The sandwich (or, sandvich, as I will refer to it) is a varied beast. You could say that a sandvich is only a sandvich because of its ingredients, and that separating the parts from its whole is highly impossible. But, that’s more a question for Sandvich Theory than anything else, so we’ll take it as read that we’re looking at the whole.

Now, there are many things I enjoy about England, many things that the English do well. Beer, for example, is one of those things.  A good and filling sandvich, however, is not.

If you’ve never thought about an English sandwich (for the nation has not, in my mind, produced a product worthy of being called a sandvich), consider this: You have two options for bread: brown or white. The English sandwich doesn’t even tell you whether “brown” bread is whole-wheat, whole-grain, 100% whole-wheat or –grain, or some other sort of bread that is, actually, called “brown.” When we’re talking about sandwiches bought from a shop, then the bread is usually soggy – from being in contact with wet lettuce for so long – or frigid. As for white bread… well, white bread? White bread never changes.

Once you get past the bread, then you have to look at the meat (or whatever takes the place of the meat). Servings are more on par with a snack than a meal. If the sandwich-maker was feeling generous, you’ll get a couple ultra-thin slices of bland-tasting beef or turkey or chicken. If they’re not, then, well, you’re lucky to even spot the meat.

The produce, as I’ve often seen, is lacking in quality. Lettuce has a put-upon appearance. It calls to you, “Please, human, end my misery.” If there are tomatoes on the sandwich, then, like the meat, the slices are very thin. Other ingredients, like brie cheese, may be more prevalent, but that is more due to the fact that England produces three hundred pounds of brie cheese per person per annum. (No need to look that up; it’s a fact.)

In addition to this, and possibly most telling of the English attitude towards the sandwich, is that the sandwich is never really the focus of the meal. The English culinary mindset is, from my experience, always focused on chips – French fries, for American readers. And, you know, that’s fine. Everyone likes fries. Nothing wrong with that.

But.

You, my English friends, are missing out. You are missing out on the sandvich.

Let’s, first, take a look at bread.

Bread

Depending on what kind of sandvich you’re making – and for the purposes of this guide, we’ll assume you’re making a cold-cut lunch sandvich; nothing grilled – then you’re going to want your chosen sort of bread to be soft. Some people like their bread chilled. (When I’m making a lunch sandvich, I prefer it to be chilled, myself.) Others like it room temp. Personal preference on your end, but I suggest that the whole attitude towards lunch should be refreshment. And what’s more refreshing than a nice, cool, everything to eat?

Now, it should be said that just as you have food-and-wine pairings, there are orthodox meat-and-bread pairings. The theory is that certain meats taste better on certain breads. Personally, I don’t care for orthodoxy. I’ve got my favorite breads, and I’ll use them for whatever I want, damn it. You want orthodoxy, you go find a different sandvich guide.

Moving past the temperature and philosophy of your bread, you should never eat white bread. Never. White bread is a crime against humanity. It is the blandest of all blands. The normalest of all norms. It has no taste aside from “existing” and anyone who suggests that white bread is their favorite is either an alien or a Communist.

As hinted at above, there are several types of wheat bread. It all boils down, essentially, to what you want out of your bread. The health nuts will insist upon 100% whole grain, under the assumption that if they eat it, they’ll be so loaded up with good carbs that they’ll be able to run three marathons immediately after eating a slice.

Personally, if I have to eat wheat bread, I just go with your normal kind. All comes from the same plant, in my opinion, and if the baker’s not using their creativity enough to branch out, then you probably can’t trust their opinion anyway.

As I mentioned above, your bread shouldn’t be chosen based on what some New Yorker-reader type says about pairings, but upon your personal taste. (Unless you like white bread. In which case, change your goddamn taste buds out.) For me, the best type of bread is seeded rye. There’s a certain, delicious bitterness to the bread that you don’t get elsewhere. It’s enough to punch your taste buds awake and prepare them for the onslaught of other tastes in the sandvich. Enough to remind you that you’re alive.

