Ratios are important. I’m not just saying that because I want to retroactively suck up to my 6th-grade math teacher. I’m certain that Mrs. Willoughby isn’t going to give me extra credit at this point. I’m saying this because it’s true. So much of what we do is about finding that just-right balance.
For example, your donuts-to-miles-run ratio should skew way more heavily toward the latter, lest your pants give up on circumnavigating your waistline all together. As much as we’d like life to be all “work hard, play hard” a ton more time is probably spent on the former. And we all know our seeing-people-in-real-life to zoom-meetups ratio is all out of whack, but that’s just the gift that keeps on giving that is 2020.
But there is perhaps no better place to have an opinion about the ratio of something than in the kitchen. Everyone has a take on the sauce-to-noodle ratio for pasta. Or the lumpy-to-creaminess ratio for mashed potatoes. Or the healthy foods to indulgent foods that go into our bellies each day.
Going even deeper, I’d argue that there is no food category more up for debate about ratios than sandwiches.
Now obviously, the bread-to-fillings ratio varies from sandwich to sandwich. There is no consistent math that works across the board for all types of sandwiches. And even if there was, I wouldn’t have those numbers because math, guys. Math.
Still, sandwiches tend to be fairly forgiving on this arbitrary math. Depending on the type of bread and the type of meats/cheeses used, there’s actually quite a lot of wiggle room for a perfectly acceptable sandwich ratio. But when a sandwich’s ratios are way off, it’s sorely disappointing.
We’ve all had a peanut butter sandwich that skimped way too much on the peanut butter, resulting in a bread sandwich with a glue-stick-swipe’s worth of peanut butter being the minimal glue holding the slices together. It almost made the field trip not worth it, you know?
But in the other direction is the overstuffed sandwich. A sandwich with so much meat, it seems like the guys at Epic Meal Time were challenged to come up with the highest protein mountain between two buns. I’m not sure why it’s a thing, but it’s a thing. And apparently, it’s a thing that reigns supreme in this week’s sandwich. Representing the state of New York, the great-granddaddy to the Reuben — Pastrami on Rye.
Much like the Reuben before this, I’d never had a Pastrami on Rye. But, because of my newfound love of Reuben’s I assumed I would thoroughly enjoy the Pastrami on Rye. It’s a simple sandwich — classically just Pastrami, Spicy Brown Mustard, and Rye Bread — so it was one we could easily make at home. But we opted to purchase ours because somehow we knew in our gut that was the better option. Plus, there’s a place not too far from us called Johnnie’s Pastrami that we’ve been meaning to try forever, and now was our chance!
I mean, if a place called Johnnie’s Pastrami can’t nail this sandwich, we certainly wouldn’t do much better. If for no other reason than our names in no way even begin to rhyme with any part of this sandwich.
So we ordered our sandwiches, picked them up, and took them home to eat like civilized take-out-eaters.
I knew the sandwiches were going to be big just by the weight of the box. It felt like the weight of a chubby pug sitting on my lap. Unlike a chubby pug, though, I was going to try to put one of those weighty sandwiches in my belly.
I took one look and knew I wouldn’t be up to the challenge. I mean, look at this thing:
This sandwich was not suffering alongside me in Mrs. Willoughby’s math class. It skipped ratios all together and instead said, “meh. I can figure it out.” This is a cruiserweight of pastrami between two flyweight pieces of Rye bread with the smidgiest smear of mustard somewhere in there.
I did my best to eat it, but could only manage half. At one point it just felt like I was chomping into a handful of loose meat — no bread, no mustard, just an Andre the Giant fistful of pastrami. And while it was good pastrami — excellent even (well done, Johnnie) — I needed more bread to even out the extra-large portion of cured meat. By the third bite, “sandwich” was a questionable descriptor at best.
I would like to give credit where credit is due, though. Without the Pastrami on Rye, we wouldn’t have the Reuben. It is an excellent early attempt at a great sandwich. It is the foundation on which better sandwiches built their greatness.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe all of New York has put a hit out on me for that last opinion, so I’ll be in hiding for the foreseeable future.
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