Views on a 'Southern' slice of life

My first tomato sandwich debate dates back to 2006, during my two-year employment at Wake Forest’s Heritage Golf Club. It was then, as I cruised the drought-parched greens on my beverage cart – darting irrigation sprinklers and the dangerous drives of hopelessly aspiring golfers – that I daily ordered a tomato sandwich from the club’s restaurant. My instructions were specific: toasted whole wheat bread, a sparing portion of mayonnaise, a dusting of black pepper, and tomato slices so fine that they folded into a river of seeded juice. On occasion, I’d request the addition of bacon, as the restaurant didn’t cater to the fried fat back or hog jowls of my Epsom rearing.

“No, no, no,” sighed the club’s head golf pro one day, while I chomped a bite of my soupy sandwich. “That’s not the way you make a real tomato sandwich.” As he was one of the few native North Carolinians at The Heritage, I humored his tomato sandwich recipe.

“First of all, you use white bread and you don’t toast it,” he began. “And you’ve got to use Duke’s Mayonnaise,” he insisted. “None of those other brands.”

His description of suitable tomato slice size was certainly not the puree placed inside my two pieces of toasted whole wheat bread, as evidenced by the disapproving shake of his head.

Admittedly, I haven’t always been a fan of tomato sandwiches. From childhood to adult-childhood (aka my college years), I’d sustained an aversion for the plump red fruit that’s grown in almost every country garden. My first stand-off with the Southern sandwich occurred during a lunch time visit with my great-aunt Christine. Aware I couldn’t decline the meal she’d prepared for me, I bowed in surrender – and in prayer – to the lone tomato sandwich she’d placed onto my plate. Without breathing, I gulped the feast of thick, vine-ripened tomato slices that she’d piled between pieces of Merita bread.

And then, something occurred. Perhaps it was the Good Lord above, looking down from Heaven onto my pitiful predicament, who declared it heretical that a Southern girl not like tomato sandwiches. For soon after my self-forced consumption at my dear aunt’s kitchen table, I was struck with an immense desire for another tomato sandwich. And after slightly altering the Southern concoction, I devoured what I considered the perfect tomato sandwich.

I’ve learned that there’s one essential factor in preparing the ideal tomato sandwich, and that’s a homegrown tomato. When the edge of my fruit knife pierces the skin of a tomato, I want a burst of sweet sap to splash free from its membrane. A puddle of fruit juice should overflow when the first sliver of severed tomato drops to the cutting board. I’ve tried tomatoes from other sources, and there’s sadly no substitute for the garden-grown variety.

A few weeks ago, I conducted a poll at The Daily Dispatch on how to make the perfect tomato sandwich. Few fancied the slender slices I favor, stating their preference as hearty wedges. While most female employees preferred whole wheat toast, the majority of male employees favored untoasted white bread – that is, unless the “woman of the house” volunteered to toast the bread for them. Duke’s Mayonnaise was elected the mayonnaise of choice, and black pepper was unanimously voted a necessary component of tomato sandwiches, with the addition of salt close behind.

One employee preferred her tomato sandwiches “without the tomato.” I guess the Lord hasn’t struck this Southern girl with a taste-bud transformation yet.

Yet, thanks to a fixin’ of fresh tomato sandwiches, prepared years ago by my great-aunt Christine, the Good Lord struck me. And I’m now proud to claim my country roots with the Southern slice of life known as a tomato sandwich.

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