by Cynthia Lynch

Created on: June 22, 2008

Great sandwiches are born, not made. Anyone can make a sandwich. True greatness lies in the affection one has for a certain combination of ingredients, even if no one else understands it.

There have been many great sandwiches in my life. The first and dearest arose from the many catered parties my parents threw when I was very young. Those parties meant freedom: freedom to be as loud as I wanted, stay up as late as I wanted, and most importantly, to eat what I wanted. Moving down the long table laden with variety, I would invariably take some baked ziti, a crusty roll and a pat of butter to go with it, and some cold roast beef and American cheese from the deli platters. With my plate on my lap, I would begin by buttering the roll, then eating the ziti while it was still hot. I'm not sure what happened next. Perhaps it was out of a desire to eat faster that, at one such party, I put the roast beef and cheese on the buttered roll.

That's right: butter on cheese on rare roast beef, i.e., fat on fat on fat. I was in love. It immediately became my catered-party sandwich, then a comfort food, and now a rare and deeply pleasurable treat. From the moment I first tasted it I recognized it as a great sandwich, but I have never served it or even recommended it to anyone. I wouldn't expect anyone else to get it. Today a roast beef sandwich in my house is more likely to have watercress and horseradish mayonnaise. My guests call them great, but all the while I'm yearning for that butter and cheese.

It took me a lot longer to see great-sandwich potential on the Thanksgiving table, but I give thanks that I got around to it eventually. It's the basicscold turkey, stuffing and cranberry sauceon a soft roll with crisp, shredded iceberg lettuce, mayonnaise and a liberal grinding of black pepper. It is not only my favorite food part of that holiday weekend, it's a sandwich I make one or two other times during the year. To consume it more often than that would be detrimental to the greatness of it.

A third great sandwich came from an Italian caf where, in a former job, my co-workers and I often got lunch. It was fresh mozzarella, roasted red peppers, sundried tomatoes, arugula and balsamic vinegar on a French roll. It didn't have a special name on the menu, but I was quickly able to give it one: the cruel sandwich. The ridges on top of the roll were like butter knives scraping layers of flesh from the roof of my mouth with every bite. But that wasn't the cruel part. The real cruelty laid in the fact that the sandwich was so delicious, I couldn't stop myself from eating it and then ordering it again the next time. That caf is now far away and the sandwich consigned to memory simply because I don't think I'll ever find bread that brutal again.

Sometimes the appreciation of a great sandwich can be shared. When I was in culinary school, a fellow student offered me a piece of crusty baguette and some prosciutto. "That's all you need for the perfect sandwich," she declared. I wasn't inclined to disagree, so I put the prosciutto on the bread and went to take a bite. She stopped me and glanced around the room to make sure no one else was listening. Finally, in a hushed voice, she said, "I know this is going to sound crazythe prosciutto is so richbut if you really want a great sandwich, you should put butter on it." I had to stop myself from laughing in case she took it the wrong way. Then I buttered my bread.

Learn more about this author, Cynthia Lynch.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.