Sometimes I imagine myself sitting down for lunch with John Montagu, also known as the fourth Earl of Sandwich, the possible inventor and at the very least the namesake of that beautiful creation we call a sandwich. I am not sure exactly what the Earl looked like, but in my mind's eye, he wears medieval garb and hefty, brown spectacles.
I tell the earl, as he strokes his lengthy, gray beard — which, of course, is prone to collecting crumbs of bread and morsels of roast beef — that this semester I have eaten, digested and scrutinized more sandwiches than I could ever dream of.
I tell him how I witnessed the ingenuity and prowess of some of the finest sandwich crafters around, from the display of cold-cut wizardry by Ralph Martin at Tasty Gourmet's and by his son Keith at Deli-icious, to the supreme attention to detail and ingredients found at Dave's Fresh Pasta. I describe to him my deep love of Moe's hot Italian sausages, my favorite greasy, late-night treat always served up with attitude.
Not every stop in my sandwich journey has been so smooth, however. At Boston Burger Company, for example, I cowered in fear before trying out "The King," an unorthodox combo of burger, peanut butter, bacon and banana. I held back nausea one morning after taking a bite of Dunkin Donuts' pathetic excuse for a ham, egg and cheese sandwich.
My sandwich adventures have even led to me to question the true qualifications of a sandwich. I started the semester firmly believing that an "open-faced" sandwich is an oxymoron, but now, after hours of pondering the issue and talking to Europeans who swear by the meal, I suspect that this assumption may be based on false prejudice.
I imagine that I tell all this to the Earl, and he sits back, smiling. After all, the world has changed greatly since that fateful night when he had his first sandwich. The varieties of breads, toppings and condiments available today have multiplied to a point where sandwich combinations are infinite.
And thus the question of what the Earl and I are eating during our lunch lingers. For what sandwich could possibly be worthy of the namesake's presence? Is there an answer to the question that I seem to be asked time and time again: What is the perfect sandwich?
The truth is that I do not know. Yet, as the members of the Class of 2010 toss their caps in the air (assuming this does not only happen in the movies), I would like to leave you with a few final meditations vis-á-vis the sandwich.
The key to a sandwich's success is not how many slices of meat are stacked onto the bread. Great sandwiches do not solely have bravado; they have balance, whether this is a balance between savory and sweet, crunchy and smooth, or meaty and cheesy.
Many people believe that a brilliant sandwich is one that is so huge and overwhelming that its contents ooze onto the plate during consumption; I disagree. I contend that a truly satisfying sandwich is made with such confidence in its flavor that it uses only as many ingredients as absolutely necessary. In this way, it exercises discipline.
Yet, this discipline must be combined in the ideal sandwich with creativity. When I bite into it, I want to taste delicious, strong flavors but also feel a unique texture, like the buttery softness of an avocado added to a BLT or the light, creamy crunch of coleslaw added to a spicy chicken melt.
The balance of flavor, discipline and creative texture; these three principles are the building blocks of sandwich nirvana. Class of 2010, I wish you more than luck in your future endeavors, whether or not they are sandwich-related.
College may be coming to a close, but the search for perfection is just beginning.
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Ben Kochman is a rising sophomore who has not yet declared a major. He can be reached at Benjamin.Kochman@tufts.edu.
