The hiearchy of Sandwiches

Growing up, I think I ate a sandwich nearly every day. Peanut butter and honey was a staple, as was peanut butter and mom's strawberry freezer jam. Tuna fish was rarely acceptable because it didn't age well in your backpack from 8 am until noon (fish + mayo + lettuce + room temperature = soggy and smelly).

The real travesty, though, was the cold cut sandwich. I'm not sure how it happened, but I never learned how to make a proper sandwich using sliced meats. For starters, we used margarine instead (no mayo) and "kinda" cheese (Kraft singles, which are only "kinda" cheese). Forget any lettuce, tomatoes, or mustard. It was just 3 or four slices of pressed chicken product between two slices of white bread. And, to be honest, I liked it! Sometimes I'll still make one when I'm feeling nostalgic. But this is not the kind of sandwich that will win adulation and affection.

Fortunately, I discovered the real sandwich when I started working. It was then that I realized that I don't tolerate fast food anymore. I have a once per month quota on anything from McDonald's, Burger King, Arby's, Taco Bell, etc. (Well, that's not true, I could probably eat Five Guys several times a week, but that's another post entirely.) What, then, is a hungry young professional to do?

Become a sandwich snob, that's what. If you go easy on the milk based condiments, its damn hard to make a sandwich unhealthy. I used to eat at Subway 3 or 4 times a week. At least. Grilled chicken breast on wheat with spinach, tomatoes, olives, cucumbers, vinegar and oil. Awesome, totally non lethal, and 5 bucks. Life was blissful.

And then I ate at the Subway Shop in San Diego. You've probably never heard of it, probably will never go, either. But, they make the best sandwich ever. Hot pastrami on 2 inch thick marbled rye with provolone and mild peppers. This is when I realized that Subway was really no better than the cold cut and margarine sandwich.

Since the Subway Shop, I've been on a quest for the perfect lunch sandwich. It must be inexpensive, tasty, easy to pick up (in both ways), and not so full of triglycerides that my Dr. can buy a new pool based on my future medical bills. And I think I found it at Jimmy John's:

• Tasty: French bread that is crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. Bread is the KEY to a good sandwich. A JJ sub, filled with toppings together well enough that you can eat it while driving on the freeway with a manual transmission. Not that you should... They also have something that a lot of places are missing -- the avocado!
  
• Inexpensive. Less than 5 bucks for most sandwiches. To be fair, the sandwich is 4 inches shorter than at subway, but what sense does it make to measure food by the inch?
  
• Easy to pick up. Online ordering people! ONLINE ORDERING. Get on the web and you can tell them EXACTLY how you want your sandwich. No line, no sandwich artist with a tenuous grasp of the English language, and then you walk in and and walk out. With online ordering, you don't need a drive through.
• Healthy. Sure enough. They advertise 4 sandwiches with less than 5 grams of fat. I would guess that most don't have much more. As always, you've got to avoid the mayo for that to work. Not a problem for me, because the bread isn't sandpaper-ish.

Well sheesh. This turned into a stupid advertisement. Lame. Sorry about that, but I really do like a good lunch sandwich. If you're like me, and you want to grab a quick lunch you can eat in the office, where do you go?

Stuff I like...

My last post was unintentionally whiny. To make up for it, I'd like to highlight a few things that make me happy -- which seems very appropriate this time of year.

• Sleep: I am the king of sleep. Few things make me happier than sleep. Though I have a hard time reaching unconsciousness, nothing short of an air raid siren can wake me up. I set all my alarms (clock radio, cell phone, and atomic clock) to wake up in the morning. On Saturday morning, I love waking up and realizing that I can go straight back to bed. And I don't think I am ever more contented than when I curl up on the downstairs sofa and fall asleep in front of the afternoon football game.

• King size beds: With one of these, it's no wonder I love sleep so much. The ability to lie in bed with nary a hand or foot dangling over is the first step to sleeping nirvana. The great irony is that I only sleep comfortably if I confine myself one side of the bed. If I sleep in the middle, I lose all frame of reference and can't remember where things are when I wake up. Odd, I know, but there's a hidden benefit in that the unused side of the bed is great as a laundry staging area.

• Fresh sheets: does this really need an explanation? Every king size bed needs high thread count sheets, freshly washed. Speaking of, does anybody know which side the scrunchy sides go? I never get it right.

