Arby’s, founded in 1964 and known nationwide for “slicing up freshness,” pulled a daring stunt this past March when it launched on its menu a Reuben sandwich option. I give you Exhibit A:

While I am a big supporter of dreamers, and their dreams alike, this particular sandwich venture brought out the contemptuous skeptic in me. Is it even remotely possible that a fast food restaurant chain could honor the sacred recipe of which you and I, Fellow Reubeneers, are so fond? Let’s unwrap this baby and find out…

The answer is No. Most assuredly. Unequivocally. Indubitably. No.

And that isn’t for a lack of trying. I sense it was a valiant effort. And I’m actually glad that Arby’s gave it a shot, because it points to a Reuben Truth that has long stood the test of time. But before we get totally lost in Reuben Philosophy, let’s examine the specimen above, shall we?

At first glance, Arby’s followed the road map decently enough. Their construction was nearly spot on, with a well-proportioned (if small-ish) distribution of ingredients. They melted the kraut and Swiss together, and even served the dressing on the sandwich rather than on the side. But alas, construction isn’t everything. Immediately, the paper-thin corned beef had me worried. Lacking any visible fat, it demonstrated tenderness, but contributed very little flavor, serving more-so just as a generic meat substance and texture. Nothing distinctly corned beef, or good, about it. Most of the flavor actually came from the overpowering combo of kraut and dressing, which struck at the palate with a pungent criss-cross of sour and tang — not what you want out of those two elements. The Swiss proved basically non-existent, the marble rye tasted of no rye whatsoever, and overall, the sandwich was spongey, seemed to have been microwaved, or at best, paninified, instead of grilled properly. All this, and you end up with a vaguely meaty, soft sandwich dominated by briny, tart notes. Forget the fact that this is the kind of sandwich that will make you never want to try a Reuben again, this thing is downright toxic to your taste buds.

How did Arby’s foray into Reubendom go so terribly wrong? The first issue, right off the bat, is that there’s really no sparing expense when it comes to ingredients here. In attempting a low-cost Reuben, Arby’s plan of attack was flawed from the outset. And even with high quality ingredients, being as strange a combination as they are, you need to know how to work with them — technique, construction, proportion, having proper cooking equipment. And that’s why you’ll never find a quality Reuben that costs $4.99. How about one that costs $7.99? Perhaps marginally better, but probably still awful. And not just awful — dangerous to your appetite. You really have to find it on a menu for fifteen bucks or more to know you’re getting the real thing.

And this brings us to the aforementioned Reuben Truth: A good Reuben is a rare bird. Maybe the rarest of birds. Capturing one’s essence and presenting it on a plate for eager little Reubeneers is no easy task. Unlike making a delicious burger, or turkey sandwich, club sandwich, or what-have-you — all of which can done on the cheap by any ol’ restauranteur — the e’er noble Reuben requires more than just following a recipe in a book, despite the legions who would think otherwise. It’s a specialty of the highest order.

I hate to say “Never send a peasant to do a knight’s job,” but sometimes it’s appropriate. I would like to thank Arby’s for dreaming big, even while failing so miserably. And I implore you, Dear Readers, to heed the scores below not as a reflection of an unfortunate dining experience, but as a cautionary tale against low-cost Reubens everywhere. You’ve been warned. 

Meat: 2.3/10 (corned beef)

Cheese: 2.0 

Sauerkraut: 2.0 

Bread: 3.0 

Russian Dressing: 2.8 (Thousand Island) 

Grill factor: 1.0

Construction: 6.0 (decently proportioned, small)

Overall: 2.8

Side note: Combo available, I stuck with just the sandwich.

“Now, let this scrapper come to me!”

