Lorette C. Luzajic
The Mighty Reuben
By Lorette C. Luzajic
There are some things better left for another to cook. Try as I may, Thai always tastes like either nothing, or rubber tires, when I attempt a recipe at home. My restaurateur friend has no issue with the subtleties of Thai broths and chili seasoning: John also makes a spectacular Reuben sandwich. This is something I really only like to order in New York City. I live in Toronto, so it’s not a sandwich that appears regularly on my menus. The odd time I’ve ordered it here at home, it’s either flavourless or sloppy with grease. The one Toronto spot that shone was The Tulip, at Queen and Coxwell. Overall, had John not served me up a masterpiece, I may never have had one again.
Like all great mysteries, the origin of the Reuben sandwich is hazy. Two conflicting legends are circulating, and both involve a Jewish guy named Reuben and a slab of rye bread. I like to go with the classic 1938 account of Arnold Reuben, who slapped together a sky-high sandwich for a New York actress who came into his deli. She said she was famished, and he made a sandwich she called unforgettable. Arnie said he would name it the Anna Selos Special, and she said it should be named The Reuben. The competing story has a 1956 Omaha, Nebraska sandwich recipe contest winner named Reuben as the diner designer. Either way, it seems solid to me that this thing was born in New York. Where else could sauerkraut go gourmet?
John assured me it’s not difficult to master at home, with major benefits like no charge for half a dozen pickles on the side and stuffing as much of everything as you want into the bread. I was game- I make a mean grilled cheese, and as a German gal, thought a messy sauerkraut sandwich should be a breeze.
Umm, yeah.
Tuesday afternoon starts out with the search for some corned beef. I already know that ‘corned beef’ means brine-salted brisket. Apparently, the salt chunks used to be called ‘corns’- perhaps salt-corns as to peppercorns, but I’m not sure. I don’t really know what I’m doing at the market because I seldom purchase cured meats for home use. Mainly because I could eat an entire row of fat Genoa salamis in front of a How to Look Good Naked marathon, and I must avoid this type of wurst outburst at all costs.
I can only find one tin, imported from Brazil, and I wonder about the little key attached to the tin. I’ve never used a device of this kind, and the strangely triangular tin seems odd. I know it’s so that the corned beef will slide out easily, so I don’t worry. Until I get home. None of my brute strength can open the damn thing. I rip half of a fingernail off tinkering with the damn can. Then I ruin my most expensive kitchen knife and practically commit suicide by error as the blade slips a dozen times, butchering several fingers, severing a few arteries, and ruining my shirtsleeve. As a modern girl, I head online, only to find that many others have been driven mad by this can and have thrown it out the window. The simplest suggestion is to use a regular can opener, so I do, with great difficulty going around the weird corners, but I manage.
But what is this inside? Lord help us all, it’s dog food. My stomach retches as I spoon a heap of reeking meat. What if it’s not dog food, but DOG? What if it’s not dog meat, but human? I’ve read somewhere that most of us have actually eaten human flesh at least once. In times of extreme poverty, handy corpses have stretched that meat dollar by conveniently fattening up sausages and ground meat. While we are all quick to blame this type of stuff on urban legends with no basis in truth, the truth is that things are always MUCH WORSE than they appear, and that humans are capable of absolutely anything. So I can assume that there is a good chance that those girls who disappeared on a trip to the beaches of Cancun ended up in this tin of Brazilian brisket.
It matters not: I’m adventurous, and millions eat this every day, so it must be good. I scoop it out and bravely lay it on the rye, topping with sauerkraut and Thousand Island salad dressing and Swiss cheese. Authentic Jewish versions call for homemade Russian dressing, apparently, but the popular versions today use Thousand Island and so did my friend John. The grilling bread and cheese smells marvelous, except for the acrid, cat-food stench of the meat rising up from the pan as well. Oh, boy.
Two bites in and I can’t recall ever being so disgusted in my life. I watched my brother eat chocolate covered cockroaches that I bought him for Christmas, and didn’t feel the bile rising. Thanks to this festering funky flesh, I will always loathe rye bread and Thousand Island dressing. I have never had such a disastrous kitchen drama. Stuff has burned, stuff has been flavourless, stuff has been too spicy, stuff has been gross. But never before did I burp barf.
The remedy is simple: never, ever use can-corned. Use deli shaved. Or use tuna, which is what my friend John used, but didn’t tell me until it was too late. I may now be able to make a beautiful Reuben but I will never again be able to eat one. Goodbye, Reuben Tuesday.
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