The Reuben has two competing origin stories, and I refuse to settle the matter. Either Reuben Kulakofsky invented it during a late-night poker game at Omaha's Blackstone Hotel in the 1920s, or Arnold Reuben created it at his famous New York delicatessen around the same time. Both cities claim it. Both deserve to.

What matters is what you build between those slices of rye. This is architecture. The corned beef must be sliced thin enough to fold but thick enough to provide substance. The sauerkraut needs draining until it squeaks when you squeeze it, otherwise your bread turns to paste. The Swiss cheese must melt into a blanket that binds the layers, and the Russian dressing cuts through the richness with just enough acid to keep you reaching for the next bite.

I've eaten Reubens from Katz's in Manhattan to little delis in Omaha that claim authenticity. The best ones share a quality: they respect the balance. No single ingredient dominates. The bread is griddled until it achieves that particular shade of golden brown that shatters slightly when you bite through, giving way to the warmth and chaos within.

Make your own Russian dressing. It takes five minutes and transforms the sandwich from good to transcendent. The bottled stuff carries a metallic undertone that no amount of quality corned beef can overcome.