Sandwiches she has known, loved

Ever since I went on the low-carb Atkins diet, I've been thinking about sandwiches, which are basically forbidden on the plan. I've been thinking of the incomparable taste and satisfaction of meat between two slabs of bread, of where renowned sandwiches -- the po' boy and the croque-monsieur, for example -- came from and of great sandwiches I have known during my travels.

The precise origins of the sandwich are shrouded in mystery, despite the credit often given to British statesman and rake John Montagu, the fourth earl of Sandwich, for inventing them. Culinary historians suggest that he got the idea from meat-filled pita pockets he saw during his travels in the eastern Mediterranean. Back in England, he ordered a cook to make him something he could eat without utensils during an all-night gambling marathon in 1762, considered the official birth date of the sandwich.

After that, the English went nuts for the earl's creation. From there, they created and perfected the tea sandwich, made of such delicacies as watercress, cucumber and salmon between two dainty squares of bread (no crusts, please).

The British, it seems to me, will put just about anything into a sandwich with what they call "salad," meaning lettuce. The sandwiches you get from vending machines in England aren't bad, but truth be told, I've never had a really top-notch sandwich there.

But I fondly remember sandwiches I ate in Ireland on a bike tour my sister and I took about 10 years ago through County Clare. These were made of tough, thick farm bacon on fortifying brown Irish bread, with butter, the leavings of hearty breakfasts. I remember breaking them out on the windy Cliffs of Moher, followed by a dessert of Cadbury's hazelnut chocolate bars.

In effect, they were BLTs without the L and T, just one of America's great contributions to the culinary art, though it took the French invention of mayonnaise in the 18th century to complete it.

For reasons only a sociologist could fathom, America has been a sandwich hotbed, home of that controversial symbol of globalization, the hamburger, not to mention its divine patty melt variation -- ground beef, American cheese and caramelized onions between slices of toasted rye.

The best patty melt sandwich I ever tasted was at a Woolworth's lunch counter in downtown East St. Louis, Ill., where no one gave a fig for Dr. Atkins then.