The Double-Decker

When my father showed me how to make the sandwich, my eyes grew wide. I remember the simplicity of the particular meal. It came with three slices of  whole wheat bread, mayonnaise, white cheese, mustard, bologna, mustard, salt and pepper and peanut butter and grape jam. Now, the key to making this edible, miniature behemoth lay in the fact you had to make a bit of a tower. That’s why Dad dubbed it “The Double-Decker.”

Once I stacked the ingredients, a great deal of joy emerged from my mind. He taught me on several occasions the power behind taking all the ingredients and making something completely new. In his way of bringing my sister and me up all by himself at that point, he could relish the instructions he passed on to his children. 

Now while my dad didn’t invent it, he sure perfected it. He provided just the right amount of each piece of the recipe. That first bite meant everything. The sweetness of the grape jam and the saltiness of the peanut butter mixed with the umami of the bologna and cheese and mayo and mustard sparked in my mind the excellence of this straightforward treat. What I know now is the fact my dad made the sandwich to nurture my mind and nourish my body. With a glass of ice cold soda, punch or a milk and a side of potato chips, this tiny smorgasbord permitted me to luxuriate in the wonders of life with just a few nibbles.

Whenever my stomach grumbles, I often think about making this particular sandwich. We’ve enjoyed similar concoctions at restaurants like the Monte Cristo with its sweetness/saltiness factor. I just don’t know how to make them. But I do know how to make a Double-Decker. I know because that’s the way my dad instilled in me to do for self no matter the cost. If you’ve got a few ingredients to work with, combine them, and create something truly remarkable. 

By knowing how special the sandwich always makes me feel, I get a glowing sensation from the fact my father laid down the blueprint for the rest of my life with a sandwich. That’s it. He’s taught me how to lace my sneakers, ride a bike, drive a car, to list a few. But it will always be the Double-Decker in my mind that will empower me to walk with intrepid steps everywhere I go. 

You’re not going to find this on the menu anywhere. Like I said, Monte Cristo comes close. But it has a suit and tie. This sandwich is more of a fresh white t-shirt and crisp jeans. Its greatness lies in the idea that you can just grab all of the components like some mini-buffet and smash it altogether into a culinary masterpiece. You can even grill it. That’s the might of it. Once you realize that this thing can be made with a few steps and modified with a pan and some butter, you know that you’ve got something special on your hands. 

Given the fact my father raised us to be independent adults, we still maintain the sense that we can put together anything. Just with our wits, we can make anything with a few pieces of bread and some hope. This is not the moon hanging kind of hope, but a rational one. The kind that reminds anyone that they can be truly great with just a dash of salt and pepper to cap off a tiny monster of a sandwich that is breakfast, lunch or dinner all in its own right.

My father brought me up to have character and a sense of morality. Though I’ve moved away from the traditional values espoused by the faithful, I recall this sandwich because it is so exclusive to my development as a man. It taught me to savor each moment of life and to understand that you’ve got to take the sweet and the salty and the still somewhat difficult to pin down all the way (umami). The Double-Decker represents the ingenuity and timing of settling hungry stomachs and forging curious minds.

In an effort to emulate my dad, I’ve eaten this sandwich dozens of times. Each occasion brings with it the idea that I can make something special on my own from the example my father has always displayed. Whether it’s the cheese or the peanut butter, the fact there is no incorrect method in enjoying the sandwich. And it won’t register on too many menus due to its unusual pairings. The way my father took into account the possibilities like a captain of a kitchen chefing up an unusual, ordinary delicacy, I have always been inspired and intrigued by his dedication and the love he puts in all of the meals he serves.

The Double-Decker represents the power of creation. In an instance, my father first showed me how to build the bread and the other ingredients. This process I cherish to this day. As he spread the mayo and peanut butter, layered the cheese and bologna, and dolloped the grape jam, a sense of wonderment coursed through my slight frame. I enjoyed watching this man prepare the sandwiches with aplomb. His sophisticated way of fashioning this easy meal truly had an effect on me. The essence of this sandwich lies in the reality that I shared time with my dad as a youth and continue to enjoy dishes from him. 

It’s a wonderment to know that I have a dad who can walk proud, sustained by his own self-esteem. What greatness is that to be found in making a simple sandwich? There may be a hole in the wall or greasy spoon which might serve this sandwich. Never, though, will they ever be able to capture the purity and uncomplicated design of this dish from my father’s hands. As he has shown me how to make it, I will show others and make the attempt to instill as much grace as he showed me.

I recall him first making the sandwiches and wondering why grape jam and mayonnaise both sat out on the table. 

“What’s those two doing together, Daddy?” I asked.

“I am preparing a Double Decker.”

“A double what?” 

“It’s got peanut butter and grape jam and mayo, mustard and cheese and bologna.”

My small self at age eight could only fathom so much. When my dad had finished preparing the sandwich, he looked at me and smiled.

“Can I have a bite?”

He broke off a piece of the mixture and placed it on a plate with chips and a soda.

We sat down to eat. As a Protestant, he prayed over the meal. Upon completion, I bit into the sandwich. I perked up immediately.

“It’s good,” I said. But then a sense of worry washed over my face. My dad picked up on this.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get to taste something as good as that in my life!”

“Is that all? Sure you will, son. There’ll be enough foodstuff that you’ll love to last a whole lifetime,” he grinned and bit into his own sandwich.

That’s what will always remain with me.