• Grape Nuts: when you stumble out of your king sized bed, you need breakfast. And though I know they are neither grape nor nut, I always have an industrial sized box of Grape Nuts in my pantry. The great thing about Grape Nuts is that they are three different foods depending on how long you leave them in milk. In stage 1, the pea-gravel stage, they function as mouth exfoliant; in stage 2, the soft outer coating lubricates the crunchy center enough so that they slide in between your teeth so that you have a snack for later; and in stage 3, the Grape Nuts and expand and fuse into some sort of impenetrable wheat lattice that is impervious to water and most soaps. (I discovered stage 3 by accident after leaving a bowl of Grape Nuts in the car all day. I envision potential aerospace applications.)

• Costco: Where else can you get an industrial sized box of Grape Nuts, a gallon sized can of semi-liquid nacho cheese product, and those really great uncooked flour tortillas that are just as good as Cafe Rio's? Costco people, Costco. AND, they have an unheard of 90 day return policy on electronics that lets you take back your perfectly good iPod for the new one that costs 100 dollars less? I like Costco so much that I have begun to call it "The Costco" in casual conversation. Don't fear, though, I refuse to say "Wal-Marts"
  

• Sunday Dinner: I am blessed with a mother of no small culinary talent who frequently dazzled on Sunday. She mastered the oven timer with such prowess that the smell of the roast as you came home from church was enough to bring you to your knees. And when I went off to college, she endured countless calls in my quest to recreate that perfect Sunday dinner. I have achieved a measure of success, and now I realize that Sunday seems eerily incomplete without some form of gravy at the afternoon meal. We may have traded the gravy boat for a Pyrex measuring cup (much easier for mass application), but the spirit of Sunday dinner is alive and well at my new house. Even though we're just a houseful of single dudes, there's something sublime about sharing roast medium well roast beef with friends before you go fall asleep in front of the football game.

The Chronicles of San Diego, Part II

Business travel is frequently vexing because you spend so much time alone when the work day is over. It's hard not feel like a social pariah when you walk into a restaurant and say, "Table for one." Consequently, it's tempting to take get carryout or take delivery in your room every night, but your waistline will definitely suffer. Truth be told, the only perk of company travel is dining on the company dime, so you ought to enjoy it even if you travel alone.

Nearly every part of the country has some regional cuisine that is done really well, so there's no reason to suffer through the generic chain food, regardless of where you are. Inevitably, company meetings and such will be at Chili's or some other place you've been a million times, so don't eat there unless you really feel the need to eat something you've already eaten before.

Still, it can be hard to travel and eat alone. Here's what I do:

• Use the web. Type in your current location and see what local restaurants are well rated. There are gems in most places. I had amazing shrimp in Sunnyvale and excellent lamb chops in Harlem because I did a little searching.
  
• Order a beverage. I don't drink, but I always order a beverage of some kind. This automatically ups your check just a little bit and gives your server an excuse to visit your table. You'll inevitably get better service.
• Don't be afraid to sit at the bar, even if you don't drink. I usually get great service from the bar, and there are almost always TVs or music or something that is much less alienating than sitting in a booth by yourself.
  
• Stretch out the meal. When you dine alone, you'll notice that your food arrives much faster, and you finish quicker because there's no one to talk to. Even at a really nice restaurant, you can be in and out in well under an hour, and then you'll inevitably feel unsatisfied. Besides making a deliberate attempt to slow down, I frequently order a soup or an appetizer with dinner, just because it makes the meal more of an experience.
• Ask about the specials. Unless you're at the Cheesecake Factory, the specials are usually actually special. They're the freshest ingredients, chef's specialty, or whatever. Your server will definitely know what most people order.
  
• Get used to the alone-ness. Relish it. Once you go to a movie by yourself, you'll wonder why you ever try to corral a group of people to try and go to a movie. Dining alone can be the same way.
  

This week in San Diego has been a culinary masterpiece. I come here often enough that I have some of my favorite haunts. First is Point Loma Seafoods: a fresh fish market that also serves lunch. They have AMAZING chowder. Warning: they only take cash. Second is Phil's: Texas style BBQ, great blues. Beef ribs that would satisfy Fred Flinstone. Warning: closed on Mondays. This time, I also visited the Chart House at Dana Point, and it was simply amazing -- great view.

