Read this if you've never heard of a tomato sandwich

Welcome to another week of my random musings and observations. Before we get into it, a few quick food recommendations for you.

The flammkuchen at Tuba Baking Co. in Dayton, Kentucky

This is one of the best things I've eaten all month. Essentially a German-style pizza, the flammkuchen features an oblong crust made with sourdough and rye. It's topped with creme fraiche, speck, Gruyere and thinly sliced onions. Enjoy it with one of the many German lagers they have on tap. ($12)

The hamachi tiradito from Mita's, Downtown

Executive chef Tim McClain is really hitting the mark at Mita's these days. His Peruvian-style sashimi with yellowtail amberjack with crisp, raw asparagus, crunchy marcona almonds and a sweet, tart rhubarb sauce is all the proof you need. ($19)

On tomato sandwiches

I don’t know when I had my first tomato sandwich. All I know is that it took far too long to do it.

I certainly didn’t grow up eating them. As a kid, I thought of tomatoes as little more than a bland garnish for hamburgers and pizza-parlor salads rather than the primary component of a sandwich. Of course, I didn’t grow up with real tomatoes – the ones like my Italian grandparents grew in their tiny urban gardens. Instead, I suffered through their pale and chalky counterparts. Sturdy, shippable little suckers you can find year-round at the local grocery.

My introduction to good tomatoes (and, in turn, good tomato sandwiches) happened sometime in the early 2010s when I started attending an annual food-writing conference in Oxford, Mississippi. It was there I overheard some of my fellow attendees waxing poetic about the tomato sandwiches they grew up with. I also heard a mouthful about the proper construction of the sandwich and which mayonnaise you were commanded, it seemed, by God to use (that’d be Duke’s).

Tapping into a Southern tradition that was not my own, I started picking up tomatoes at the local farmers market in Brooklyn and making the sandwiches for myself. Boy, was I missing out. To make up for lost time, I’ve thought of July through September as tomato sandwich season. One that’s in full force right now in Ohio.

Aside from weekend farmers markets, the tomatoes I usually get are from Adams County and are available at Hyde Park Fine Meats, which keeps them conveniently located by the cash register.

I know everyone has their own way of making a tomato sandwich. Some are fine with just a few slices of tomato and some mayonnaise. While others, myself included, tend to be more ambitious.

No matter how you slice it, a tomato sandwich should always be about the tomato itself. I cut mine thick and sprinkle them with coarse sea salt. While some prefer a rustic bread that maintains its structural integrity, I like grocery store bread (shout out to Pepperidge Farm Hearty White) so I can squish all of the ingredients together so they don't fall apart when I take my first bite.

Those ingredients vary depending on my mood or what I have in the fridge or the pantry. Lately, I’ve been adding pimento cheese (the version from In the Curious Kitchen in Northern Kentucky is particularly good). I also use pesto made with scapes, basil or ramps, anchovies or capers for brininess, and pickles and potato chips for crunch.

No matter how you do it, make tomato sandwiches a summer tradition this year.

Ode to the 'sad desk lunch'

While The Enquirer is still letting us work from home, I’ve been coming into the office more than usual in recent weeks. Part of the reason is that our ongoing kitchen renovation has turned our humble home into a construction zone. The other is that I miss being around fellow writers and editors who do what I do for a living.

My return to the office has also meant the return of the sad desk lunch. The ones you heat up in the office microwave. The ones that you eat, mindlessly, while scrolling through social media, hoping your boss doesn’t walk by and see. (As I write this, one of my Enquirer colleagues just asked me if I had a plastic fork for the sad Lean Cuisine she’s heating up in the ol' Sharp Carousel).

For me, a sad desk lunch can mean anything from a sad turkey sandwich made at home with cold cuts, to sad dinner leftovers, to sad grocery store sushi. But if I had to pick my favorite sad desk lunch, I’d have to go with the chopped salad, the ones I learned to love (sort of) while working in Midtown Manhattan.

“Do you mean a tossed salad?” my editor asked when I recently mentioned my fondness for chopped salads. My answer was both yes and no. While a chopped salad can be many things, the version I'm referring to is one where the ingredients are assembled first before being chopped into uniform pieces and tossed in the dressing of your choice. Though I can see why the true definition of a chopped salad can be open to interpretation.

As Amanda Hesser wrote 22 years ago in the New York Times, “Many cuisines include different kinds of chopped salads. In Middle Eastern cooking, a tabbouleh could be considered a kind of chopped salad. So could many Mediterranean salads, as well as the German shredded salads with cabbages and vinegar. But chopped salads in American cooking owe more to the salade compose, the composed salad from France. The main difference between the American and French versions is that the components in a composed salad tend to be left in larger pieces.”

In most big cities, chopped salads are available at corner delis, though you can get more elevated versions from chains such as Sweet Green and Chop’t that have yet to arrive in Cincinnati. Here, our one and only chopped salad spot is the Louisville-based chain Green District, located Downtown across from the Contemporary Arts Center. (Note that there is nothing on the menu that mentions chopped salad specifically. You have to ask. You would think that most salad spots would offer a similar option, but when I tried to order a chopped salad from Ingredients inside the Westin, they told me I was thinking of Green District, which must be the only place to get them. If I’m wrong, please let me know.)

At Green District, you choose from a list of ingredients (sort of Chipotle-style), starting with your green and your protein. Then you add everything else, some of those things are included in the price and others are considered “extras” (cheddar cheese, for example, is included; feta, however, will cost you).

I usually go with a mix of romaine and grilled chicken with feta, black olives, onions, walnuts and chickpeas with ranch dressing. The magic of the chopped salad is the uniform distribution of the ingredients, flavors and textures. Given how many rich foods I eat each week, they are a welcome, brilliantly bland way to cleanse my palate. Here's hoping we see more chopped salad (or even some good tossed salad) spots open soon.

This cheese stands alone

I’ve been singing the praises of Urban Stead Cheese since I started this job almost two years ago. So I was proud when I saw, via Instagram, that their cheddar cheese (known as Street Ched) was awarded Best Cheddar in Ohio at this year’s Ohio State Fair. That’s a big deal since the Evanston cheese shop, owned by Andrea and Scott Robbins, was among 60 competitors.

“We entered an 11 month aged wheel into the 'mild cheddar' category & a 24 month aged wheel into the 'aged cheddar' category & they both placed first!” Urban Stead posted on Instagram. “All of the first place cheeses, including both of our cheddars, then went head to head in competition for what is essentially 'best in show.' Our 11 month aged Street Ched shined & was awarded Reserve Grand Champion, and we couldn’t be more proud.”

If you haven’t visited Urban Stead yet, you’re missing out. Their cheese shop is also home to a great bar where you can pair their cheddar, as well as other Urban Stead cheeses, with your favorite wine or beer.

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Well, that's it for this edition of At the Table. See you next Wednesday.

Keith Pandolfi covers food and dining for The Enquirer/Cincinnati.com. Click here for his most recent articles, and follow his latest dining adventures on Instagram @keithpandolfi or via the At the Table newsletter. 

This article originally appeared on Cincinnati Enquirer: Read this if you've never heard of a tomato sandwich