Listen: You don’t need me to tell you about tomato sandwiches in the summer. You know this stuff.
They’re a Southern sacrament, the four simple ingredients their own sign of the cross: ripe tomato, soft white bread, mayonnaise, pepper. Duke’s or Hellman’s? Let’s skip right past the implied insult of the very question, and we can still be friends.
I was born in Eastern North Carolina, where my Great-grandma Grace would gently squeeze softball-sized garden tomatoes until that sly little smile came over her face.
That’s it. Perfect. Sandwich time.
A few slices of Sara Lee, an alarming amount of mayo, a generous dash of pepper. She’d shoo us out onto the porch where we could devour them recklessly, the juice running down our arms. She enjoyed her own over the kitchen sink, watching approvingly.
Those bona fides established, I am here to say: this is a column about a tomato sandwich, but not that tomato sandwich.
Clutch your pearls and shake your head if you must. Whisper “Bless your heart.” But hear me now and believe me later: Chez Genèse, the charming little French-inspired brunch spot on South Elm Street, is doing the only spin on this sandwich worth your time.
It was a special last weekend when my wife and I popped in. They’d just gotten some great local tomatoes from New Garden Farm, chef Sahira Peguero told me.
“We really wanted to highlight the flavors of summer,” she said.
Mission accomplished. Those beautiful, bright orange tomatoes. Thick, seeded multigrain bread from Camino Bakery in Winston-Salem. A basil aioli with the tang of fresh lemon. All of it topped with just a bit of arugula.
I hear those groans. And I feel them.
I once had a hipster joint try to serve me an “elevated” po’boy sandwich with calamari and caviar. I’ve had Bloody Marys placed before me, topped with five different olives, two pickles, and a whole crab claw. The current vogue for lavender has had me straining floating plant matter out of coffees and cocktails for a few years now. This sandwich ain’t that.
I am a man of strong opinions. But I’m not orthodox.
Carolina over Duke, obviously. But I’ll break bread or lift a glass with good friends who happen to be Dookies.
Eastern barbecue over Western, to be sure. But I do not shake wreaths of garlic and a crucifix at ‘cue made with tomato.
Cheerwine over … okay, Cheerwine tastes like flat Dr. Pepper and Robitussin. Sorry, not sorry.
The point is, we tend to get hidebound about these things in the South. But we can love tradition and simplicity while appreciating the playful variation, the good-natured remix, someone taking a big swing. There are few things more Southern.
Take a base of gospel, fold in equal parts blues and country, glaze with the camp queerness of a tent show drag act, and you’ve got Little Richard. Which is to say, you’ve got Rock ‘n’ Roll.
Rodgers & Hammerstein? Unassailably classic. But North Carolina’s own John Coltrane doing “My Favorite Things?” Give me that every day—and twice on Sundays.
The American South is as much Tennessee Williams as it is Hank. That’s the beauty of it.
Keep that in mind when you go, sooner than later, to Chez Genèse and ask about this sandwich. If we’re lucky, the special will return for as long as we’ve still got some summer left. If not, the flood of requests may convince them. Tell them we sent you. We’ll gladly take the blame.