Tomatoes, pickles, or, as his father did, chopped pimento, can do the trick. The grilled cheese can, Knowlton allows, benefit from a little acidity. " This is not the time to go light on the butter." Once the bread is properly toasted (even verging on extra-dark), then and only then may the cook add in the cheese and press down on the sandwich with a spatula to encourage maximum melty-oozy qualities. "Put a little butter on both sides of both pieces of bread, then throw a little butter in the pan," Knowlton explains. A cast-iron pan is key, and the proper construction of a grilled cheese sandwich is not for the faint of heart or cholesterol-wary. "I'm a fan of the old school grilled cheese," he says, by which he mean classic, unfussy cheese options- sharp cheddar or even Kraft singles, please-and simple, sliced bread. The grilled cheese fares far better than the wrap in Knowlton's eyes. Otherwise, you'll end up with a purple sandwich as a result of jelly that's soaked through. Whether you toast that bread or not is up to you (although Knowlton is a bit wary of roof-of-the-mouth scratches from aggressively toasted slices), but of utmost importance is that you put peanut butter on both pieces of bread. "The shittier the white bread," he says, "the better the sandwich." So leave the baguette in the artisanal French bakery where it belongs, and embrace the art of squishy presliced bread. When it comes to the fruit, any type will do: Knowlton allows for a little creativity, explaining that both jam and jelly are acceptable choices, and citing fig preserves as a favorite. "It's my favorite sandwich," he adds, before amending that no, that's not true-although he does "crave it in a way crave any other sandwich." So how do you make the perfect one? First, ratio matters: A thin smear of peanut butter is all you need-lest you cement your mouth shut on the first bite. "The peanut butter and jelly is near and dear to my heart," says Knowlton. Rapoport agrees: "And stuck with frilly toothpicks." Finally? " It has to be cut in triangles. The club is a monster sandwich by nature, though, so both insist on a little restraint when layering the ingredients (for the record, the order is turkey, bacon, lettuce, and then tomato-on each layer, of course-with a medium-boiled egg on top, if you're fancy/European). Rapoport gives us license to use more mayonnaise than we think we need, adding that it must be spread on every layer of bread. Bonus points if the iceberg (yes, iceberg) lettuce is shredded, too-you'll never have to suffer the tragedy of tearing out an entire piece of meat or lettuce with your first bite. Both attest that the turkey has to be thinly shaved, not large hunks of roasted meat. "It should still be a little chewy in the middle," Knowlton agrees. "A club sandwich is turkey, bacon, lettuce, and tomato," says Knowlton, "with three pieces of bread." Rapoport adds that the bread must be sliced sandwich white or whole wheat, and it must be toasted-but not too toasted. Knowlton knows a good club sandwich when he sees one-and so does our editor-in-chief Adam Rapoport. Was there a proper way to construct a club? Was there poor form for PB&Js? We knew one thing for sure: If anyone would have thoughts on the right-and wrong-ways to make a sandwich, it would be Knowlton. Of course, this got us pondering the architecture and composition of our other favorite sandwiches. If you really need more meat, make it a double." My ideal is a thin patty, squishy-soft bun, and minimal toppings (onion, tomato, pickles, lettuce, and cheese are okay bacon is pushing it). A bigger burger does not equal a better burger. "You know the type: a hunk of beef, five toppings too many, and some fancy-pants bun. "I'm officially calling for the end of the monster burger," he declares. In the July issue of Bon Appétit, Knowlton gets nostalgic about the simpler, better burgers of yore-he's had it, he says, with perilously stacked hamburgers that are too hard to eat. The man has some strong opinions about food and drink, and he's not afraid to share them. No one can accuse Bon Appétit's restaurant and drinks editor Andrew Knowlton of being wishy-washy.
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