Other sorts of bread, arranged in no particular order, are as follows:

• Sourdough
• Marble Rye
• Mountain Bread (NOTE: This may just be a Southern thing)
• Italian loaf
• French loaf
• Various incarnations of wheat
• Pumpernickel
• German black bread
• Many others, depending on region

They all have their strengths and weaknesses, unique tastes, and even shapes. But for me, the king of all breads is rye. (Marble rye, admittedly, I’ve never tried. I don’t trust something about marble rye. Maybe it’s that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry steals a loaf from an old woman. Marble rye drives people to crime.)

You’re already familiar, probably, with French and Italian breads, so no worries there.

My best advice to you is to try out breads. Treat it like a wine tasting. Find the one that’s most compatible with your taste buds and roll with it.

Now, one of the most important things about bread is the whole slicing thing. A sandvich should not have very thick bread. Not thin, either, but I’d say about .4” – .5” in thickness. Me? I never slice my own bread. I don’t do well with it. The slices never come out even, and it’s a travesty. My advice: Let the bakers do it. They know best.

Meat

Beef is the king of meats.

This is a scientific fact, and anyone who says otherwise is either an alien or a Communist.

That said, people have different preferences, and I acknowledge that. I look down upon them, but I acknowledge it.

I say, once you’ve had a good slice of juicy, medium-rare, thin-sliced roast beef, you’re not going to look back. Unless it’s to pastrami or corned beef, which are also acceptable as substitutes or additional meats on a sandvich. But I digress.

If you can help it, never ever, ever buy pre-packaged deli meat. Especially the kind that comes in plastic wrap and is branded with ______ Farms. The only thing that comes from eating those meats is sadness on the highest caliber. You may mask the sadness with other items on your sandvich, but deep down inside, you will know that you have created a sub-par sandvich. And you will be sad.

Find a good butcher. I’m lucky. The Kroger by my house has a great deli counter, and, time after time, I have not been disappointed by their stuff. Some of you, however, are not so lucky. You’ll have to go elsewhere, searching, for that slice of meat. The meat that got away.

So, once you find a good butcher, you ask for a quantity of meat (I’ll leave that to you), and ask for it thin sliced. I know, that seems like an odd piece of advice, but trust me. You’re going to want that meat to be malleable so you can position it just so when it’s on the bread.

So, you’ve got your meat and your bread. You’re getting there, but you’re not done. Not yet. Not by a long shot.

The question of meat is a tricky one. The English believe in “normal” or “healthy” portions. That’s bullshit. I’m gonna tell you that right now. Health is for people who don’t want to die in a hedonistic haze. You stack as much meat as possible on that sandvich, I aim for at least five slices of meat, arranged so that each slice doubles onto itself, per sandvich. Think about it:

You want to taste the meat, right? That’s why you bought it. Why are you going to put one or two namby-pamby slices on already powerful bread? You’re not going to taste that meat as anything else than an aftertaste, a ghost of what should have been.

Now, this is where the orthodoxy would tell you how to determine the proper meat-bread pairing. I’m not going to do that. You want to put tuna on rye? You go ahead. You want to put chicken on pumpernickel? You’re a freak, but do what you want.

I will, however, say this: Beef + Rye = Paradise.

FACT: When you die, your welcome to the afterlife is a roast beef on rye.

Cheese

Cheese is a weird thing.

It’s been objectively proven in university labs that cheese has properties that are best accented by meats, but many cheeses are so damn bizarre that an individual can walk into a deli that has cheese and stand there for a good few hours.

Personally, when it comes to cheese, I keep it simple with Swiss. I look for Amish-style or Lacey, but if they’re not available, it’s not a big deal.

The reason I like Swiss is that it’s a utility choice. In my experience, everything goes well with Swiss. Cheddar, not so much. Brie, definitely not so much. Feta – what the hell are you doing, putting feta cheese on a sandvich?

So, you want my advice? Go with Swiss. You won’t be disappointed.

The important thing is that the cheese should be the layer on top of the meat. I don’t know why, but it tastes best like this.

