Open-Faced Sandwiches Aren’t Sandwiches and Boneless Ribs Aren’t Ribs
This is an excerpt from the new book, Eat More Better: How To Make Every Bite More Delicious, by Dan Pashman. It’s an illustrated, tongue-in-cheek textbook based on the premise that you only get so many bites in life, so you should make each one as delicious as possible. Chapters include Engineering and Philosophy and cover topics like sandwich construction and snack-mix ethics. This excerpt is from the Language Arts chapter.
We often make eating choices based on what we see, smell, hear, touch, and, of course, taste. But in many situations our senses are useless, because the food isn’t in front of us yet. In these cases, words are all we have to go on. And how can we make good choices about what and how to eat if the words used to describe our options aren’t universally understood and applied?
A friend may offer you a “sandwich,” but is it really a sandwich? Is it fair to say frozen yogurt is “like” ice cream? Is a restaurant misusing language if it offers Buffalo wings that aren’t from Buffalo?
When foods are named and described correctly, the entire eating experience is elevated. When they are not, deliciousness is diminished.
Let’s begin by discussing the correct definition of a sandwich.
On this matter I am a strict constructionist, which means I believe we must look only at the framer’s original intent to find the limits of sandwichdom. That’s why I’m often called the Scalia of Sandwiches.
The Earl of Sandwich created his eponymous masterpiece because he wanted to eat substantial foods with his hands. He realized that by sandwiching meats and such between pieces of bread, he was freed up to feed his gambling addiction and/or tend to his political and military responsibilities, depending on which historian you believe.
There are two fundamental characteristics of a sandwich: First, you must be able to pick it up and eat it without utensils, and without your hands touching the fillings. Second, the fillings must be sandwiched between two separate, hand-ready food items.
The Earl of Sandwich’s original intent is the code by which we live today, which means that bread is not a requirement. If you replace the bread with, say, fried chicken breasts or potato pancakes, you have nonetheless created a sandwich, provided it’s designed to be eaten by hand. Intent is key. If it falls apart when you pick it up and the fillings get all over you, it may still be a sandwich — just a poorly made one.
While the breadless sandwich fits the framer’s definition, the open-faced sandwich does not. Could the Earl of Sandwich have rolled dice and/or run the Royal Navy while eating an open-faced sandwich? Not at all. Open-faced sandwiches are not sandwiches, because they require utensils and fail to sandwich anything.
For the same reason, wraps, burritos, and the like are not sandwiches. Sandwiching fillings between two things is different from wrapping them inside one.
Hot dogs, heroes, and other dishes that use a hinged bread exist in an etymological gray area, because this type of bread is technically a single structure, not two separate food items. However, these breads are capable of sandwiching, because they’re essentially just rolls that have not been fully halved, and the hinge can be severed without fundamentally altering the dish. This means foods on hinged breads are sandwiches.
Based on this definition, a quesadilla made with a single flour tortilla folded over itself is not a sandwich, though it may be delicious. But if you slice a flour tortilla in half and put foods in between the halves, or make a full-circle quesadilla with two tortillas, then crisp the tortilla until the structure is firm enough to be picked up, it is a sandwich.
Let’s move on to a discussion of regional food nomenclature and definition. Some of the world’s most delicious dishes are strongly associated with the cities that invented them: Philly cheesesteaks, Chicago deep-dish pizza, and Cincinnati chili, to name a few. What rights should a region have to dictate the name and definition of a food that it pioneers and popularizes once that food’s scrumptious oils seep across borders and outsiders experiment with new preparations?
The French certify some foods as “AOC,” or appellation d’origine contrôlée, which translates as “controlled designation of origin.” Because of the AOC certification, only wine from the Bordeaux region can be called Bordeaux, and sparkling wine made in Italy is called prosecco — not champagne, which must come from the Champagne region of France.
We should adopt a similar system in the United States for foods like America’s answer to Bordeaux, better known as Buffalo sauce.
I won’t go so far as to say that Buffalo sauce must be made in Buffalo, but I do believe that Buffalo retains the right to determine what sauces may use that moniker. In general, the creators of a food should have the power to determine what does, and does not, constitute said food. But that doesn’t mean they’re the only ones who can alter it.
In fact, many regions are so immersed in their traditional ways that they become unreasonably closed to improvements. Let’s look at one example of how a region that originates a food has certain authority, but also certain blind spots.
Is a pizzasteak a valid form of cheesesteak? Many of the cheesesteakeries of Philadelphia list it on their menus as a cheesesteak, which means that it is.
But when John Kerry was campaigning in Pennsylvania while running for president in 2004, he famously asked for Swiss cheese on a cheesesteak — not a traditional option and thus not a valid form of the dish.
He was lampooned, but the truth is, Swiss cheese is a perfectly delicious option for a steak sandwich. At the very least, it’s superior to Cheez Whiz, a classic cheesesteak topping that epitomizes the Philly region’s stubborn attachment to tradition in the face of all logic, taste, and evidence of societal progress.
It is the region’s right, however, to set those parameters. In other words, Philadelphians may declare that cheesesteaks aren’t made with Swiss cheese, but that does not mean that cheesesteaks aren’t made better with Swiss cheese.
We have one more vital issue of food language to cover — the use of similies, metaphors, and oxymorons.
Similes are comparisons that use “like” or “as,” and they can be useful for describing a food. (What’s arctic char? It’s like salmon, only lighter and less oily.) But far too often, similes, metaphors, and such are used to mislead rather than illuminate.
Frozen yogurt is not like ice cream, nor is any low-fat dairy product analogous to the original, even in a metaphorical sense. Turkey burgers and veggie burgers are not “like,” or “as,” beef burgers. They are distinctly different foods.
I happen to be quite fond of veggie burgers. Frozen yogurt on a hot day can be very nice. These are good foods in their own right, but I have no tolerance for the saccharine entreaties of those who would offer me a turkey dog while telling me, “You really can’t tell the difference.”
Perhaps it’s been so long since you’ve eaten beef, ice cream, or beef ice cream that you can’t tell the difference. But I won’t be tarred with your aspartame basting brush.
As insidious as these deceptions are, they pale in comparison to the downright oxymorons that flourish unchecked on the menus of this country. And I’m not just talking about jumbo shrimp.
Boneless ribs? THE RIB IS A BONE. To concoct a “boneless rib” is to remove the very definitional characteristic of the food. (But if this type of semantic skulduggery is your bag, I hope you’ll pair your oxymoronic ribs with an egg-white omelet, then wash it down with nonalcoholic beer and decaf coffee, all while listening to Sheryl Crow’s cover of “Sweet Child O’ Mine.”)
We are literally one step away from foodless food, people. Should bars begin pouring solid liquids? Perhaps for the living dead, but not for me.
Eat More Better: How to Make Every Bite More Delicious by Dan Pashman was published by Simon & Schuster on October 14, 2014.
The book is available for purchase from Amazon, Powell’s and your local independent.
Visit The Sporkful, WNYC’s James Beard Award-nominated podcast created and hosted by Dan Pashman, here.
Top image credit: Rooey202, via creative commons
