This sandwich is one of two things we introduced to our Minnesota lifestyle when we returned. (The other being the delicious pineapple flavored soda Jupina). We bought a George Foreman grill. We scouted out the perfect English muffin-sized flat bread. We stocked the fridge with generic yellow mustard and sandwich pickles. Every few months, we rip through deli meat and a block of cheddar, and abuse the mustard until it farts Pollack globs on to the bread. The George Foreman develops a rind of melted cheese chips.
The Midnight Sandwich is an elixir. Like pizza or Super Potato Oles. It's name comes from a time when these sandwiches were served late at night in bars and clubs, presumably to combat the effects of the drink.
I made one of these sandwiches on Friday night for this exact reason. I piled pastrami on the bread, criss-crossed cheese slices, painted it with mustard, plopped it on the grill. Five minutes later I took a bite. Took another bite. Set the sandwich aside and crawled into bed. That's when the whole mess bungeed from my stomach, ejected itself in curdled waves of glop. I didn't even have time to get to the bathroom. Instead, this mess spilled over the side of the bed and onto the pile of books and magazines I leave next to my bed. The paperbacks were casualties: a copy of Electric Kool Ade Acid Test, a book by Penelope Fitzgerald I scored for a dollar at a Friends of the Library sale. A copy of Real Simple that included two recipes I hadn't gotten around to testing. The two books I am reading: "Cooking Dirty" by Jason Sheehan, and "Juliet, Naked by Nick Hornby. A vegetarian cookbook. The last three are hardcovers. I sprayed them with Pledge, and wiped off the covers. The cookbook may not survive. "Cooking Dirty" seems okay. I had to finish "Juliet, Naked," fingering embedded chunks of the Midnight Sandwich.
So, that was gross. Also: I woke up at 7:36 p.m. So Saturday really did not exist at all on my planet.