Most kids grow up on ordinary sandwiches. Two slices of white bread, cold cuts, condiments and cheese—that’s it.
If you’re like me, you took for granted those simpler times.
Now, it’s all multi-grain toasts.
The sandwich maker asks, “Would you like that toasted?”
Who doesn’t want it toasted?
A friend of mine asked me how to pronounce Emanthaler, a rich cheese on a sandwich at a local deli. I didn’t know how, so I said it in the most pretentious way possible—with a French accent.
I’ve been thinking a lot about sandwiches. August is National Sandwich Month, after all.
It’s poor man’s food. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Here in Louisiana, we even gussied them up and called them po-boys, which translates to, literally, a sandwich for poor boys.
The sandwich, or po-boy, is supposed to be unimpressive, quick and substantial.
Yet, so many people in town know the power of a good sandwich, elevating the common folks’ food to a $15 entrée that will give you that punch-drunk love feeling Homer Simpson gets when he eats a dozen donuts.
Richard Markert of Taste, a food vendor inside the Main Street Market, knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“Being from New Orleans, I was always around those great spots like Mother’s and Rocky & Carlo’s,” Markert says. “That’s what I ate—a ham and cheese, fried shrimp or roast beef po-boy. I would say that made up 70% of my life back then.”
I went to Taste on a whim one weekday and left all pie-eyed after eating “The Bou-Ray.” The slight crunch of the French bread. The spice of the boudin. The sweetness of the ham. It was this hot, delicious, handheld thing that I didn’t want to end.
But even when Markert took over Taste two years ago, he was uncertain about taking the po-boy business route. At first, he shrugged at the prospect of putting more sandwiches on the menu. But then, he started to look at it as a way to show off his personality.
“Every sandwich has a story behind it,” he says. “So many places sell po-boys in this area. I wanted to do something different. In the front of my mind is always, ‘What do I want?’ I call it ‘the art of cooking selfishly.’ I have to cook for me first, then for other people.”
A few weeks after talking to Markert, I find myself standing inside the upcoming bar and pub The State outside LSU’s north gates. Owner Shane Courrege mentions how the State Street attraction will have gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches.
“It was something my wife came up with,” he says. “She had seen how other businesses in Austin were doing that, and we hadn’t seen something like that here. … Who doesn’t like grilled cheese?” he asks.
He’s right. The sandwich isn’t something to overanalyze. Rather, it’s like singer-songwriter Warren Zevon once said, “Enjoy every sandwich.”
We could talk all day about the brilliance of a filet mignon over micro greens and garlic mashed potatoes. But, no one can have that all the time.
Sometimes the buttery crackle of a perfect sandwich is all that’s needed.
Matthew Sigur writes about food for 225 Dine. Subscribe to the weekly e-newsletter at 225batonrouge.com. Follow him on Twitter @MatthewSigur.
