Sandwich Day

Peanut butter, honey and marmalade on wheat. Sweetness.

Ahh, the sandwich. A staple lunch for kindergartners and cheap, busy working people alike. There is no other food so easily customizable to your preferences, for a sandwich is simply an arrangement of various contents between bread slices of some sort.

Brief history of the sandwich: Around 1760, the Earl of Sandwich, John Montagu, asked his servants to give him meat between two slices of bread so he could eat one-handed while engaged in an all-night gambling party. (Thanks, Town of Sandwich.) November 3 is the birthday of Montagu, making today Sandwich Day.

Americans have adopted this bit of English cuisine with a vengeance, obviously, and every region has its specialty. Philly cheesesteak, Maine lobster roll, etc. I was curious, though, as to what sandwich is the “Madison sandwich.” Or the Wisconsin sandwich, for that matter.

Rumor has it that Seymour, Wisconsin became the birthplace of the hamburger when teenager Charlie Nagreen started selling meatball sandwiches at a county fair in 1885. He supposedly called the sandwiches hamburgers in order to appeal to German immigrants familiar with Hamburg steaks. Other states, including Oklahoma and Texas, have also laid claim to the hamburger, and certainly California gets a nod as the birthplace of McDonald’s. However, Seymour will not let itself go quietly into the night of sandwich history (it’s Cliche Day, too, by the way, so this post’ll be peppered with ’em). In fact, the town of 3,000 hosts a blow-out Burger Fest every summer and in 2001, the town actually cooked an 8,266-pound burger.

If you think Seymour puts on a big stink over its local cuisine, then look four hours south to Monroe, which hosts the only cheese company in the United States that still produces Limburger cheese. That’s right, the Chalet Cheese Company is the last man standing in the really, really smelly cheese market. And though I’ve never had Limburger or a Limburger sandwich of any kind, you can apparently blend the cheese with a hamburger to create a Dragon Burger, which involves covering a ground beef patty with Limburger cheese and raw onions and serving the whole mess on an onion roll. You also can substitute liver for the ground beef and rye bread for the onion roll. Top it off with brown mustard, and you’re all set to shoot fumes of noxious gas from every bodily orifice for the next three days.

Okay, this all sounds more horrible than a cat on a hot tin roof. To find an edible, enjoyable Madisonian sandwich, I took G over to Mildred’s Sandwich Shop, a hole in the wall just north of the Capitol. (I also honored the day at lunch, with a simple yet tasty peanut butter, honey and raspberry marmalade on wheat. Peanut butter was a conscious choice, as November is National Peanut Butter Lovers Month.)

Mildred’s has been making sandwiches for more than 30 years. There aren’t more than about eight wooden booths in the whole place, and the eclectic, somewhat abstract art around the walls creates a cozy, secret diner feel. The order counter is surrounded by an elaborate mosaic mural and includes a chicken and china cups, among other unusual tiles. And hey, any restaurant with the words “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread” above the menu is bound to be interesting.

In terms of sandwiches, they’re heavy on the veggies and several menu options include pita rather than bread. I opted for the Blystone, with turkey, provolone, swiss, onion, green pepper, lettuce and tomato with mayonnaise and dressing on whole wheat pita. G went with the Gramsci, which is pepperoni, mozzarella and pickled sweet red pepper with Dijon mustard and mayonnaise on white pita.

Considering we were the only customers other than an older lady who kept to herself in a corner booth, the sandwiches took a little longer than we expected. But the wait was worth it, and both of our meals were great.

While turkey, veggies and pita may not be a combination exclusive to Madison, to me, the Blystone is not just an authentic local sandwich because of the ingredients. It’s an authentic local sandwich because of where I got it–a tiny shop tucked a few blocks from the busier downtown scene, away from chain restaurants and fancy dining. Only Madison has Mildred’s, which gave me a good sandwich without any showy festival or overpowering odor. Mildred’s gave me an understated, but well-executed meal. Exactly as a sandwich is meant to be.

Mildred's Blystone sandwich