My Ruben Bender

I'm coming off a 3-day Ruben binge, so I apologize in advance for the words I am about to type. I'm cranky, and I cannot be sure that I will be very cordial as I pontificate. For days, I've been living, moving and breathing under the intoxicating influence of my favorite sandwich. But as Newton taught us, what goes up must come down, and I'm well on my way to a fiery crash. Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground.

It all started on Saturday, when my wife returned from the market with a large bag of thinly-sliced, perfectly-cooked corned beef, 2 loaves of Jewish rye, a large bag of sauerkraut, a bag of deliciously delightful deli Swiss cheese and a bottle of Thousand Island dressing. I wept as I opened the grocery bags and caressed what would soon be breakfast, lunch and dinner over the next few days. With one seemingly innocuous purchase, she had made me a happy man, though she would live to regret her decision and soon found herself in the midst of an intervention.

It had been years since my last Ruben bender. So long, in fact, that I had convinced myself that I had tamed my cravings for this succulent sandwich. Wickenburg, AZ, was where it all began, which in itself is an irony. You see, Wickenburg is the treatment center capital of the US. Folks come from all over the world to get cleaned up from their addictions in Wickenburg, and yet it was here that I developed my first serious addiction.

Frank's Deli had just opened up. I was young and impressionable. I had never eaten a Ruben - never even heard of 'em, actually. I know it may seem strange to you, but although many wonderful culinary creations have hailed from the Southeast over the years, sandwiches are not chief among them. In my home town, your sandwich options were ham and cheese, pimento cheese, or on rare occasions, banana and mayonnaise. Corned beef was not an orthodox food item in my house, and I was 24 before I discovered the magical mystery tour that is sauerkraut. On a wild hare, I decided to expand my horizons, so I ordered up a Ruben. I think it was the name that first drew me in. Ruben. It's ethnic... it's edgy... and it's downright fun to say. While my wife was busy ordering an entree with a side of this and a side of that, but not too heavy on the this-that-and-the-other, I just winked at the waitress and said, 'give me a Ruben, sweetheart.' When my order arrived, I was intrigued. Though promising with its beef, dripping melted cheese and kraut, I was taken aback by the 2 thick slabs of marble rye bread that flanked my inner sandwich goody. My previous encounters with rye bread had all ended badly, as the mediciney taste of caraway seed sometimes triggers my gag reflexes. But I had come too far to back down at this point. The last thing I remember, as I picked up the massive sandwich, was the feeling of melted butter running down my arms as I lunged face-first into the steamy layers of beef, cheese, kraut and dressing. Instantly, I was transported to a time and a place that transcended all that I had previously known. The room began to spin as I saw colors never before seen by the human eye. Ethereal, melodious sounds began to woo me as my body shivered with delight. I had become one with the Ruben, and like so many junkies who had gone before me, I was hooked.

That first Ruben led to another... then another. Pretty soon, I was a regular at Frank’s. In a month’s time, our ‘Dining Out’ budget was shot to hell. When the money ran out, I looked for new ways to fund my addiction. Armed robbery, prostitution, dealing… I would have pursued any of them had I not had such generous friends who willingly supported my habit. Fortunately, my wife loved me enough then to intervene and get me the help that I needed. Thanks to her, I’m alive today. What possessed her to dangle the forbidden fruit in front of my face once more, I may never know.

As for me, I’m thinking a trip to Wickenburg may be in order. Somehow, I’ve got to get the help that I need. And if the plethora of treatment centers can’t give me the solution to my problem, there’s always Frank’s Deli.