Rounding out the old school deli restaurant staples of the West side is Fromin’s in Santa Monica, just up the street from local rival Izzy’s. Get this: rather than trumpeting the quality of its pastrami as so many delicatessens often do, Fromin’s prides itself on its corned beef. A noble cause, for sure, and so with this Reubeneering experience, I decided to order my sandwich in the recommended form. A rarity for this Reubenheart, but indubitably a just decision. Here she blows:

Call me a greedy cheese-butt of an American, but does this sandwich look small to you? No, it’s not your eyes, faithful Reader — this Reuben was truly diminutive. Positively the Tiny Tim of Reubens. Sure, the corned beef lived up to the fuss: tender, flavorful, and lean, too — not the best you’ll ever have, but solid and tasty, for sure. However, the quantity — Oh, the quantity! — has that ever been the undoing of a deli sandwich? This puppy badly wanted to go out and play, but woe, it was under-nourished. Give it twice the meat, and we really coulda’ gone to work. Strange, too, because Fromin’s basically nailed the proportions, it’s just the supply was lacking, and this catastrophically diminishes the innate deliciousness of an otherwise balanced approach. Eating a Reuben should be like going to the symphony. At the symphony, your ears delight in the strings and brass and percussion synergistically creating a wondrously powerful sonic experience greater than its parts. So while Fromins may have the right proportion of one element to another, the total effect of the effort could hardly be felt because all we had was a violin, a trumpet, and some toms-toms. Symphonies must be powerful in order for them to be, well, symphonies. The same applies to Reubens. As I am prone to saying on the battlefield, proportion is key. And when proportions are right, the ingredients are ample, not merely proportionate to each other. Overall, she was a fine bite, but really more of a snack than a meal.

* * *    

Ancient Japanese haiku:

The Reuben shall make

you complete, and if of want

For more, not able

* * *    

Meat: 8.0/10 (corned beef)

Cheese: 6.0

Sauerkraut: 6.5 (a lil sour for me)

Bread: 8.0 (good!)

Russian Dressing: 6.0 (heavy mayo; not on the sandwich)

Grill factor: 7.0 (decent)

Construction: 7.0 (small-ish)

Overall: 7.4

Side note: Fries, nothing special. Plate of pickles, appreciated.

“The prisoner wishes to say a word…”

It was a rainy day in Los Angeles, which meant that it was a good day for a Reuben.

My associate and I met at Factor’s Famous Deli, which pleased me.  For as you know, Dear Readers, throughout my years I’ve plied to inspect, examine, taste and assess every quality Reuben I can get my paws on, and when your target Reuben is basically in your back yard, it makes for an easy day at the office.

Located on Pico Blvd. on the edge of lovely Beverly Hills, Factor’s interior design has a slightly upscale, slightly updated touch, when compared with your average old school delicatessen. Don’t be fooled, though, fellow Reubeneers: this lunching hotspot has been serving the area since 1948, finding its way into the hearts of many a local over the decades. Alas, their hearts are in the wrong place, because really you can only judge a restaurant on its Reuben, right? Damn right. And that’s where a ReubenHeart slips onto the scene.

She was good, but no stunner in my book. The pastrami wasn’t as tender, or flavorful, or plentiful, as you’d get at Nate n’ Als or Juniors, which is absolutely fucking essential if you want your sandwich to soar into the Pantheon of Greats. Granted, it was better quality than you’d get at Izzy’s, but that’s not the highest of standards. Sauerkraut was a bit bland. Rye was a touch burnt, though at least it was grilled. The Swiss, why, she was barely there! Where were ya, Swiss? Missed ya at the show. Russian was quality, but it was served cold and on the side (Christ, when will this practice end?). Overall, I’d give it a generous B-minus. It could work its way up with a little more butter on the bread and a decent amount of cheese on top of the kraut — that way the grilling melts everything together a bit more, tenderizing the ingredients, making everything juicier and greasier. More pastrami would also be nice. And yet, despite all these criticisms, I did enjoy the sandwich, basically. If I dined here again, I’m certain I’d order the same thing. It’s a beautiful day. What the hell else am I gonna do?

