My first revelatory sandwich experience was in Guadalajara, Mexico when I was five years old. Our hotel restaurant crafted a double-decker turkey on white toast that Dagwood himself would have lusted after, and upon sampling it my blind devotion to Underwood Deviled Ham on Langendorf ... dwindled. After that tastebud-expanding experience, I was open to new flavors and sandwich-building concepts, and began my own experiments in the field. My father was a trailblazer in this regard, but I still haven't matured enough to appreciate some of his more radical creations involving cornichons, peanut butter, strawberry jam and salami. (I got good at grilled cheese sandwiches, though. The key: Beckmann's sourdough, Black Diamond extra-sharp white cheddar and plenty of unsalted butter.)
Since then, my search for the compleat (or at least anthropologically interesting or merely delectable) sandwich has taken me near and far. I'm thinking now of the ham and butter baguette sandwiches I'd munch with my morning cafe au lait in Paris, or the slender, flavor-packed panini sold at the stand-up coffee bars of Rome. The Second Avenue Deli's peppery, pungent pastrami on rye and (even better) the silky smoked sturgeon on pumpernickel at Barney Greengrass on the Upper West Side. Once I made the mistake of ordering a full-sized muffuletta from New Orleans' Central Grocery (most people have the sense to order the half-size) and spent the next couple of hours grappling with its salami-stuffed, provolone-packed, oil-dripping garlicky girth.
San Francisco is the first stop on a seven-city casting call for the sixth season of Bravo's Top Chef. Aspiring champions: Get thee to Ducca (50 3rd St.) this Sunday, February 8 from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. and show them why you've got the skills to kill the grills.
