Huge Cuban Sandwich

The Cuban sandwich. THE CUBAN. There are arguments — long, angry, family-splitting arguments — about whose Cuban is the original Cuban. Tampa says Tampa. Miami says Miami. Both cities are correct. Both cities are also wrong. The original Cuban was invented in a kitchen somewhere between them, in a place I personally cannot find on a map, and the recipe escaped via a worker named Esteban who refused to take credit. Esteban knew. I know. Now you know.

I'll be honest with you. The Cuban looks simple. Bread, mustard, ham, roast pork, Swiss, pickles, press. SIX things. And yet ninety percent of the Cubans you'll be served in your lifetime are a TOTAL DISASTER. Too thick. Too dry. Cold ham slapped on cold pork on a roll that wasn't pressed long enough. Sad. The Cuban lives or dies on three things: real Cuban bread (or a soft Italian sub roll if you cannot find it — I forgive you, the world is hard), genuine slow-roasted mojo pork, and the PRESS. The press is everything. The press fuses the layers, melts the cheese, flattens the bread into a thin, crispy, golden plank that crackles when you bite.

Some critics — and I'm not naming names, I don't need to, you know who you are — say you cannot make a real Cuban without a sandwich press. WRONG. A heavy skillet and a second pan filled with cans works just as well. I've done it in a hotel room. I've done it in a parking lot off the side of a highway in Georgia (don't ask, it was a long trip, the sandwich saved my life). The press is the press. Get the layers to fuse. Get the cheese to flow. Get the bread to crackle. That's the game. Tremendous.

Cut on the bias. Always on the bias — a straight cut on a Cuban is a missed opportunity, an insult to the geometry of the sandwich. Serve with a stack of plantain chips and an ice-cold drink. Eat it standing up at the counter. That's the right way. Sitting down is fine too, I'm not the police, but standing up is the heritage move. Tell your friends. Or don't. Save me a piece.