While John Montagu, the 4th Earl of
Sandwich is probably given more credit than history can justify for the
invention which has been with us ever since some ancient village baker decided
to put something tasty between two pieces of sun-baked flatbread, we can pinpoint some later developments
worth celebrating. For one thing, we are
pretty sure it was Reuben Arnold, presiding over a delicatessen on New York
City’s Broadway who, in 1914, assembled a combination made up of stacks of
thin-sliced kosher corned beef, cheese and a special mayonnaise between
book-ends of rye bread we call the Reuben
to this day. (Don’t forget a healthy slather of horseradish and mustard!)
We also know that Los Angeles lays
claim to the first French Dip combo early in the 20th Century, and
that the “Saratoga Clubhouse” gave us the so-called Club sandwich in 1894. And
as for the ubiquitous Peanut butter and jelly standby, sandwich detectives tell
us that back in the day when peanut butter was new and hard-to-find, the good
old PB&J was a mainstay of New York City’s high society tea rooms more than
100 years ago! As for the “submarine/hoagie/grinder/po’boy”, there are so many
competing versions of a birthing story we lack space to do them justice today.
Enough for plebian culinary trivia
when we have a REAL piece of sandwich glory to explore; one which began to
pique my interest after a visit to a New Orleans eating establishment a couple
of months ago; one that is not on a list of great monuments to the culinary
arts one just can’t pass up.
The folks who operate the “World War II
Museum” there have cut no corners in anything they have done to make that
unique “institute of national pride” a destination worthy of my wish that every
American could experience it. I should
not have been surprised therefore to sit down to what I expected to be a quick
and simple lunch in the 1940s style “Bistro” conveniently situated on the
premises, to have one of the most memorable dining experiences – even though a
mere lunch – of the much broader food adventures of that three-day sojourn.
Knowing that a renowned chef was in charge of the kitchen, I ordered a “Monte
Cristo” sandwich, expecting something like an old fashion toasted cheese
affair, maybe with some French adornment on the top. What came to me was a
two-inch-thick, toasty-crisp casing of batter-fried sourdough slices crammed
full of Tasso ham and locally-smoked turkey slices amid melting layers of
fondue-type cheese, served with a side of citrus-rich marmalade.
Knowing I would have to make do
without the spicy Cajun Tasso and would be substituting a more-available
stand-in from Boar’s Head, I decided to compensate by curing, then home-smoking
a tied turkey breast in my strategy for perfecting my own approach to the
fabled Monte Cristo, which first appeared in Paris cafés around 1910 as a
Coque-monsieur (or “crispy mister”).
After curing the turkey breast in a
spicy salt rub in the refrigerator for 24 hours, I placed it in my smoker over
apple wood for two hours for a cool smoke, then another four hours of a hot
smoke until it reached an appropriate internal temperature.
Using two thick slices of bread with
a tight crumb structure which I filled with a stack of thinly-sliced turkey,
ham and cheese, I dipped the sealed package in a beaten egg before placing it
in a pre-heated, thinly oiled skillet to sauté quickly and evenly on both
sides. In place of the marmalade, I served it up with my favorite home-made
corn relish.
Bingo! I think I have come up with
the consummate Monte Cristo.
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