As a young boy growing up in the poorer section of Indianapolis I can remember many meals that consisted of just soup and a sandwich. Keep in mind back in my day we didn’t have supermarkets. Only local neighborhood corner stores usually not much bigger than a two car garage. There were no pre-packaged meats and cheeses like today. You had to go to a butcher for that sort of thing and they would wrap the meat in a thick white paper. We’d take it home like it was gold. 

We’d pick up a loaf of unsliced fresh baked bread from the corner store and trek home with our plunder. Once in awhile we had a nickel left over for a peppermint stick. Not often though. When we saw a penny on the ground back then we picked it up.

My grandmother was a horrible cook. Couldn’t blame her for that though. She thought that being hot was enough. Her soups were generally just a handful of vegetables in hot water. It was actually the sandwiches that provided the reason for sitting down to the table. The dinnerware was the old heavy early ceramic type. None of the dishes matched of course and all of them were chipped in various places. The adults always had glasses but the kids got jars to drink our Kool-Aid. 

We all couldn’t wait for the package of butcher paper to be set in the middle of the table. Unwrapped like a Christmas present it slowly unfolded until our eyes beheld the layers of thick sliced bologna inside. Not this paper thin crap they dump on us at Piggly-Wiggly Markets nowadays. Bologna with a robust thick cut and a red outer rind that always had to be removed.

The bread was randomly sliced to everyone’s request. Thin for Gramma and Ma, thick for Pa and Uncle Charlie, and so on and so on, until only the ends were left. We ate the crust in our house. It was a sandwich for its time. It didn’t matter that the soup tasted like shit. 

Then as I grew up the markets started cutting meat so thin you can see through it and fast foods popped up on every corner. The lowly sandwich became a lost art. Rarely turned to in times of hunger. However, I have carried on the tradition and proudly claim to be one of the few artists who can whip together a magnificent spire of meats, cheeses, breads and assorted food groups. I call it.. The Manwich. 

First, there are a few rules that must be followed without fail. These rules are not negotiable and any deviation from them will only lessen the eater’s experience and quite possibly injure your palate. I’ve adjusted these rules to fit within the constrictions of the current marketplace, ie sliced meats, cheeses, etc. 

You must find a loaf of Old San Francisco sourdough bread. It is perfectly baked to have the correct tear strength through the thicker outer crust and the softer inner bread. It doesn’t fall apart in your hands as you compress the Manwich in preparation for a bite. Look for it in a large round loaf pre-sliced into nice sized oval platters with which to begin your masterpiece. 

Condiments. This is one of the most key elements of the Manwich. Mustard is yellow. It isn’t Poupon. It isn’t brown. It isn’t flavored. It is yellow mustard. Period. It must be spread on the top slice of bread in a thin even layer edge to edge. Mayonaise must be slathered on the bottom slice. Don’t be hesitant. Scoop a nice big dollop on there and watch as it evenly folds itself across the bread in a nice thick carpet. 

NEVER. NEVER. NEVER use relish or ketchup on a Manwich. Ketchup or catsup has only two purposes. To be mixed 2/3 ketchup and 1/3 Tobasco and only used on French fries or deep fried shrimp. It is an abomination to cover anything else with ketchup. 

Lettuce must be ice cold and gently placed over the mayo. Then the 1/4 inch thick slice of a vine ripened red tomato is placed over the lettuce. Then two kosher dill stacker pickles are placed over the tomato followed by a 1/8 inch thick slice of Bermuda onion. The order and placement are extremely important. We are housing the softer vegetables between the more sturdy and as the palate bites through each flavor and texture is experienced in order. 

Now here is where a little individual judgment may creep into the process of making a Manwich. As most deli meats come pre-sliced it is a manufacturers whim as to how thick each slice will be. From experience I can tell you that a Manwich may be composed of anywhere from never less than 2 slices of meat up to 4 slices for bigger eaters. I myself place the perfect flavor ratio at 4 slices. Whatever your choice, the meat is placed lovingly on top of the Bermuda onion. The cheese is a no brainer. One thick slice of pepper jack slides onto the meat.

Now for the Manwich secret ingredient. The one thing that sets it apart from all others. Fritos. Take a small handful of Fritos and place them strategically on top of the cheese. Then you cover it all with the mustard portion of the top slice of bread and press down. This is important. Press the Manwich down until you hear the slight crunch of the Fritos. Take a sharp knife and cut the Manwich into two equal parts ready for consumption. Pour yourself a glass of sweet tea, look to the heavens for a slight moment in tribute to me and begin your journey into Manwich paradise. 

Ahhhhhh.. my work is done here.