, the owners of Leidenheimer Baking Company and the forces behind the festival, about the threats to the po'boy business. Here's why they are worried.

That's right: today, Nov. 3, is National Sandwich Day in honor of John Montagu, the Fourth Earl of Sandwich, who was born on Nov. 3, 1718. That means ol' John and I are both Scorpios. Coincidence? I think not.

Montagu gets credit for invention the sandwich, at least according to lore, when he requested his meat served between two slices of bread so that he could keep playing cards unencumbered in 1762. Montagu couldn’t possibly have been the first to make a sandwich; he simply has the best story, plus his notoriety as a devoted scallywag and gambler who couldn’t be bothered to break for dinner. Food historian Solomon Katz surmises that Montagu was inspired by the meat-stuffed pitas he probably encountered on his travels to Greece and Turkey, and according to the legend, the statesman was in the midst of a 24-hour gaming binge in London when he requested his one-handed meal. I'm celebrating National Sandwich Day by eating a sandwich. How about you?

Photo Source: Wikipedia