It’s not easy to make introductions online (some warmth gets lost in the coding, I think). So instead of introducing myself personally as new the Editor of Snooth Eats, I’m
introducing myself by sandwich-proxy, piggy-backing (maybe too ambitiously?) on the perfection of one of the world’s great triple-deckers: the turkey club.
Why a sandwich? Because the sandwich is the workhorse of the food world, a versatile character-actor in a cast of foie gras scene-stealers. Why the turkey club? Because for all its Brando-esque On the Water Front brawn, it aspires to be more than a sandwich, reaching skyward with an extra layer of bacon, turkey, and unapologetically rich mayo. It’s the sandwich that dares to dream.
To be honest, I was only introduced to my sandwich spirit guide a few years ago (ridiculously late for a responsible adult, I know). But it was a day I’ll never forget. And that owes in part to the setting: a railcar diner in upstate New York that felt like it was plucked out of a movie, complete with a waitress leaning dangerously far over the counter, sucking a lollipop and eyeing us with lazy suspicion.
But once the sandwiches arrived—some kind of lunch hive-mind, we all ordered the turkey club—our focus shifted. Like most normal human beings, my friends had both eaten a turkey club at least once before. But this was my first. And there before me was a thing of beauty: three layers of caramel-brown whole-wheat toast encasing fresh lettuce, ruby-red tomatoes, and carving-board slabs of turkey (roasted, by miracle, in the diner’s tiny kitchen). And yes—the bacon, oh the bacon. Crisp, but still unctuously fatty. Sweet, charred, and smoky—the hedonistic foil to an otherwise wholesome affair, interrupting bites of tender meat with an assertive, devilish crunch. Yes. Like the pile of mashed potatoes in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, this sandwich meant something. It was important.
Variations abound (see the accompanying recipe), but ever since that day, I understood what it meant to have a simple thing done really, really well. Whether it’s a wonton with delicately thin skin and flecks of fruity red chili oil, or a blueberry grown to perfection in the wilds of Jersey (believe it), or the towering, tooth-picked composition in protein, carbohydrate, and fat otherwise known as the turkey club, that’s what good food’s all about. Simplicity and integrity—and repeated consumption. And I hope to share that here, though I won’t actually share the sandwich here, at Snooth Eats.
Turkey Club Sandwich Recipe