Meat: 7.7/10

Cheese: 3.0 (3pts for my assumption that the Swiss wasn’t actually absent and just didn’t come through in the taste; a goose-egg, here, would be too cruel)

Sauerkraut: 6.5 (too plentiful, while at least not overpowering)

Bread: 7.2 (fine, fine)

Russian Dressing: 7.5 (good, but wasn’t on the sandwich)

Grill factor: 6.5 (burnt rye, elements didn’t really melt together, more cheese please)

Construction: 7.5 (proportions a bit off, more cheese please, otherwise good)

Overall: 7.5

Side note: Fat fries n’ pickles, y’all.

“I understand you have recently been given the rank of knight.”

Legends have been told. Myths spread far and wide. The lore abounding. “If you want the best pastrami in the world, m’boy, go to Katz’s.” I keep my guard up when encountered with such profuse and seemingly universe praise, lest I should poison my dining experience with insurmountably high expectations and reduce an otherwise finely crafted sandwich to a cruel mirage in the Desert of Mediocre Reubens. But tales told are powerful. After all, it was Katz’s that faced off with Langer’s in the cross-country battle royale of greatest slice of pastrami in the country.

I emerged from the metro station to cold gusts of wind whipping down Houston Street, practically hurrying me along to my destination: Katz’s Delicatessen, a staple kosher-style deli on the Lower East Side, operational since 1888. Much as I try, the excitement is hard to contain: Long have I waited, far have I traveled, and hungry is my heart.

My associate and I step up to the counter and order, “Two gorgeous Reubens, please.” Our guy handslices the meat right there in front off us, and boy does it look good. He piles it high on the scale, then slaps it between a couple slices of bread. In either hand, under a slice of wax paper, he holds a thick slice of steaming swiss cheese embedded with sauerkraut. He slaps the kraut’n’swiss patty on top of the meat, douses it with some Russian, and voilà.  There’s your Reuben.

Really, Katz’s??  You’re not gonna use a fucking grill???  You’re not gonna even toast the fucking bread???

Alright, whatever. Let’s take a look at this baby:

The pastrami was, as expected, fucking delicious. A thick cut is always heavenly when the quality of the ingredient warrants such audacity. Not quite as peppery as Langer’s or David’s Brisket House, but delicious for sure. The rest of the sandwich was, alas, pretty mediocre. Some folks’ll tell you it’s all about the meat. Idiots! It takes far more than a century’s old recipe for cooking beef to bring a customer even a shade of Reubenly Nirvana. Their kraut’n’swiss patty didn’t ruin the sandwich exactly, but I really don’t like the technique. It’s a cafeteria-grade method to make your sandwich seem grilled when it isn’t. It would appear they’re sacrificing quality to maximize customer volume with a more quickly made sandwich. Perhaps the crowds really are so big that they need to make the sandwiches that quickly, I don’t know. But whatever the reason, I don’t approve. You can’t leave your sandwich out in the cold like that. You just can’t. On top of all that, the bread was astonishingly bland, soft, and rye-less. Frankly, I’m a little bummed to report that if I were to dine at Katz’s again, I would not order a Reuben. I would stick to pastrami and mustard. That seems to be what they’re best at. Hell, they don’t even spell Reuben correctly on their website.

Meat: 9.3/10

Cheese: 7.0 (nice portion; didn’t like the preparation)

Sauerkraut: 6.0 (didn’t like the preparation)

Bread: 5.0

Russian Dressing: 7.5 (it was on the sandwich)

Grill factor: 0.0 (what do you want, it wasn’t grilled!)

Construction: 7.5 (big, sloppy, soft)

Overall: 8.3

Overall dining note: All food aside, be prepared for an altogether chaotic dining experience at Katz’s. With so many customers, there are a gazillion lines and no one telling you where to go or what to do; you just have to jump in. The servers are also notoriously rude, which I didn’t really find charming in that New Yorker sorta way. Make sure to bring cash, because they don’t take cards (except they do, if you really press them (but they’ll first demand you use their in-store ATM, then become grumpy when you say your debit card isn’t working)). And whatever you do, don’t lose your purple ticket stub that they give you when you enter. If you don’t return it to them when you leave, they’ll slap you with a $50 surcharge.

