Peanut butter at times is fine, pastrami on rye or a grilled Reuben will do the job. Low on those, toss me a patty melt and I won’t whine too much. But if you want me to have a lunch that fills the stomach without over doing the bill, I have to have my sandwich.
There is a bakery in Rush City Minnesota that bakes, makes, creates, whatever you call it, a bread. The guy I get it from would kill me because he leaves me with a loaf or two every time we fish, but for the life of me I can never remember the name of the bread. Its thick, honey covered crust, full of all kinds of stuff like wild rice and it even has a roasted cheese if I recall.
This bread if you ever have it toasted, you could east a loaf of it for breakfast lunch or supper and you’d be happy. But for my sandwich, I grab four slices and start to slather it right from the wrapper.
Name escapes me no matter how hard I try, but the taste I never forget because I use it when I’m making the best fish sandwich ever. The best fish sandwich, which has to have the perfect fish, and that’s perch.
Twelve inch long, under the ice, winter time perch that come from one lake. I’ve tried it with walleye, but walleye is too thick on one end, too thin on the other and using a couple smaller sunnie or bluegills fill it, but they slip around too much. The 12 inch perch pile in perfectly. I mean a nice big set of hands full of sandwich.
And a fish sandwich has to have a sauce, made fresh sauce. A sauce of fresh salad dressing with fresh diced dill, fresh squeezed lemon, whipped to a froth spread over fresh crisp lettuce. Fresh lots of fresh. And my sauce doesn’t ooze out of the bread, the sauce is made right and the bread don’t let nothing get gushy.
Oh and I don’t make one of these gustatory gems, I always make two. Even if I don’t finish the second one, somebody else is always willing to. The trout whisperer