My kitchen has a rule I’ve held onto since I worked the line at a small neighborhood restaurant: if the dish is worth putting your name on the board, it better be the one you’d actually eat again.
So when the deli on my street put a sandwich on the menu with my name on it — not my name, well, close enough — I had one question. Is it good?
The answer, apparently, was no.
The story comes from a recent episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, the show where Larry David plays a version of himself who can’t let a single detail slide. In this one, his regular deli — the kind of corner spot with a board on the wall where the deli owner writes up special sandwiches — decided to name a sandwich after him. Here’s the exchange:
Jeff: “I went by Leo’s Delicatessen. You know what’s up on the board? A brand new sandwich called the ‘Larry David.'”
Larry: “What? Get out of here.”
Jeff: “Swear to God. Swear to God.”
Larry: “Leo named a sandwich after me? You’re kidding!”
Jeff: “Yep yep yep.”
Larry: “I can’t believe it. I’m on the board?”
Jeff: “You’re on the board.”
If you’re not a Curb person, the joke lands like this: the sandwich is whitefish, sable, cream cheese, capers, and onions. And Larry, a man who has opinions about everything, is “more of a pastrami, corned beef kind of guy… not really a big fish guy.” The sandwich on the board is not the sandwich he’d order.
That’s the thing about a sandwich named after you. It’s supposed to be the one that’s genuinely, unambiguously yours — the thing you’d reach for without thinking. Not a compromise. Not a “well, it’s fine” kind of plate. The good kind of simple.
So here’s my question to you: if the deli wrote your name on the board, what would be on that sandwich?
Mine would be a grilled cheese with Dijon mustard. Or maybe a classic bodega egg-and-cheese, the kind where the egg is actually cooked and not just a sad smear. Something I can make quick on a weeknight, start to finish, with whatever’s in the fridge. That’s the bar for me. If it doesn’t fit a Tuesday night, it doesn’t get published.
And if you’re stuck, here are a few directions to think about.
The melt route: a Swiss with tomatoes, or a grilled cheese with a little salad on the side so you don’t feel like you ate a whole pizza. Comfort food, but with a reason to be there. Or the kitchen-sink version — the sandwich with everything on it, the one that’s a little too much and exactly enough.
The fish route, for the days when you want something lighter: a 10-minute salmon sandwich, a fried fish sandwich on a bun with a proper tartar sauce, or a shrimp roll with the kind of soft roll that actually holds together. These are the ones that go fast when the kids are home and the afternoon is slipping away.
Or skip the meat entirely. A chickpea sandwich made from a can of chickpeas, some spices, and whatever greens you have — it’s not fancy, but it’s the good kind of simple. Or a giant egg patty sandwich, the kind where the patty is real and not a sad omelet fragment. Sometimes the best sandwich of the week is the one that takes the least thought.
Tell me yours. I’m curious what’s on your board.
If it doesn’t fit a Tuesday night, it doesn’t get published.