Produce

Much like meat and bread, this is fairly subjective. But, you will never go wrong with lettuce and tomato. Everything else is trimmings, and optional. Some people like to put onions on their sandvich, or avocado if they’re feeling a bit like putting some South-of-the-border feel on their meal.

If you want advice on how to choose specific produce, let me know. I’ve worked as a produce clerk, and I feel confident in being able to give you tips on how to choose the ripest stuff out there. However, if I were to go about listing everything I could think of in terms of produce ingredients for a sandvich, we’d never be done with this thing.

So:

• Lettuce should be crisp. Aim for Romaine. Always Romaine. Iceberg is for salads and troglodytes. You want the green stuff. If you see any part of the lettuce that looks abnormally darker than the rest, then that ain’t your head/heart of Romaine. Lettuce – and for that matter, cucumber – can best be thought of as solid, non-ice water. As such, you should be able to look at lettuce and feel like your thirst has been quenched.
• Always shoot for beefsteak tomatoes. They go by many names, but they’re the big, hardy looking ones. Fun fact: You could eat one of these like an apple and not be disappointed. When you’re looking at tomatoes, you may be concerned about aesthetics. You shouldn’t be. Tomatoes will occasionally look weird. Like they’ve had some plastic surgery that went wrong. That stuff doesn’t matter. Not really. What does matter is that the tomato should be firm, but not rock-like. If you press in on a tomato and it yields to pressure like the side of a Nerf ball, that tomato’s too far gone to eat.

When placing lettuce on a sandvich, aim for a couple of leaves if dealing with hearts, 1 – 1.5 if you’re dealing with heads. Feel free to contort the leaves as you see fit, but you’re going to want to make sure that the lettuce covers the cheese.

Next, you’re going to want to slice the tomatoes. Aim for .1” thick slices. That’s enough to get the taste, and add substance to the sandvich. Anything more than that is overkill, anything less than that, you might as well not put tomato on your sandvich.

After you’ve sliced the tomatoes, place the slices on top of the lettuce. Feel free to overlap the slices.

Condiments

Condiments are subjective as well, but there are two solid pieces of advice I can give you:

• Mayonnaise should only be used for turkey, chicken, and tuna-based sandviches.
• If you’re going to use mustard (as you should), then never, ever, get plain yellow mustard. Get New York-style deli mustard. (Also known as “spicy brown.”) Much like white bread, plain yellow is for Communists and aliens.

If you don’t like deli mustard, then you have some growing up to do. It’s an adult condiment for people who are serious about their food.

Other condiments that can be used for a good sandvich are:

• Sauerkraut
• Horseradish (which is not popular, but wildly underrated)
• Ketchup (look, I know, but it’s popular with some people)

Whatever you choose, the condiment should be applied to the top slice of the bread; never to the bottom. This is for practical reasons. If you apply the condiment to, say, the tomato, then that shit’ll slide right off,  and you’ll be missing an important part of your sandvich.

And Finally…

Once you have constructed your sandvich, you’re going to want to press down on the top. Hard. Make sure that sandvich knows its place. Also, y’know, this’ll help everything stay together.

All told, once you’re done, you’ll have a sandvich of impressive size. One that’s filling. If it’s your first proper sandvich, then eating it will be a challenge. But, like all life challenges, you’ll be a better person for completing it.

Remember, this is not an exhaustive guide. There are many other variations and ingredients I didn’t even acknowledge. Grilled sandviches like the Reuben, for example. However, that’s a guide for another time.

Taking a break from my whole “Why” series, because this is bothering the shit out of me. I went to get a haircut about a month ago, and the woman did some stealth field bullshit that made me not realize she completely messed up my bangs.

Now, if you know me, then you know that hair is not a concern of mine. This should tell you that the error was quite egregious. When I look at myself in profile, and if I part my hair, my bangs shoot out a guddam inch. So: An open letter is called for.

Dear Hair Cutter Ladies,

I’m well aware that your title is “hair stylist” or whatever the hell they called you at the Nashville Institute For Using Scissors and Hair Trimmers, but look: You need to get some more skills.

