Fit For A King......Or At Least
An Earl
Consider the sandwich. More than just a
quick and convenient form of immediate nourishment, it's a meal you
can hold in your hand.
The concept of what we consider a
“sandwich” has been around for a long time. Ancient Hebrew
tradition holds that back between the years 30 BC and 10 AD, one of
the most important figures in Jewish history, the religious leader
Hillel the Elder, took slices of meat from a Passover lamb and some
bitter herbs and wrapped them between two slices of matzah. And
“open-faced” sandwiches were common in much of Europe during the
Middle Ages. Food was frequently eaten in “trenchers,” which were
basically hollowed out loaves of bread. But according to legend, it
took the Earl of Sandwich to give a definitive name to the marriage
of bread and meat.
England's 4th Earl of
Sandwich, John Montagu, is reported to have had something of a
gambling problem. He'd settle in at the gaming tables for marathon
stretches. In 1762, not wanting to be interrupted by so pedestrian an
activity as eating, he ordered his cook to come up with something he
could consume without having to get out of his seat. The clever cook
slapped some meat between slices of bread and served it to the earl,
who was so delighted by the concoction that it quickly became his
favorite thing to eat. Owing to his position in British society, it
wasn't long before the cook's on-the-fly idea acquired a name: the
Montagu! No, seriously, it became known as the “sandwich.” Soon
after the Earl's gambling binge, a fellow by the name of Edward
Gibbon penned in his diary that he had seen “twenty or thirty of
the first men of the kingdom” eating “sandwiches,” as he called
them, in a London restaurant.
By the time of the American Revolution,
the sandwich was well established in England, but no much in the
Colonies. The rebellious colonists were not enamored of things
British, you see, and it wasn't until 1815, many years after memories
of the guns of war had faded, that a sandwich recipe appeared in an
American cookbook. In case you were wondering, that sandwich wasn't
good ol' American peanut butter and jelly; it was beef tongue. Peanut
butter and jelly came along about a hundred years later.
In fact, peanut butter used to be
considered a high-priced commodity. It was originally combined with
things like pimento or watercress and served at fancy tea parties.
But as commercial peanut processing got better, peanut butter got
cheaper and by the time national brands like Peter Pan and Skippy
were introduced in the 1920s and '30s, mothers all across the country
were packing peanut butter sandwiches in children's lunches. Peanut
butter was one of the few things not rationed during WWII, making it
a great alternative source of protein. Because of that, peanut butter
was issued to GIs during the war. So was jelly. It is said that
enterprising soldiers put the two together and an American classic
was born. At least, that's the legend. Ask older folks, though,
especially those who lived out in the country, and they'll recall
their moms mixing peanut butter and jelly back during the days of the
Depression as a means of stretching scarce food resources. But
whether it was frugal mothers or inventive soldiers who created it,
PB&J is now iconic in American culture.
So, in no particular order, let's have
a look at some other famous iterations of the Earl's namesake.
The Dagwood
Once upon a time, practically everybody
knew who Dagwood Bumstead was. Married to Blondie Boopadoop on
February 17, 1933, Dagwood became an international sensation on the
newspaper comic pages before moving on to movie and radio stardom.
And he also laid claim to a bit of culinary notoriety as the inventor
of the eponymous “Dagwood Sandwich.”
The way “Chic” Young created and
drew Dagwood, he was fairly inept at nearly everything. The one
thing, however, at which he excelled was going into the kitchen,
especially at night, and precariously piling mountains of various
leftovers between slices of bread. The huge sandwiches the character
created on his nocturnal refrigerator raids became known as “Dagwood
sandwiches,” a term which even made it into the dictionary.
Now, Young was never specific about
exactly what Dagwood put into those gargantuan multi-layered
sandwiches, but they most often appear to be huge amounts of cold
cuts, cheeses, and vegetables, slathered in condiments and stacked on
and between numerous slices of bread, all topped off by an olive
skewered through with a toothpick.
