Simplicity Sandwich

Summertime is birthday and anniversary season in my house, and there is invariably a lot of secret keeping, dangling of hints, and other assorted attempts at romantic cagey-ness, which is kind of nice after eleven years of bliss. My birthday comes first, at the end of June, so by mid-month, Susan had all of her plans in place, and no matter what I did, I couldn’t guess what she had up her sleeve. She’s a fairly predictable person, so I was really stumped.

Our early birthday celebrations together were often grand-ish affairs; I remember a meal at a multi-star inn in Fairfield County, Connecticut, but I have no idea what I ate. There was another dinner, at Cavey’s in Manchester, Connecticut, which required my driving through one of the most dangerous parts of Hartford; we ate in the formal French dining room–I think there was foie gras and some sort of rhubarb glaze–but what I remember most of all was the fact that we were one of two couples dining that night, the husband ordered a Bud and the wife ordered an oaky chardonnay, and probably because I ordered an ’83 Les Pallieres Gigondas (the perfect wine for a hot summer night. What the hell was I thinking?), the host poured us two delicious glasses of Pineau des Charentes. That was that.

I’d like to think that with age (hopefully) comes wisdom, and over time, our celebrations have become far less elaborate. One year, Susan took me to the Elizabeth Park rose garden in Hartford; another year, we went kayaking and had a picnic. Susan’s preferred activity has always somehow centered around the act of trying to sink a small dimpled ball into 18 tiny, pre-drilled holes, and stopping for a grilled hot dog on the 9th.

Anyway, I had no idea what she had planned this year; I was instructed to get into the car, and off we went, heading west. After I figured out we weren’t going to upstate New York or the Berkshires, I tossed out the only other option: Pennsylvania. She nodded. I asked if we were going to visit the camp I attended, to which I am hopelessly devoted after nearly forty years. Nope. Guess again. Then it hit me.

We were going to do something that, since I was ten years old, I had always wanted to do. I dreamt of this place, this Nirvana, this heaven-on-earth. I had read about it for years, this Iowa cornfield-if-you-build-it-they-will-come factory not far from Pennsylvania coal country. I was going to the C.F. Martin guitar factory, and for my level of excitement, I might as well have been ten years old again.

Disclosure: The other part of my life that does not revolve around food and writing revolves instead around listening to and playing roots music, and so fanatically hardcore am I about Martins (I presently own two of them) that I can accurately guess one’s date of manufacture and style from fifteen paces. So this was a big, big deal.

All told, it was a great day. The factory tour, which lasted for about an hour, revealed the slightly mechanized, highly quality-controlled means by which 180 or so guitars are made, mostly by hand, every day (Martin was founded in 1833 by German immigrant Christian Frederick Martin). And while watching the process unfold, I realized that it was not at all a stretch to liken it to what I had just seen in Parma, a few weeks prior: a beloved, artisanal product is hand-crafted to high specifications with the help of a few machines that allow the producer to create enough of them to fulfill demand, and stay in business. But they never, ever cut back on quality. Did I mention ever? Ever.

Lunch that day was at the perfect Valley View Diner in Nazareth, and it was lined in turquoise vinyl booths. I ate the best tuna salad sandwich of my life; I took a bite, and it didn’t fall out the back side of the bread the way it always does. That night, we stayed at the Glasbern Inn, a 100 acre, certified organic working farm serving its own produce as well as pastured beef and lamb. Dinner was a simply prepared steak, and a bottle of exquisitely peppery 2007 Willamette Valley Pinot Noir. Pennsylvania being Pennsylvania, Susan went straight for the spaetzle.

The older I get, the less fancy I need, or even want. I just want to know that the things that I love, and the things that are important to a lot of other people who are turned on by artisanal products—be it Prosciutto di Parma, or a Martin 00-18 with a vintage-shape neck and an under-the-finish pickguard—are made the way they always have been.

It was the best birthday ever.

The Best Tuna Salad Sandwich

There’s something about a well-made diner tuna salad sandwich on toast (very important, because the toast forms a moisture barrier) that just screams perfection; it’s never heavy on mayo, it usually lacks tomato but includes a few greens. And while tradition dictates that it be had on white toast, I don’t eat white carbs, so whole wheat had to do. This sandwich, which I ate at the Valley View Diner in Nazareth, Pennsylvania, was perfect. This is my (not quite perfect) rendition.

Makes 1 sandwich

1 6-1/2 ounce can albacore tuna, drained

1 tablespoon diced celery

1/2 tablespoon minced shallot

1-2 tablespoons mayonnaise

1/4 teaspoon celery salt

2 slices whole wheat bread

2 lettuce leaves of your choosing

1. In a small bowl, mash the tuna and add to it the celery, shallot, and mayo. Combine well, but don’t overmix.

2. Season with the celery salt, and toast the bread.

3. Place the leaves on the toast, and top with the tuna.