
Hanukkah is out there, somewhere, hidden within the last few months of the year by the ancient designs of an unknowable lunar calendar. I have been Jewish all my life and never once known when Hanukkah is, or will be, or if it has already been. Itās impossible to plan for, and this year in particular I cannot be bothered to consult the oracles or check Google or whatever. But even the celestial whims of the moon herself canāt keep us from heavy traditional foods, and in the spirit of holiday hedonism I offer this ode to my favorite culinary product of the Jewish diaspora: the Reuben sandwich.
A Reuben, to those who have never spoken to a New Yorker at length, is a glistening heap of either corned beef or pastrami, topped with sauerkraut (pickled cabbage), melted Swiss cheese, and unctuously slathered with either Russian or Thousand Island dressing. This is typically placedāwith either fawning care or callow disregard depending on the quality of your deliābetween slices of sturdy rye bread, which are often also fried in butter.
The debate between the two respective meats and dressings is to me the choice between Peter Gabrial Genesis and Phil Collins Genesis: the merits of either can be argued by purists, but both are capable of producing bops. Whatās most important, according to local sandwich aficionado (and legendary TV writer) Bill Oakley, is balance: āI donāt want any one element to overwhelm the sandwich. I want the meat, I want the sauerkraut or coleslaw (depending on how you make it), and I want a lot of Thousand Island or Russian dressing, because that's the thing that they always skimp on. So I always ask for it on the side as well. I think that 90 percent of Reubens don't have enough of that in my opinion.ā

We have perhaps grown inured to the idea of a Reuben because it is ubiquitous on restaurant menusābut so is lobster and that doesn't make it right. Under any scrutiny the Reuben is an assault on good sense, composed of overwhelmingly intense ingredients that were supposed to get Romanian peasants through unforgiving winters at a time when half a head of cabbage was expected to feed a family of 27. Despite copious amounts of salad dressing and the presence of said cabbage, a Reuben is actually the philosophical opposite of a salad, nitrate rich and nutrient poor. It is also an extremely delicious combination of Old World flavors, which is why both greasy spoons and fancy bistros have been throwing them on hot griddles for the better part of a century.
Where, then, to satiate a Reuben fixation? The common wisdom is that Goose Hollow Inn has the best in town, and much as I might like to make waves with audacious pronouncements, I simply canāt in this case. Itās a damn-near perfect specimen, with generously thick curls of corned beef nestled in perfect syncopation with a pungent strata of sauerkraut, and their signature āReuben sauceā evenly distributed throughout. But itās the bread thatās the real triumph, with an impossibly thin cracker-crisp shell encasing rich, chewy, coffee-brown rye. If I have a gripe, itās that the sauerkraut is situated between layers of meat, which leads to some slip-n-sliding. But I rank structural integrity low on the hierarchy of Reuben needs. Since itās an inherently sloppy sandwich, a fair amount of it is going down the side of your sleeve. A Reuben can be a date food, but only if youāre trying to conform to some kind of avant-garde lifestyle blog.
For those who prefer variety over doctrine, thereās Edelweiss Sausage & Delicatessen, which has the most subgenres under one roof. The signature Edelweiss Reuben is a mustard-forward Frankenstein, but they have classic corned beef and pastrami versions, as well as red cabbage and turkey variants. These are Reubens wise to the parable of Icarus, satisfyingly unambitious examples of the form, and wise as well to the parable of Fieri which is that if Guy Fieri likes it you canāt go too wrong.

The best vegetarian Reuben can be found at DC Vegetarian, and itās completely viable as a Reuben, full stop, no vegetarian asterix. Itās got the heft that indicates a filling sandwich even before tooth hits bread, and most importantly they nail the sauerkraut-dressing ratio. Iām not well-versed in what counts as a good house seitan, but whatās in there is smoky and robustly layered in a way that indicates āReuben-nessā without lurching into the uncanny valley. An honorable mention goes to Fermenterās Koji Beet Reuben, which isnāt necessarily a great Reuben (the hazelnut chive cheese isnāt melty and smoked beets are an imperfect substitute for beef), but it is a darn good beet sandwich, which isnāt nothing.
A popular adage is that thereās no such thing as bad pizza, but I am here to tell you thereās such a thing as a bad Reuben. Like a bumblebee flying an antique biplane, each of the disparate elements act in tension with each other, and to forsake one is to upset the entire improbable contraption. I have had Reubens that were so overloaded and soggy they did not contain a texture recognizable as bread. Iāve had dry, dense Reubens that had more in common with the inside of a baseball than you want for anything that isnāt the inside of a baseball. After a month of researching this article my poops are very, very bad, with various strains of fermented cabbage probiotic warring for intestinal supremacy like the rival houses of Frank Herbertās Dune.
Iām not going to call anyone out, because Hanukkah isnāt a festival of judgementāitās a festival of light, fried food, and little chocolate coins. But Iād advise any restaurateur with a subpar Reuben on the menu to get their house in order, because more judgmental holidays are coming down the pipe. Iām just not sure when, exactly.