Chief among these secondary skills should be the ability to read a person coming in the door. Body language, their dress, whether or not they’re high–all of that has a significant bearing on what makes them them, and, thus, what sort of hair cut they’d like.

Of course, yes, they’ll tell you. As well they should. However, you should realize that there is a vast and impressive array of individuals out there whose knowledge of hair terms is limited to “wet,” “long,” “short,” “very short,” “that kind of cut they have on Mad Men? You know what I mean?”

This group of people will be at a loss to tell you anything other than what they–like me–have scrawled on the back of their hand. For me, it’s “number 3 with a fade.” If I’m feeling like a Renegade, it’s “number 4 with a fade.”

That’s on the back of my hand because that, essentially, means nothing to me. The categorical imperative means something to me. Narrative framing means something to me. Plot means something to me. “Fade” and “number 3” in that context is Greek. Why is a 3 shorter than a 4? I don’t know. It confuses me. And because it confuses me, unless I have it written down, I’ll forget it, and go int0 your establishment and say something stupid like, “I want what I have, but shorter.”

(My brother is the one who told me what to say when I go into a hair cutting place. He’s much better at that whole public appearance thing. Kind of has to be, since a good portion of his job takes place in court.)

I mean, look, it’s pretty easy to see what my ilk is like. We shuffle, have our hands in our pockets most of the time, don’t make a lot of eye contact, and generally don’t know how to dress.

When I got my current haircut–which I can only assume was on purpose since it sort of resembles my nemesis’s, if I don’t part it or have a hat on–I was wearing a paint-covered Dropkick Murphys t-shirt and beer-stained jeans. I had a belt on, and that belt was from Old Navy, but that’s about as stylish as I get. Put succinctly, it should have been pretty obvious that I did not want a haircut that sort of–but not quite–resembles a faux-hawk.

Now, yes, I should probably assume some blame for not knowing quite what to say when you asked if I wanted you to cut my bangs, but, hear me out, I was in shock.

This was the first time in my entire twenty-four years of life that someone has asked me if I wanted my bangs cut.

Who does that?

Who gets their hair cut–short, mind you, essentially a damn buzz cut–and says, “Nope! Leave the bangs four inches long! I wanna look like a chav!”

(Well, I guess the answer to that would be “chavs.” However, as I am not a wearer of track suits, nor do I drink alcopop, I am not a chav, and, thus, would quite like my bangs cut.)

So, madame, my answer of “Er, half?” should have been another clue to you that I had no idea what I was talking about and you, being the person who has a fancy certificate proudly displayed by a mirror, should be able to figure out that “Er, half?” is a sign that a person doesn’t quite know what’s going on, but does want that portion of his hair cut.

Which brings me to another kvetching point: “Proportional” is apparently a difficult word. I tried using that after “Er, half?” and got a blank stare. “I’d like them cut proportional to the length of the hair you already cut.” I.e., don’t let it do what it’s doing now: shooting out by about two inches when I’ve trimmed my hair. That’s messed up, yo.

So, please, in the future, when you’ve got a person coming through your door at Great Clips, read them. Look at them. Observe. You’ve got the ability to make judgement calls. Do it. You’ll get a better tip and, probably, a return customer.

Of course, as everyone I tell all of this to says, “Just don’t go to Great Clips.”

Maybe they’re right. It’s not that much cheaper anymore, anyway.

Yours sincerely,

Aaron Simon

My joke, non-answer is “Why not?”

To be serious, though: I’ve been thinking a lot about these questions for a very long time now, starting with whenever it was when I first started thinking about the role of the individual in society.

I keep trying to answer questions as they arise, and no matter what I say, it doesn’t seem quite right. I never know why it doesn’t feel right, exactly, but every answer I’ve given—and received to my questions—feels flat. It doesn’t matter how in-depth my answer to a question has been, it always seems like there’s just one more dimension that I could be utilizing.