Side note:  No side served, only pickles. Fine by me.

Fun fact: Meg Ryan’s restaurant orgasm scene in When Harry Met Sally was filmed at Katz’s

“My dad’s gotten suspicious.”

“Not as suspicious as you.”

I’ll give it to ya’ straight, folks: the recipe for this report consists of exactly one part DELIGHT, me having enjoyed yet another scrumptious Reuben, and one part LAMENT, as the fine establishment in which I enjoyed said Reuben has since shut its doors. That’s right, kids, 2012 is over and so is Junior’s Deli, formerly located in West L.A. at the intersection of Westwood Blvd. and Pico. At least for now. My sources tell me management is looking for a new location, and Lord help us, we’ll all be happier humans when they find one. Here is their magnificent old sign:

Given the announcement of their impending closure, an associate and I ventured over the day before New Year’s to pay our respects by chowing down on one last sandwich.

The place was packed to the gills, jammed up like the 405 FWY at rush hour, folks from all corners of the city showing up out of love, nostalgia, and thanks. Wonderful to see. One of the best times I’ve had waiting 45 minutes for a table. The place is pretty much your standard gigantic Jewish delicatessen.  Their menu was famously large.  But I didn’t need to look at it. I knew what I was getting.

As you can see, she was a beauty. I went with pastrami, and it was quite good. Not quite the best, but on it’s best day perhaps an honorable mention for the Reuben Pantheon. Certainly, nothing short of delicious. Stand-out features were the pastrami, the bread, and the sandwich construction. Pastrami was plentiful and tender and flavorful and fatty in a great way. Their house-made bread, rendered with a generous constellation of caraway seeds, proved a sure-fire robust rye. Just fab. The application of strongly flavored kraut in modest proportion was fine strategy, but more important, was the melting of the swiss cheese into the bed of kraut. How so many sandwich joints mess this part up is beyond me—they put the cheese on the bottom and the kraut on top, or the cheese in between the meat and the kraut, or Who The Hell knows how else. But what Junior’s Reuben here does, see, is it at least hits the target in yielding the oh-so-desired and so-seldom-delivered dessert-within-the-sandwich-itself. As described in Langer’s review 1.0, once you eat through the meaty portion of your sandwich, there is truly nothing more wonderful than leisurely snacking on a horseshoe crust laden with kraut, Swiss, Russian dressing, and greasy goodness, all somehow melded into one element. Mind you, this also has a good deal to do with grilling technique, which the grill man at Junior’s executed decently. Where Junior’s strayed from the bull’s eye, most notably, was in the sauce. Yup, the Russian. The Russki. That ol’ Bolshevik sumbitch. First off, it was served on the side. Secondly, it wasn’t very good. A darker shade of Russian than I’m used to seeing (the picture above doesn’t do justice), and tasted a scosche saccharine, which leads me to believe it was maybe heavy on the ketchup. Mainly, though, it just didn’t taste as fresh as the rest of the sandwich. Mercy points can be awarded, given they’re not exactly stocking up on ingredients these days.

Shucks, Junior’s really served up a winner.  Sad to see ‘em go and can’t wait for their triumphant return.

Meat: 9.0/10

Cheese: 7.0

Sauerkraut: 7.5

Bread: 9.2

Russian Dressing: 5.0 (old and/or not high quality; served on the side)

Grill factor: 8.7

Construction: 9.1 (showed glimmers of producing a Heavenly Horseshoe)

Overall: 8.9

Side note: Potato salad, which I didn’t eat.  Fries were good.  Pickles were hardly pickled (typical).

“The English don’t let us train with weapons, so we train with stones.”