Holiday Sandwich Spectacular
Written by Bwog Staff
As promised, we’ve reviewed those silly holiday sandwiches for the benefit of the consumer- you! Correspondent Dena Yago offers the following appraisal.
Religious culinary politics, a pre-eminent topic this time of year, has revealed itself not so subtly on behalf of the $5.50 Holiday Sandwiches sold around campus. My experience with these creations left me unscathed, if eleven dollars poorer in my much-guarded freshman points.
Where to begin? Unaware of the conflict I was about to incite, I simultaneously purchased the Chanukah sandwich, made of corned beef brisket on a potato roll with “Jewish” mustard and pickled cabbage, and the Kwanzaa wrap, made of roasted sweet potatoes with caramelized onions and cranberry chutney. The Christmas sandwich could only be eaten a day later, as Cafe 212 ran out of the hot commodity, and it refused to comment on its – ahem – segregation.
Regarding the latter, the Christmas sandwich came in two guises: either a roast turkey wrap with cranberry mayonnaise and roast sweet potatoes, or honey baked ham on ficelle with grilled pineapple and sweet red peppers. Both of these were considerably more filling than the other two sandwiches, presumably much like the Christian faith. All went well while eating this Jesus sandwich; it was much like a full meal for my finals-famished body. Then I thought to myself, “What would Jesus have on his holiday sandwich?”and I realized that he would probably be found sitting in Nazareth, licking some Jewish mustard off of his beard while reverently saving some beef brisket for God.
But back to the previous day, when I overestimated my stomach’s capacity and bought both the Kwanzaa and Chanukah sandwich. The sweet potato battled with the salt soaked corn beef in my stomach, creating a mixture of tastes that I strove to avoid later by opting for the saltier Christmas wrap over the sweet and honey baked Christmas sandwich. I realized I had made the largest mistake of a culinary food critic; I did not allow the flavorful creations enough time to come into their own.
While I ingested religious stereotypes, numerous questions began crossing my mind: Why was the Kwanzaa sandwich vegetarian? Why was the only condiment Jewish mustard? Why be so insensitive to reduce centuries of racial struggle and oppression into a spinach wrap? What would a Scientologist sandwich taste like?
While I am not sure I have the answers to many of these existentially plaguing questions, I can affirm this much: I was fulfilled and satisfied. And to answer the most consequential question of all: a Scientologist sandwich would probably taste like money. [Ed. note: Add this to our astute suggestion of a possible agnostic sandwich.]