To illustrate, it’s like every conversation on ethics, government, religion, philosophy, or whatever, is part of an interstate. Each conversation—more importantly, each answer—is like that part of the interstate you’re on when you’re going from Point A to Point B. It may seem like you’re arriving at a destination, but you know that, beyond that exit, there’s another one. Further, you know that they’re interconnected, and that if you went one step further, you might feel better about where you end up.

Some people don’t seem to have this dilemma. Well, no, that’s not right. Most people I talk to don’t seem to have this dilemma. That, probably, is because I spend a lot of time observing and off in my own bubble—moreso than a number of people who are out doing instead of thinking.

Point is, I always walk away from a conversation with a person who disagrees with my standpoint very underwhelmed. They may have made very salient, intelligent points, but something about what they say inevitably leaves me disappointed.

That kind of sounds like a prick thing to say, doesn’t it? Well, I don’t mean it like that. I fully recognize that my understanding of what constitutes “fun” is more at home in, say, a philosophy course than a bar, and this is why I’m a huge downer at parties. I tend to try and have arguments about existentialism or objectivism when the other party would rather be trying to hook up with someone.

Once again, I’m a huge downer.

Careening back to the above points: I think that the reason I walk away from an argument more perplexed than anything else isn’t because the other party has changed my mind—though, of course, that happens—it’s more that I often come away thinking, “How could they possibly think that way?”

For whatever reason, I try to see the entirety of an Interstate than the few miles between exists. You could say I’m a big-picture kind of guy, I guess, though that’s usually a term reserved for coked-out producers in Hollywood.

See, I think that ultimately, when I have an argument about what sort of tax structure we need in the U.S., I’d much rather be having a discussion that boils down to “What, at the base of it all, do you believe? What do you think about the ‘nature’ of man? What do you think about what that says about how man should interact with the world? Is that your definition of ethics? Why should we act that way?”

That’s right: If you want to have a conversation about Real Things with me—and not, say, whether or not Mordin Solus is the best professor in the history of all fiction—then you’d better be ready to define your entire bloody worldview, starting with what makes up the human body.

This, also, is why I have a very small, but robust, group of friends: It takes a long time for me to get a very good judge of character.

This, then, got me to thinking about what it is that I believe about everything. Of course, I didn’t think that in one swoop. It hit me as a series of shouts by those different parts of my brain, all screaming at once.

I spent the entirety of my bus ride ignoring high school kids screaming, state workers muttering, and then, after I left the bus, the whooshing of traffic as it whizzed by me, thinking about all of that. How it all fit together, whether or not I could easily get it all down in one blog post.

Of course, no. I can’t. That’s a ton of thinking. That’s a huge amount of topics.

So I started thinking some more. This time, I thought back to what little I remember about proofs in algebra and geometry. Break everything down, step by step. What causes “ethics?” What is the role of humanity? How does humanity relate to the world—all of the questions from a few paragraphs before, just in reverse order.

So, I then thought about how to implement that without spending several years doing so and pulling a Montaigne—who all of you should read if you haven’t. Even just a few of his essays. You can find Best Of collections all over the Internet. Go!  Read him! He’s much more interesting than I am!

For those of you who stuck around after that flurry of exclamation points, hi.

I’m going to try to break down what makes my philosophy what it is. When I can, I’m going to back it up with links and citations (further reading, you see), but my main focus is going to be just getting everything down in writing. Apologies if something I write comes across as thin. If I don’t have anything to back it up, I like nothing more than to have a nice, long, protracted discussion over Guinness.

So, that’s what I’m doing with this. That’s why I’m doing this. It may not be interesting to you, and if it’s not: Sorry. The six entries that follow this one will probably be over pretty quickly, and after that, if I haven’t alienated you, then I’ll go right back to faking e-mails, yammering about video games, and writing shitty one-act plays about how inept Tennessee is.

But I’d like to end this first post by trying to get you to think down to the root of whatever you believe. Why do you believe that? What made you that way?

As Socrates said: “…the greatest good of a man is daily to converse about virtue, and all that concerning which you hear me examining myself and others, and that the life which is unexamined is not worth living…” (Apology, Plato’s account of the trial and death of Socrates)