MAD DOG: A Hero Saves the Sandwich

It's taken 250 years, but finally you can get a genuine sandwich again. At least you can if you're in London's business district. Orlando Montagu, who sounds like a character in a Mel Brooks film but is actually the son of the 11th Earl of Sandwich, has opened a lunchtime delivery service specializing in -- guess what? -- sandwiches. And if anyone's qualified to do it, he is. After all, primogeniture has a long British tradition, which is why we're stuck with Prince Charles, Sean Lennon, and now a sandwich shop run by a descendant of the Earl of Sandwich which is creatively named -- hold onto your baguette -- "Earl of Sandwich." Who says inbreeding among the titled is a problem?

The menu features sandwiches like grilled prawns in chili jam, and beef with horseradish sauce and crème frâiche. John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich, must be rolling over in his eternal take-out container. He's the guy who started the whole thing in the 1700's by slapping a hunk of salt beef between two pieces of bread so he wouldn't have to miss a minute of the night's gambling action. Or, if you believe another version of the story, so he wouldn't have to leave his desk while working at a government job. Both of these are nice tales, but I suspect the truth is he didn't want to get out of his La-Z-Boy recliner and risk missing even one second of the XFL (Xtreme French Legionnaires) cheerleaders since he knew they wouldn't be around long.

I'm sure the fourth Earl would be much happier if they were serving ham and cheese, turkey, and peanut butter and Marmite rather than a bunch of frou-frou sandwiches. Not that creative sandwich-making isn't a good idea. After all, we each have a favorite sandwich which others think is strange. I have a friend who to this day eats peanut butter with potato chips and mayonnaise and I can't be in the same room when he does it. Then again, my fave is the Thanksgiving sandwich: turkey, cranberry sauce, dressing, and gravy, preferably on rye bread. Oddly, the only place I've seen it for sale was in the Waterloo train station in London, a place where they don't even celebrate Thanksgiving. Granted it was on a British baguette and didn't have the gravy, but it was close enough for me to give thanks and buy one to eat on the train.

Some people think that tossing anything between two slices of bread makes it a sandwich. Technically it does, but that doesn't make it a good idea. The French eat pan-fried cockscomb and Koreans eat deer antler, but that doesn't mean I want to see either one of them between two slices of sourdough bread with mustard and lettuce. Mayonnaise and tomato, maybe.

When we were growing up my father would put just about anything on a sandwich. He'd make sure my mother saved every conceivable leftover because "it will be good on a sandwich." Spaghetti on whole wheat, mashed potatoes and green peas on Kaiser roll, tuna casserole on Wonder Bread -- nothing was beyond having for lunch the next day.

Luckily he never thought about putting ice cream between two slices of bread -- he stuck to the store-bought ice cream sandwiches. But in some parts of Asia, like Bali and Singapore, they're more literalist than Dad. They actually slather chocolate syrup on a scoop of ice cream and slap it between two pieces of cheap crappy white bread. And pretend to enjoy it. I didn't have the nerve to find out how literal their Eskimo Pies are.

Of course if it wasn't for the fourth Earl of Sandwich we wouldn't have the hamburger, the hot dog, or the cheesesteak. And we'd be walking around with third degree burns from eating breadless grilled cheese sandwiches with our hands. Bacon, lettuce, and tomato would be a salad, a Big Mac would be a Salisbury steak platter, and peanut butter and jelly would be a dessert served in a bowl.