I would like to preface what I am about to say with the fact that — albeit with a few exceptions of course — I really do like Danish people. Danish culture has many admirable qualities. Forbes consistently ranks Denmark as one of the best countries for business in the world; plus their pastries are consistently mind-blowing. And while I know that this might be a little provocative, I firmly believe that Jan "Big Mag" Magnussen is the greatest F1 racer of all time.
But with that shameless attempt to pander to my Danish readers aside, here's the bitter truth: With regard to sandwiches, the Danish are clueless.
In Denmark, you see, the "sandwich" of choice for millions of people is the smørrebrød — one piece of dark brown bread (usually rye) topped with meat, cheese, fish or a spread, and then topped with a garnish of herbs or capers. Other countries in Scandinavia have embraced a similar concept (the Swedes call it the "smörgas," for example) for what they call an "open-faced" sandwich.
The concept of an "open-faced" sandwich has always made me uncomfortable. After all, when Earl John Montagu invented the sandwich back in 1762, one of the creation's unique properties was that it enabled him to both gamble and eat at the same time without his fingers getting greasy. A true sandwich allows the eater to have food in a mobile container; it is a food of both deliciousness and convenience. Using only one slice of bread negates this purpose, and while a smørrebrød may be tasty, it is often consumed with a fork and knife.
To back up my argument I turned to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, usually considered a valid source of information. I saw first this entry for the word sandwich: "two or more slices of bread or a split roll having a filling in between."
OK I thought; that seems right. The inclusion of the split roll is a smart touch, since I couldn't live with a lobster roll not being viewed as a sandwich. But then I read the second Merriam-Webster definition: "one slice of bread covered with food."
Oh. My. God.
It's not that my personal view of what constitutes a sandwich is necessarily rigid and inflexible. Wraps and burritos may not be technically sandwiches in that they don't have two slices, but they do share the essential sandwich characteristic of one being able to hold it with one's hands and devour it that way. I would call a burrito a close cousin of the sandwich; maybe not a blood relative, but still family.
But others must feel differently. In the 2006 state Superior Court case of Panera Bread v. Qdoba Mexican Grill, a judge in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts ruled that a burrito was not a sandwich. So, Merriam-Webster, you're telling me that I should live my life accepting that rice, beans and meat wrapped in a tortilla isn't a sandwich, but that one piece of bread with scrambled eggs and anchovy paste spread on it — what the English call the "Scotch woodcock" — is a sandwich?
It's not that the smørrebrød or the Scotch woodcock isn't a tasty meal. There are actually a lot of positive attributes to these one-sliced foods: a decreased calorie count, for example, or the fact that one can see all of the vibrant colors of the ingredients instead of being reduced to viewing the contents only in profile if you cut a sandwich in half.
But the concept of a sandwich implies a relationship of a filling being between two pieces of bread. A filling is clearly not here: Solely a topping does not make a sandwich. If we go around calling any food on top of bread a sandwich, then we are in danger of pizza being dubbed a sandwich as well.
So I ask you, Merriam-Webster: Can you live with that?
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Ben Kochman is a freshman who has not yet declared a major. He can be reached at Benjamin.Kochman@tufts.edu.