Several attempts at capitalizing on
Blondie and Dagwood's popularity as food icons have been mounted over
the years. A Dagwood-themed restaurant opened in Toledo in 1951, but
was forced to close by the King Features syndicate, who sued over
licensing issues. A similar attempt, made by a Michigan entrepreneur
who circumvented the syndicate by hyphenating “Dag-Wood”, hung
around into the early 1970s. Dagwood's image has been legitimately
licensed to a product line of packaged lunch meats, and a
“Blondie”-themed restaurant chain named “Dagwood's Sandwich
Shoppes” was launched in 2006. The “Dagwood sandwich,” as
served there, consists of three slices of deli bread, Genoa salami,
ham, pepperoni, turkey, cheddar cheese, provolone, lettuce, tomato,
roasted red bell peppers, banana peppers, red onion, deli mustard,
and low-calorie mayonnaise. It weighs in at a pound-and-a-half.
The Reuben
The Reuben sandwich is often hailed as
the ultimate New York deli sandwich. But some say it didn't originate
in New York City or anywhere else in the Empire State, for that
matter. Nope. It came straight out of the Midwest. Omaha, Nebraska,
to be exact.
Like the Earl of Sandwich,
Lithuanian-born Omaha grocer Reuben Kulakofsky was apparently quite a
poker player. And he had a lot of poker playing pals, who called
themselves “the committee,” and who, also like the Earl,
preferred not to interrupt the game to eat. So in the 1920s, Reuben
concocted a sandwich for his gambling buddies at the Blackstone Hotel
and eventually convinced hotel owner Charles Schimmel to put it on
the menu. A former hotel waitress entered and won a national recipe
contest with Reuben's sandwich in the 1950s and it soon became
popular all over the country.
But hold on a minute! New Yorkers have
their own version of the tale to tell and it involves Arnold Reuben,
the German-born owner of New York City's famous “Reuben's
Delicatessen.” He claims to have invented the “Reuben Special”
back in 1914 and his claim is backed by a print reference to the
“Reuben Special” in a 1926 edition of “Theatre Magazine.”
Regardless of pedigree, the classic
Reuben sandwich is a hot sandwich comprised of corned beef, Swiss
cheese, sauerkraut, and Russian dressing, all grilled between slices
of rye bread.
The Club
Trying to pin down the origin of the
Club sandwich is like trying to herd cats. The classic sandwich that
was an avowed favorite of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, the former
King Edward VIII and his wife, Wallis Simpson, likely got its name
because it was popular at hotels, resorts, and country clubs all over
the world. But which one gets first dibs?
The place that also gave us the potato
chip lays an early claim. Popular theory attributes creation of the
Club sandwich to the famous Saratoga Club-House in Saratoga Springs,
New York. An exclusive “gentlemen only” gambling establishment,
where neither women nor locals were permitted in the gambling rooms,
it was originally called Morrissey's Club House. In 1894, it was
purchased by Richard Canfield and became known as “Canfield's
Casino.”
An unattributed recipe for the Club
sandwich appears a few years later in the 1903 “Good Housekeeping
Everyday Cook Book,” authored by Isabel Gordon Curtis. That recipe
describes the Club Sandwich thusly: “Toast a slice of bread evenly
and lightly butter it. On one half put, first, a thin slice of bacon
which has been broiled till dry and tender, next a slice of the white
meat of either turkey or chicken. Over one half of this place a
circle cut from a ripe tomato and over the other half a tender leaf
of lettuce. Cover these with a generous layer of mayonnaise, and
complete this delicious 'whole meal' sandwich with the remaining
piece of toast.”
The 1904 World’s Fair in St.
Louis gets credit for popularizing an astonishing variety of foods.
Hot dogs, hamburgers, ice cream cones, banana splits, Dr. Pepper,
cotton candy, and peanut butter are just a few of the everyday
comestibles launched at the Fair. The Club sandwich got a boost, too,
with four of the Fair's restaurants featuring a version on their
menus.
A couple of early published references
from the nineteen-teens and '20s credit an ordinary working man with
the development of the Club sandwich. According to these sources, a
guy came home late one night and found that the family had already
eaten and gone off to bed. So he did what guys do: he raided the
pantry and the icebox, the forerunner of the modern refrigerator. He
made some toast. Then he slathered it with butter and mayonnaise. He
found a couple of slices of cooked bacon and some cold chicken. A
tomato looked pretty good, and he topped it all with another slice of
buttered toast. Then he told his buddies at “the club” about his
creation, and so was born the “Club sandwich.”
Of course, contemporary Club sandwiches
are “double-deckers,” and some of the experts who study such
things believe that the “double-decker” Club sandwich originated
on the double-decker club cars of American trains back in the 1930s
and '40s.
