Midwestern Nightmares: My 5 Favorite Sandwiches

MY 5 FAVORITE SANDWICHES WHICH I WILL NOW UNSUCCESSFULLY TALK ABOUT

1. B.L.T. (generalized version)

If I’m out for lunch at a restaurant serving classic American fare, 95% of the time this is what I’m getting. I don’t want it triple decker, and I DO NOT want turkey on it. On toasted wheat with extra mayo on the side please (Restaurants never put enough mayo on them for my liking).

And if it does come triple decker, I’m not above breaking the sandwich down into several smaller B.L.T.s like a crazy person.


2. Bologna Salad (a.k.a. Chopped Bologna or Sandwich Spread) on Wheat

This is commonly found in Midwestern butcher shops and grocery stores such as Meijer’s (my favorite for pre-made Sandwich Spread). It’s usually made with leftover ham, bologna, and other applicable cold cuts.

I make my homemade version with beef bologna, Miracle Whip, Mayonnaise, dill pickle, and Vidalia onion (when in season) to taste. Spread on cheap, soft honey wheat bread. Serve with Made Rite Chips and Vernor’s Ginger Ale.

3. Cheese Steak

Specifically, from Philly’s Best on Belmont in Chicago. I prefer mine “hoagie style” which includes lettuce, tomato, and mayo. Raw onions, please. And of course, Cheez Wiz.

And before I make a criticism about most Cheese Steak sandwiches, I want to make clear that I understand “hoagie style” is not the traditional way to enjoy the sandwich. That being said, there is no better way to ruin a perfectly good Cheese Steak sandwich than to throw some green peppers on it. I don’t know when the majority of eateries decided that it was the proper way to prepare the sandwich, but they are completely wrong and should be beaten with a belt for the sin.

4. Fried Egg, Big Ron Style

As a kid, when my mother wouldn’t be home to make us supper, there was a good chance my dad would make us egg sandwiches. Fried egg with a broken yolk, not scrambled, with American cheese, mayo, mustard, and lettuce on Spatz toast. To be eaten over the sink.

We call my dad “Big Ron.” Ron isn’t actually his name. It’s Bob. But on a July afternoon as my buddy Fonz and I walked up the driveway, we approached my father in the garage, clad in one of my 3-on-3 basketball tournament t-shirts with the sleeves raggedly cut off, and homemade sweatpant shorts with a pager hanging off the waistband. He was casually doing double forearm curls with a rusted weight set and most likely was listening to Jackson Browne, Johnny Rivers, or Bruce Springsteen.

My buddy Fonz remarked, “Your dad ain’t Bob, that dude is Big Ron. Big Ron’s a baller. Dude’s a baller!”

My dad takes what my sister and I call, “Big Ron bites.” If you’re eating a sandwich in my parents’ house, there’s a good chance my dad will approach you, eyes wide, and say, “Bite?!”

Shortly there after, he’ll hand you back a small fraction of what started out as a sandwich, and with a satisfied, “Mmmph…good,” your snack is gone.

I’m just now realizing that I’ve painted my father as some sort of cross between Kevin Spacey in American Beauty and Dagwood Bumstead, which is way off.

I find this wholly discouraging as a creative writer, and this, combined with the fact that I’ve completely abandoned a simple listing of sandwiches for a semi-detached tangent about the origins of my good dad’s nickname and how he takes chomps is enough for me to pull the plug on what is now a column in shambles.

Aw, fuck it.

5. It’s either an Italian Sub from Jimmy John’s or Liverwurst and Sweet Onion with Mustard on Rye.

And by listing 2 for number 5, I’ve essentially written about 6 sandwiches in a column that is supposed to be about 5 sandwiches, not 6.

Shambles.

Mike Burns is a severely hunky comedian from Saginaw Chicago New York Los Angeles, MI. He recently wrote about life as a gangsta and reminisced about his Colt 45-drinking childhood. You can see more of this dreamboat at myspace.com/mikeburnsmikeburns and read his column here every other Tuesday.