my encyclopedia of sandwiches

bread + filling + FEELINGS, BABY

Spring, to me, is allergies. It is itchy eyes, tulips in buckets at the grocery store, and the first feeling of breeze on my legs. But also, and perhaps most importantly, spring is a return to sandwiches. Melts, clubs, and rolls, of course, can—and should—be enjoyed 365 days a year. But with sun again soaking the parks and river banks and forest trails, spring is the perfect time to indulge in one of life’s greatest joys: tucking a parchment-wrapped sandwich into a bag, grabbing a packet of chips and something bubbly from a fridge, and heading outside.

My camera roll tells me I’ve taken more than 150 photos of sandwiches over the past several years, and the fact that I’m surprised it’s not more than that says … a lot. I have opinions on breads and meats. I have preferences for fillings and sides. And also, to no one’s surprise, I have juicy feeeeelings tied to a lot of them.

So here goes an ode—a personal encyclopedia—to some of them*.

*them including … wraps, burgers n’ dogs, tortillas, and knishes, too — SUE ME!*

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A-Z

“A” is for the Avocados that my parents slice and eat daily for lunch. When I’m home, lunchtime means ribbed paper plates, several pieces of seedy bread going into the toaster, avocados with salt, a clementine or handful of grapes, and a can of LaCroix I’ll abandon after a few sips. It also means eating (and maybe doing Wordle) together—always.

“B” is for Brighton Beach, and the build-your-own rustic meatball subs Anna and I made on our towels. We tore off hunks of Bien Cuit’s wheat sourdough boule, and stuffed them with homemade meatballs, pesto, and extra stringy mozzarella. We swam in the warm ocean and felt grateful for the Q train that took us there.

“C” is for the $2,000,000.99 Clean Turkey from Court Street Grocers. Layered with cold white mayo, tangy pickles, and added salty bacon, it’s been my go-to order since June of 2019, when (according to my camera roll) I tried it for the first time. I’ll always very happily go broke for CSG. It’s that good.

“D” is for the excellent Deli sandwich, the passable deli sandwich, and all of the tuna melts, pastramis, and clubs found somewhere in between. I have extra love for the ten-story-high Reubens from Barney Greengrass and Katz's. The craving only hits once every few years, but when it does, I’ll stop at nothing to get my hands on one of those Swiss, Kraut, and Russian D-swiped beauties.

“E” is for the Everything bagel with chive cream cheese I ordered from Tompkins Square Bagels on a crisp October morning—my first ever post-sleepover coffee-and-stroll with a boy I found devastatingly good-looking. We sat on an Alphabet City stoop and laughed at the dogs in Halloween costumes, and I’d never felt so grown in my life. I look back and think that bagel, and that morning, may have marked the beginning of autumn becoming a season forever colored by whoever I am, or am not, holding hands with.

“F” is for the Governor’s Island Ferry that ushered me over to that same, excellent, charcoal-grilled Meat Hook cheeseburger and beer, three summers in a row. Feasted and sipped on from picnic tables, swatting bugs from my ankles. The ultimate taste of the season, and one I’ll never grow tired of.

“G” is for the Goat cheese, the prosciutto, and the pistachio spread that Nora and I bought over at Le Grande Epicerie, stuffed inside an open baguette, and then ate and utterly moaned over in the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris. Made especially memorable because of the pure hangry delirium we’d been deep in the throes of when we finally sat down to eat. Will anything ever taste better, that I wonder?

“H” is for the slimy Ridgewells Ham and Cheese sandwiches wrapped in plastic, placed in brown paper bags, and given to us on field trips in middle school. Bitten into on buses with sweaty thighs sticking to seats and pop music from iPods blaring into ears. Followed by open bags of potato chips, bitter red apples, and water guzzled from plastic bottles.

“I” is for the thin strips of Iceberg lettuce dropping into my lap from the vinaigrette-doused turkey sandwich just ordered from Subway. On a family road trip down I-95, with Jack Johnson or the Indigo Girls or the cast of RENT coming from the speaker. Because Taco Bell, and the hard shell beef tacos with that same watery lettuce are now deemed unhealthy, and we’ve evolved to splitting footlongs and singing “Five. Five dollar footloooooong” from those commercials in the car.

“J” is for Nora’s mom Joan, and the thin-sliced turkey and Honeycup sharp honey mustard sandwiches she’d make us after school. Eaten by a few of us girls on the couch, with New Girl playing on the TV, afternoon sun streaming through the windows, fistfuls of raisins and chocolate-covered pretzels as snacks, and cups of seltzer from the Sodastream sitting on the table. Oh, what I’d give.

“K” is for the Kasha knishes my Granny Norma made, and yes, today a knish is a sandwich in my book. I’ll never taste or smell the grain and not think of her and her shiny, hard acrylic red nails. How she’d push my hair back with them and tell me not to cover up my beautiful face. And how, like any good Jewish grandmother, she’d urge that I wasn’t eating nearly enough.

“L” is for the spectacularly chemical taste of the Tostitos Hint-of-Lime Tortilla chips that will always be in my family’s pantry, and accompanying any sandwich you’d ever be thinking of making. One of the true tastes of ‘Camp H’—zippy lime coating your tongue; shoveling a few more of them into your mouth before jumping into the icy water of the pool; sipping a seltzer, and smelling sweet-bitter citronella.

