My relationship with sandwiches is basically nonexistent. For me, a sandwich isn’t something that’s meant to be eaten, but rather a structural disaster disguised as convenience. It’s a haphazard mixture of whatever food is available and is kept together purely based on the confidence of two slices of bread and the wishful thinking that it will remain structurally sound before falling apart into my lap.
In truth, in a linguistic sense, the whole name seems a little misleading. Sandwiches really shouldn’t be named after some British earl from the 18th century. They’re much more like witches from the Salem Witch Trials, a cursed thing intended to torment me with grease spots on my laundry and textures that are absolutely not supposed to mix.
But here we go. This is the final battle of the challenge in this column. Say hello to Matt Barker.
Barker, English teacher and Weekly Talon advisor, is Davie High’s self-proclaimed “sandwich expert,” who lectures on bread-to-filling ratio just as some art critic would lecture on the brushstrokes used during the Renaissance. And, upon discovering that I had been spending my whole life dodging any sandwiches whatsoever, he felt offended and took it as a challenge to make a sandwich I would like. A great challenge, indeed. And for the sake of journalism, I accepted his request to try his “famous” Buffalo Chicken Sandwich.
The construction of the sandwich turned out to be more like a chemistry experiment than the simple process of cooking. On the very desk of the classroom, ingredients were collected together: buffalo chicken, tomato, lettuce, ranch, onion, bacon, and sourdough bread (pre-toasted because we can’t have soggy bread).
When I finally saw it, the sandwich appeared to be threatening. It had the sort of glow that seemed to say, “I’m here to ruin your shirt, and there’s nothing you’re going to do about it.” I took a breath. That kind of breath you take when it comes time to show the project you made up five minutes before class started. I picked up the sandwich and took a bite.
The initial experience was chaotic. Buffalo sauce isn’t a delicate sauce. Rather, it makes your whole mouth its target for a hostile takeover. Sharp, tangy, and with enough vinegary heat to snap you out of it like a pop quiz.
However, there was one ray of sunshine left: the meat itself was tasty, serving as a stable base amid the sea of sauce, and the ranch worked its hardest to mediate between the spiciness of the buffalo and my sensitive taste buds. The vegetables gave a fresh taste to combat the intense flavor of the buffalo. For a sandwich that was crafted wholly inside a high school classroom, it managed to remain standing. It stayed true to itself.
I waited for the typical post-sandwich guilt trip. I waited for my brain to renounce the notion of protein encased within a loaf of bread. But instead, the Earth continued revolving on its axis. The sandwich was salty, it was bold, and it managed to hold its own despite being aggressively bitten through.
Would this event inspire me to take up sandwich-making as a hobby? Would I suddenly become a hoagie-eating aficionado? Of course not; I still find the idea of shoving all your food between two slices of bread an irresponsible way to compensate for society’s unwillingness to eat with a fork. Yet there are now feelings compelling me in another way. I may not like sandwiches, but I liked this sandwich. Which is a start for any picky eater.