Amber and Nerds

Around noon on Friday my cell phone rang. Being a pretty slow day, I decided to answer it even though I was at work. It was Grandpa. His computer was on the fritz. I get these kind of phone calls all the time from family, but this is the first time from Grandpa. Most people have to endure a little needling from me when they call for computer help: "Sounds like a PBKAC error", "Are you sure it's plugged in?", "Computers only do what you TELL them to do." But I spared Grandpa; anyone who's 82 years old and uses a computer is pretty savvy in my book.

So, I went out to see them this afternoon. When I arrived, the computer seemed to be behaving itself. False alarm. This also happens a lot. Infernal contraption. Once the computer figures out that I'm coming, it decides to behave itself, just like a child that's no longer sick one you suggest that they have to see the doctor. But, for my trouble, Grandpa and Grandma took me out to one of their favorite places, the restaurant Amber.

See, I know what you're thinking. "Amber? That sounds posh." Well, let's clear that misconception right away. My grandma explained that Amber is probably a step below the Chuck-A-Rama. As we walked up, Grandma said, "This is where your parents had their wedding luncheon." Eying the drab brown exterior I asked, "Has it changed much since then?" Grandpa butted in, "I don't think it's changed AT ALL."

Amber is the antithesis of dining today. No rowdy mixed drink menu, no trendy decorations, no overpriced signature dishes. Here, the flatware is from Wal-mart, the mashed potatoes are still instant, and the only lettuce is iceberg. As Grandma put it, "We like this place because it's just ordinary. Ordinary people eating ordinary food." Grandpa then added, "Well, the clientèle does border on geriatric, but we're okay with that."

Anyplace that offers 10 dollar prime rib is okay in my book. I had mine with the instant mashed potatoes, doused in gravy from a mix, and a vegetable medley that I'm guessing made it's journey to the restaurant in a frozen bag. And you know what? It was all deeply satisfying, both the company and the cuisine.

During dinner, Grandma asked me about work. She said that she had tried to explain to one of her neighbors what I do but ended up saying that I was a "computer nerd." She said she thought "computer genius" was a little boastful and hoped that computer nerd was okay. I told her it was just fine by me. It's both a badge of honor and the simplest way to explain my job.

And that's quintessential Grandpa and Grandma. They don't mince words, and in a very complex world, they remind me of how simple life can be. Grandma explained: "Every day, I wake up and say 'Good morning Old Man', and your grandfather says, 'Good morning Old Woman'... Every night, it's 'Good night Old Man' and 'Good night Old Woman.'" Way to tell it like it is, Grandma.

And as I watched them walk out of the restaurant Amber, I watched those two 82 year-olds hold hands. That's them -- food and life: uncomplicated.

Fish and Chips

I took yesterday off to go fishing with my Grandpa and brother. There's nothing quite like spending 8 hours on a lake and doing absolutely nothing -- it was man heaven. We didn't even talk that much; just three guys out there, dragging lines our lines in the water as the wind pushed the boat around..

Most of our minimal talking revolved around the tuna fish sandwiches Grandma made us. We wanted to bring those whole roasted chickens, but apparently Grandma was appalled at the thought of her husband and two grandsons out on the boat tearing at a chicken like Neanderthals. We concluded that's exactly WHY we wanted the roasted chicken.

When I got into the office today, I noticed that one of my mischievous coworkers had played with my Mr. Potato Heads. Someone took the bunny ears off of the Easter Potato Head and put them on Darth Tater. How immature is that?!?

Blessing the Food

I come from a home that blesses meals before eating them (and not just on Thanksgiving.) Growing up, every time we gathered around the table, there was this pensive moment when all four of us children would avoid making eye contact with dad to avoid being chosen to say the prayer, as if we would turn completely invisible if we stared hard enough into our empty plates.

Eventually though, someone would be selected, and after perhaps a little protest and/or coaxing, we'd bow our heads and one of us would address our omnipotent Creator. We weren't a particularly reverent bunch, and there was a fair amount of peeking, poking, and giggling during this process. It's a wonder we weren't all struck down at some point.

