For Your Fourth: The Three D’s of The Perfect Tomato Sandwich

Hello beautiful friends! I know it’s not a Wednesday afternoon, but I’m on sabbatical working ‘round the clock on an exciting project and time no longer has meaning. Please enjoy a repost of one of my favorite columns from last summer. Stay cool, babes!

I was going to call this “Ode to the Tomato Sandwich,” but it turns out that title has been taken. Many, many times. 

Lord knows I would not be the first to laud this simple summer snack, and rightfully so. What could be more deserving of a delighted paean to deliciousness?

It even has its own Wikipedia page, though it contains the hideous (and uncited!) perfidy that the iconic nosh of the season originated in Montana. Everyone and their meemaw knows tomato sandwiches are obviously Southern. 

We may call it a sandwich, but let’s be real: It is just a showcase for that gorgeous, rotund vegetable-that’s-really a fruit. (Technically, it’s actually a berry. Mind. Blown.)

It’s best to begin with a fresh-picked tomato that “smells of rain and steamy earth and hot June sun,” as described by important cultural sage Rosemary Wells in her seminal philosophical series Voyage to the Bunny Planet.

Rich red or golden yellow, it must have heft, heavy in the hand, with a shine that radiates with the chemistry of Creation itself. 

The tomatoes are always perfect on the Bunny Planet

The right tomato “sheds its own light, [a] benign majesty,” agrees sensorial poet Pablo Neruda in his own “Ode to Tomatoes.” However, our man veers into the dramatic by pointing out that unfortunately, in order to enjoy such bounty, “we must murder it.” (Such a sensitive foodie, that Neruda! Did you know he extends his gastronomical anthropomorphizing to all sorts of plant-based wonders, including the artichoke?)

Now, the purists among ye know that there is only one true way to fix a perfect tomato sandwich, using three ingredients and three ingredients only.

While some of y’all might fuss with toasted sourdough and travesties like olive tapenade, such highfalutin additions only pervert its humble simplicity. Even lettuce disturbs the balance of basic flavor composition; don’t even come at me with aioli. 

In the Savannah corner of the South, these ingredients are highly specific, procured from local—or at least regional—sources, heretofore known as the “Three Ds”:

• Davis Produce. Even if you’re not anywhere in the vicinity of this flourishing farm stand on Highway 80 out to Tybee, it’s worth the drive. Known as the “Home of the Killer Tomato”—Pablo Neruda might consider it self-defense—this shady oasis offers loads of local produce and gorgeous pots of flowers out back, plus put-up delicacies like frog jam and pickled okra. Don’t forget the boiled peanuts! 

• Derst Bread. Soft, sweet, and yellow as a highlighter, Captain John Derst Bread launched in Savannah in 1867, and in spite of the company’s 2006 corporate acquisition continues to reign as the favorite carb of Chatham County, or at least my house. Don’t mind the high fructose corn syrup or that golden crayon hue; the extra processing probably facilitates its superior absorption from those juicy homicidal tomatoes. The function of bread in this case is to serve as a sponge, so don’t go all fancy with the toaster. However, on a related note a little scorch is essential for a divine TPB&J. (What, you never had toasted peanut butter and jelly? Highly recommend.)

• Duke’s Mayonnaise. There are myriad reasons that only Duke’s will do, from its vinegar paprika twang to its custardy texture that makes such a satisfying plop when spooned. Its origin story only gives it more virtue: In 1917, entrepreneurial housewife Eugenia Duke began selling sandwiches with her homemade mayo to soldiers for ten cents a piece in Greenville, South Carolina. The burgeoning condiment queen actively employed other women and advocated mightily for the 19th amendment, eventually selling her recipe to become a financial tycoon. Though she moved to California in her later years, her Southern hometown recently dedicated a 20-stop tour in her honor, as recounted by Savannah writer Jessica Farthing.   

That’s all you need to put some summer in your mouth, plus a little salt and pepper. (Bless your heart if you need an actual recipe to put a sandwich together, but some folks do need direction.)

For the optimal experience, serve on a flimsy paper plate, the kind with scalloped edges and the consistency of a greeting card—none of this Chinet nonsense. 

It might be basic, but perhaps that’s why the tomato sandwich continues to inspire so many odes and homages.

In a world where purity and simpleness are so often obscured by overthinking and too many steps, sometimes a reminder of life’s benign majesty brings the most joy.

So find yourself a sharp knife and get ready to commit tomatocide.

Totally worth the carb coma ~ JLL