“M” is for the first glorious taste of a Matzo PB & J every year. Rivalled in our household only by the simple Matzo with cold butter and salt, it is crumbly, crunchy, and with that unique burnt flavor that lends itself so well to the spreads. None of us has kept Passover in years, yet spring can’t pass without our favorite matzo bites being devoured and gushed over. Our version of Tradition?

Not far off, “N” is for the Nut butter and banana toasts that have woken me up many, many mornings of the past 29 years. For me, the taste of pure, nourishing comfort, no matter the season. Preferably a thick layer of smooth, natural peanut, but almond occasionally, too. Cinnamon, honey, or Maldon sprinkled on, if I’m feeling fancy—but plain ol’ swiped and sliced will do.

“O” is for the Open-faced tuna melts my dad would make and swindle me (the kid who avoided seafood) into eating because they tasted so sublime. Sometimes on matzo, on rice cakes, or on sliced bread. Broiled in the convection oven, full of crunchy celery, left with a shimmery top of reflective American cheese, and yeah, I’m realizing how Jewish this encyclopedia is.

“P” is for the Pandemic long-distance Zoom dates where my then-boyfriend and I made greasy scallion pancakes, and tall, flaky biscuits to turn into BLT sandwiches across a screen. I took giddy screenshots of him with his flour on his hands, I got stressed that he was going too fast and leaving me in the dust, and I felt a sharp, bittersweet mix of longing the whole time.

“Q” is for the late-night drunk snack of my early twenties: a shredded-cheddar, microwaved Quesadilla. The grease would soak right through the paper towel, and oh, has anything ever hit quite like inhaling molten cheese, fighting against the spins, and laughing with a roommate in the dark of the kitchen?

“R” is for the Rotisserie chicken, parsley, and red onion sandwich from Lincoln Station that is always begging for hot sauce, but is truly flawless when added. Notably eaten on the wooden floors of two new-to-me apartments on move-in days, served with sore feet, a feeling of accomplishment, and utter dread for the unpacking yet to begin.

"S" is for the decadent and heavenly Sugar-and-cinnamon buttered toasts my mom would occasionally make me for “breakfast” before school. Another “what I’d give” one for me. Today’s crunchy moms could never, and their kids are missing out. Is there a more ideal bite?

"T" is for my favorite cucumber-and-cream cheese Tea sandwiches—once the perfect pairing for my mini porcelain Madeline tea set, and now the bite I most look forward to at every overpriced, touristy teatime I gladly indulge in whenever friends visit me in London. Crusts cut off. Paper-thin salted cucumber. Extra cold.

“U” is for the gooey New Mexico-style chorizo breakfast burrito from Ursula that I still dream about more than I’d like to admit. Pillowy eggs, hatch chiles, soft flour tortillas, and once a quick 15-minute walk from my apartment—a dangerous, delicious fact to remember when I’d wake up for yet another long WFH day.

“V” is for my two-year middle school stint as a Vegetarian, where I brattily told anyone who would listen that “I don’t eat anything with a mother or a face,” and instead ate endless plates of refried-bean-and-cheese tortillas, a bite that’s stuck, and that I do think still might be prominently featured in my ‘dream final meal.’ And as for the vegetarianism … that ended one suburban night at Taipei Tokyo when I suddenly decided I needed a mountainous plate of crispy beef.

“W” is for every humble hike and beach sandwich made on sliced grocery-store Whole wheat, cut in half, wrapped in foil, and Sharpie’d with initials. The sandwich that tastes best in the sun, with salt in your hair, or exhaustion in your legs from finally making it to the summit. My ideal personal packed sandwich? Salami, sharp cheddar, grain mustard, mayo, romaine lettuce, avo, salt, pepper, and pepperoncinis. A few tortilla chips added for crunch, if possible.

“X” is for the moreish post-Xmas-and-Tgiving sandwiches made from leftover roast turkey, ham, lamb, cornbread stuffing, cranberry sauce, gravy, mashed taters, or whatever else needs eating—because if there is one thing we go hard for in my family, it’s a no-holds-barred holiday spread.

“Y” is for the Yellow mustard squeezed liberally onto every hot dog I’ve ever had in my one precious life, but aaaaalso specifically in Bella’s backyard in 2022, where there was grilled fresh corn and cold, fizzy wine and watermelon salad in a bowl. It was a sticky hot July, but we were all just feeling euphoric about the company, and the gorgeous spread of summer food on the table.

and…

"Z" is for Zingerman’s in Ann Arbor, where I ate twice with my dad—first when he schlepped me to tour UMichigan, and then again for my theatre audition. I ordered the pulled pork sandwich with pickled cabbage slaw, we sampled their full lineup of dill pickles, and while the BFA didn’t accept me into their program, it didn’t matter because my dad and I had a goddamn ball at the deli.

To spring ! ! ! To sandwiches ! ! ! I’m dying to hear about your own encyclopedia. Tell me in the comments?

Thanks for reading this silly one!