Between the Bread

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?

I've become mildly obsessed with Cuban sandwiches, as if it is my duty to find the best one in the Bay Area or beyond. The quest is somewhat quixotic, given that I have never eaten a Cubano from Cuba or even Tampa, FL. While I don't have genuine experience on which to base my comparisons, I know what makes a good sandwich.

My most recent Cuban taste test took place at Parada 22, a charming Puerto Rican place on Haight Street with cheerful teal walls lined with Caribbean curios. Not surprisingly, it serves a fairly traditional Cuban sandwich, with soft roasted pork, gentle ham, swiss, and pickles on a sort of smushed down baguette.

Find out how it compares.

John Montagu didn't invent the sandwich, but he gets the credit. In American sandwich history, Eliza Leslie is the name to know. Though she wasn't the first American homemaker to make one, her humble ham sandwich holds the title of earliest printed sandwich recipe in U.S. history.

Eaters of America's heartier early handheld meals — such as Cornish pasties, beef on weck, and fried oyster po'boys — would find it absurd that the first printed sandwich recipe in America involves ribbons. As in, ribbons and bows. But like the people making them, the earliest U.S. sandwich recipes are polite American counterparts to their proper British predecessors; Leslie, who published the ribbon-tied sandwich in question, spent her formative years in England.

In her 1836 cookbook, Directions for Cookery, Leslie explains that her ham sandwich is to be served “at supper, or at luncheon.” The recipe calls for a loaf of white or wheat bread, cold boiled ham, and butter. Leslie suggests using French mustard and serving the sandwiches laid flat or rolled up: “For the rolled sandwiches, roll the long sides of a sandwiches to make a long, thin roll, then tie with ribbon.”

Well, I know what I'm doing next Easter!

I love a salty-sweet sandwich, and the Monte Cristo is the ultimate. My first memory of the storied American sandwich was eating the batter-fried version at Bennigan's, but now I prefer the more classic version made with simple French toast.

Andrew, who shares my love of this sandwich, made French toast for Mother's Day and treated us to Monte Cristos the Monday after. The French toast had a delightful orange flavor (I think he soaked it in Grand Marnier), and we filled it with turkey, ham, and Swiss cheese. For more photos and details, read more

We didn't have sandwiches for Easter supper, but that doesn't mean I can't sandwich it up with the leftovers. Since we've made it an unofficial tradition to buy a Honey Baked Ham, I consider Easter the best leftover sandwich holiday after Thanksgiving.

Here, I put a few slices of leftover ham on a delicious roll homemade by my future baker-in-law brother-in-law Adam. His wife Libby made mashed potatoes, which I smeared on the bottom of my sammie. Andrew's cider-thyme cabbage and some whole-grain mustard added the kick. As cute as it is here, the sandwich sort of fell apart when I tried to eat it. Still, it was delicious! Praise Jesus!

In my mind, I've always grouped Illinois's horseshoe sandwich alongside Kentucky's famous hot brown. Both are open-face sandwiches so decadent you have to eat them with a fork, and both emerged during Prohibition to fill the booze-soaked bellies of late-night revelers. Check out this fun video on the sandwich from the Wall Street Journal.

Of course, when it comes to decadence, the roaring '20s ain't got nothing on today's cooks: restaurants in Springfield are engaged in an unofficial competition to see who can make the horseshoe eve unhealthier. Two words: deep fried.

I'd opt for the simplicity of the old-school horseshoe: an open-face sandwich featuring bread, ham, French fries, and cheese sauce. Originally, it also featured egg — yum. The sandwich gets its name from the horseshoe-shaped piece of ham and potato wedges that resemble nails. It's like a cross between the mornay sauce-covered hot brown and the famous French fry-laden sandwiches peddled at Primanti Brothers in Pittsburgh. A calorie bomb, to be sure, but worth trying for the historical significance, right?

For Andrew and me, getting to babysit our niece on a Saturday means Estela's sandwiches — a very special occasion now that we no longer live next door. This time, we both tried something new: ham and brie for me (much better after I popped it in the oven) and roast beef with horseradish and smoked gouda for Andrew. Don't they make a good couple?

It's bread end week on Between the Bread! First, Lizzy shared her triple-decker solution, and now Andrew, who normally shuns the bread ends, presents this open-face invention.

Using what we had in the fridge, he laid out some multigrain bread ends, ham, and leftover roasted zucchini, then melted Swiss cheese over the top and dusted the delight with salt and pepper. Doesn't it look delicious?

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?