Apparently, you can make a Club
sandwich out of almost anything. I've seen them packed with hummus,
avacado, and even Dungeness crab meat. But the “classic” Club
consists of toasted white bread, lettuce, tomato, bacon, thinly
sliced chicken, and mayonnaise. Sometimes ham and/or cheese are added
and maybe some mustard. The sandwich is usually constructed as a
“double-decker,” having two layers separated by an additional
slice of toasted bread.
The “Dean of American Cookery,”
James Beard, had definite opinions on many food-related topics,
including the Club sandwich. In 1972's “James Beard's American
Cookery” he wrote: “. . . it is one of the great sandwiches of
all time and has swept its way around the world after an American
beginning. Nowadays the sandwich is bastardized because it is usually
made as a three-decker, which is not authentic (whoever started that
horror should be forced to eat three-deckers three times a day the
rest of his life), and nowadays practically everyone uses turkey and
there's a vast difference between turkey and chicken where sandwiches
are concerned.”
The Grinder/Submarine/Hoagie/etc.,
etc.
This is a sandwich that really got
around. Instead of slices of loaf bread, the base for the sandwich is
a split roll, usually a long roll of some sort. The roll is then
filled with a variety of meats, cheeses, vegetables, seasonings, and
sauces. Nearly everybody who researches such things agrees that the
sandwich is Italian in origin. Or, at least, it started with Italian
immigrants.
The main issue with this sandwich is
not who invented it or what it's made of; the bigger issue is what to
call it. To some it's a “Po' Boy.” Many dub it a “Grinder.”
Others call it a “Hoagie.” Some folks prefer “Hero,” while
still others refer to it as a “Sub” or “Submarine.” If you
really want to go off the deep end, you can call it a “Spuckie,”
a “Blimpie,” a “Wedge,” or a “Bomber.” In some places
it's a “Torpedo” or a “Zep,” shortened from “zeppelin.”
To further add to the confusion, some folks think it's a “Dagwood.”
In many instances, what you call it depends largely on where you're
standing when you order it. Earlier, I alluded to herding cats. Well,
this one is like herding spastic cats on acid. But here goes.
Most authorities agree that the “Po'
Boy” came first. What they don't agree on is how the term “Po'
Boy” came into being. That it originated in New Orleans is pretty
much universally accepted. From there you have the Benny and Clovis
Martin supporters. The Martins, streetcar conductors turned
restaurateurs, supposedly invented the sandwich in 1929 for former
colleagues who were striking against the streetcar company. They
allegedly referred to their customers as “them poor boys,” which,
in Louisiana dialect, translated to “po' boys,” and the name just
kind of stuck to the sandwich. Other folks insist that dialect did
play a part, but that the “boys” in question were literally poor
and the sandwich was something which a “po' boy” could afford.
The Martin supporters usually have the edge in the debate.
When the sandwich migrated to New
England, it picked up a number of new names, the most common of which
were “grinder” and “submarine.” The “submarine”
appellation, later shortened to just “sub,” came about because
the sandwiches looked kind of like......well, like submarines.
Another theory holds that the sandwich picked up the name because of
its popularity among workers at the Navy yards in Groton,
Connecticut, a place where submarines were made. Here's where those
spastic cats come in: the sandwich was supposedly invented by an
Italian shopkeeper named Benedetto Capaldo, who called it a “grinder”
because that was a slang term for the local dockworkers who were
among his biggest customers. This version of the story says that
because most of those “grinders” worked on submarines, the term
“submarine sandwich” came into vogue. One way or another,
submersible vehicles were involved.
Another entry posits the notion that
the sandwich was a favorite among a particular type of “grinder,”
the one in charge of rounding off rivet heads. The term “grinder”
is also said to have been added to the lexicon because the bread was
so crusty and chewy that it took a lot of “grinding” to eat it.
I've seen some who date the “submarine”
sandwich specifically to WWII. Others insist that it was a product of
the '50s. To both I present the 1940 phone book for Wilmington,
Delaware wherein an advertisement was placed for “submarine
sandwiches to take out.”