Now, before I kindle any holy wrath, let me just say that I like the idea of asking a blessing and expressing gratitude for the food that we eat. We do, after all, live in a world of scarce resources, and I happen to live in very fortunate circumstance. There is one thing, however, that I find very ironic about what we say when we ask a blessing on the food. In our household, this part went something like, "...please bless this food that it will nourish and strengthen our bodies...", (I'm sure every denomination and household has their own variation on this theme.)

Is it just me, or is it a little pretentious for us to thank God to giving us the means to provide for ourselves, but to then turn around and expect Him to also make it nourishing? Nothing proves my point more than every church activity I ever attended. At these events, essentially that same blessing is asked, and I have to wonder if we really expected God to make make Kool-aid, hot dogs, and Jello salad healthy. Even the miracle of the Eucharist pales in comparison to the transmogrification required to turn foods consisting entirely of fat, sugar, and carbonation into something with actual vitamins and minerals. If we could somehow turn skittles into wheat grass, we'd probably solve this country's obesity epidemic.

I thought of this tonight as we sat down to a meal of Domino's pizza, and I asked the same blessing that I'd been asking since I was a little child. Afterward, I wondered if my prayer should be something more like this: "Please bless this food that our LDLs will stay low, our HDLs will go high, and the cured pork products will not cause our triglycerides to skyrocket... We pray that the salt might be prevented from giving us high blood pressure, the fat from giving us love handles, and carbs from making us too sleepy to actually work off these excess calories."

I believe that God can work miracles; I genuinely do. But then again, changing the chemical composition of my food might be a bit much to ask. Maybe what what I should really pray is something like: "God, we sincerely thank thee for this food ... and seeing as we know better, we also ask thy forgiveness for eating it."

Of Flesh and Fire...

There is a age old question than many have tried to answer: Thoreau, Twain, Kipling, Allen and Seinfeld are just a few that come to mind. The question is, "What does it take to be man?" Well, ladies and gentlemen, I believe I have found the answer.

A Man knows how to grill. That is to say, he cooks raw meat over open flame (or briquette ... I'm not picky.) Now, I realize there are other ways to establish manhood, such as: the lifting of heavy things until a hernia is induced, the killing of spiders without flinching, and the memorization of every Schwarzenegger line ever uttered (except for those in Twins, Junior, and Jingle all the Way -- damn you for those, Arnold.) But, none of those things alone is enough to prove manhood, whereas grilling is itself the culmination these most basic manly skills.

• Fire: To grill, man must harness the primordial power of fire. Nothing proves Man's superiority over nature more than causing blue flame to explode out of every orifice of a BBQ grill or summoning a 6 foot tall pillar of flames from nothing more than a mound of carbon lumps and a gallon of legal fire accelerant.
• Flesh: To grill, one must handle, nay -- even enjoy to handle -- raw animal flesh. While most are capable of picking out meat when safely ensconced in cellophane, not so many can take it out of the package, massage it with spices, and fling it onto a heated surface. The grill man has no such qualms. He has no fear of blood or bone, and has, on occasion, let his eyes linger over that marbled rib-eye and wondered if cooking is even necessary.
  
• Faith: Grilling is half art and science. No amount of marinade or spice can compensate for simply "knowing" when the meat is done. The true grill man submits to the mysticism of the grill, acknowledging that is a process over which he does not have total control. He risks derision and e. coli in search of the perfectly pink steak and the moist but not chewy chicken breast.

Indeed, the grill man, is a real man.

Cookies and Roasts

I have a love/hate relationship with Girl Scouts. Right now I have two boxes of Girl Scout cookies on my desk: one of Thin Mints, one of Samoas. It's all I can do to not inhale them right now. Damn those Girl Scouts.

In other news, I thought I'd offer an insight into the male psyche for all my female readers: men love to make fun of each other. Those who excel at it are frequently considered to be the leader of the pack. If you need more information, I just read a hilarious article online: http://men.msn.com/articlemh.aspx?cp-documentid=4314882&GT1=9311.

Eating alone...

Why is it so awkward to eat alone in a restaurant? Not only is it somewhat uncomfortable to ask for a table for one, at some places it means that you're resigned to crappy service or sitting at the bar. Perhaps the worst part is when your server assumes your solitude is involuntary and takes it upon him or herself to be your friend for the evening. No, I promise I'm not lonely, I'm just out here on business, and your in front of the TV during a bowl game.