The construction of a sandwich is seemingly simple: Meat or cheese or vegetables—or some type of Venn diagram configuration of the three—get bookended by bread. The crusty, crumbly, sliced loaf is the necessary handhold that keeps the whole affair together; and then, a cool swipe of mayo or mustard, something tangy and wet, for moisture. Sandwiches, it seems, we have down pat.
But what if there’s something missing? What if we’ve been denying our sandwiches the lusciousness they so desperately deserve? And what if that thing has been under our noses the whole time?