“Hoagie” supposedly got its name
thanks to Italian shipyard workers on Philadelphia's Hog Island. (Say
“hog” with an Italian accent and you'll get it.) It is also said
to have Irish roots taken from the name “Hogan,” either used as a
slang term for Irish dockworkers or from an actual Irishman of that
name whose wife apparently made killer Italian sandwiches. Still
another theory holds that back in the 1920s, a Philadelphia jazz
musician, later turned sandwich shop owner, named Al De Palma saw
some fellow musicians chowing down on a big sandwich. He supposedly
said to himself “you gotta be a hog” to eat a sandwich that big.
So, naturally, when he opened his sandwich shop in the '30s, he
dubbed his big sandwiches “hoggies.” And, speaking of jazz
musicians, the sandwich was in no way related to the great “Hoagy”
Carmichael, whose first name was Howard and whose middle name was
“Hoagland.” Another Philadelphia “hoagie” theory has to do
with “hokey-pokey men.” No, they weren't guys who spent all their
time putting their left foot in and taking their left foot out. They
were early-twentieth-century street vendors. Why that made them
"hokey-pokey men" is beyond explanation. Anyway, the story
goes that when Gilbert and Sullivan's operetta “H.M.S. Pinafore”
opened in Philadelphia in 1879, local bakeries commemorating the
event produced a special long loaf called the “pinafore.” And
the "hokey-pokey men" sliced the loaf in half, stuffed it
with antipasto salad, and sold the world's first "hoagie"
sandwich. Another fringe theory out of South Philly says that among
Italian immigrants there, the phrase "on the hoke" was a
slang term used to describe a destitute person. Supposedly, kindly
shop owners would give away scraps of meat and cheese in an Italian
roll known as a "hokie", but since there's no letter “k”
in the Italian alphabet, the local immigrants pronounced it "hoagie."
Which sounds like a lot of hokey-pokey to me.
The other funky names I mentioned
represent regional variations on the same theme. “Spuckie” is
native to Boston, where it derived from the Italian word
“spucadella,” a kind of Italian roll. “Blimpie's” come out of
Hoboken, the “Torpedo” and the “Zep” are Pennsylvania
natives, the “Bomber” hails from Buffalo, and the “Wedge” is
specific to Westchester County, New York and adjacent Fairfield
County, Connecticut. The story goes that the Italian owner of a
Yonkers deli got tired of saying “sandwich” and shortened it to
“wedge.”
Another example of pronunciation
possibly influencing the name of a sandwich comes from the “Hero.”
Now, I read something about people calling it a “hero” because it
was such a big sandwich that it took heroic effort to eat it. That
story can be traced to New York Herald Tribune columnist Clementine
Paddleworth who penned the comment in 1936. But the Greeks had (and
have) a sandwich called the “gyro.” Americans have a strange
proclivity toward anglicizing anything and everything that they can't
otherwise pronounce, so that sandwich got mutilated as “JY-roh.”
But the proper Greek pronunciation is closer to “hero.” The flaw
in that theory is that “heroes” have been around since the '30s
and '40s, but “gyros” didn't really catch on in America much
before the '60s. One more kind of whacked-out theory, but one that
appears to have some legitimate basis in scholarly research, proposes
that the term was actually part of the jargon of armored car guards
who used “hero” to describe a really big sandwich. Take your
pick. I like the Greek option.
The Muffuletta
Back to the home of the Po' Boy we go
for the origin of the Muffuletta. The pedigree of that one, at least,
leaves no doubt: it's Italian. Specifically, Sicilian. It is said to
have originated at the Central Grocery in the French Quarter of New
Orleans, where owner Salvatore Lupo sold salami, ham, cheese, olive
salad, and either long braided Italian bread or a round muffuletta
loaf to Sicilian immigrant farmers who sold their produce at the
nearby Farmers Market. The farmers ate everything separately while
sitting on crates or barrels and balancing their lunches on their
knees. Salvatore suggested cutting the bread and putting everything
on it in a decidedly non-Sicilian sandwich style. The farmers
rejected the thick braided loaf in favor of the softer, rounder
muffuletta loaf, and a new sandwich was born.
The traditional muffuletta is a cold
sandwich consisting of the bread, split horizontally and covered with
layers of marinated olive salad, mortadella, salami, mozzarella, ham,
and provolone. Some vendors heat the sandwich in order to melt the
cheese.
I was going to tell you all about
hamburgers, but for some reason I'm suddenly very hungry. And there's
fresh-baked bread and ham and cheese and Benton's bacon and a bunch
of other stuff calling to me from the kitchen. So maybe next time,
okay?
