The Bite Club

Emily Ryan sits down, pushes aside some books from a table and starts unwrapping a wedge of Camembert.

Ryan, a USC senior studying comparative literature and visual culture, begins cutting the cheese--right on the table. She examines it and sniffs, finding the scent pleasant.

“It’s really strong; it smells almost like feet.”

She doesn’t see the fleck of eraser dust on the cheese as she plants one slice on top of Japanese white bread, a super-thick version of Wonder Bread. She bakes the bread and cheese in the oven until the cheese sinks in, then drizzles honey over it. And voila, the Honey-Do, a quick yet elegant sandwich, is ready to eat.

Another triumph for the Sandwich Club.

The Sandwich Club, established last year, began as a bunch of college friends getting together to go out to eat. They soon discovered that they always wanted one bill of fare: sandwiches. So they began staying home and making them.

“It’s simple, it’s convenient,” says Brett Schultz, a senior at USC and a vegan. He brought a sandwich made with vegetarian meatballs and soy cheese in a hoagie bun topped with tomato sauce to a recent gathering. “It’s a good social food.”

The group tried to organize a pizza club. They put hard-boiled eggs on a cheese pizza, but it didn’t go over well with everyone. And, members say, they can’t quite name it, but there is just something intangible about sandwiches.

“What’s the big deal of getting a little grease on your hands in the name of a sandwich?” asks Ryan Rogers, who graduated last year from California College of Arts and Crafts in Oakland.

The group, however, exhibits yin and yang of sorts when it comes to food philosophies. Though there are some members who are vegetarian, there are others who love drippy, fatty meat sandwiches.

John Ringhoff, a junior at USC, licks his greasy fingers as he makes his thick sandwich, squashing two pieces of heavily buttered sourdough bread layered with corned beef hash, egg, ham, potato, Canadian bacon and a slice of cheese in a sandwich maker.

Then there’s Simon Chung’s Poor Man’s Sandwich. It’s made of the heels of a bread loaf, a lone piece of mock turkey, potato chip crumbs and any condiment--mustard, mayonnaise or catsup--that comes in a packet. “I eat it all the time,” he says, emphasizing the importance of not using whole potato chips.

When it’s time to eat, everyone just digs in. There are no formalities or utensils, no set table, and a kitchen towel is a communal napkin. The sandwiches are passed; an eater takes one or two bites, then passes the sandwich and starts with the next.

“Do you want to try a bite of this?” Schultz asks Ringhoff about his vegan meatball sandwich.

“Why don’t you try mine?” Ryan says, chewing a mouthful of the chicken sandwich. “Let me try that one,” she says, pointing to the thick club.

“Oh, man. Which is this one? This is good,” says Chung as he samples the Kentucky Club, a healthful sandwich of leafy lettuce, avocado and portabello mushrooms sauteed in garlic, red wine and olive oil.

Chung’s Poor Man’s sandwich, minus a few nibbles, sits rather forlornly on the plate. But when it comes to sandwiches, you can’t rank them.

“There aren’t any failures; all successes,” Ryan says.

Still, as sandwich connoisseurs, the members do have some qualms.

They pooh-pooh iceberg lettuce, soggy bread and any meat that’s not ham but tastes like ham. They approve of burritos, which members call “the Mexican cousin of sandwiches.” Wraps? They are taboo and considered snobby.

The club has one tip to making great sandwiches: weird combinations.

“Go out on a limb” says Chung, whose trademark dessert sandwich consists of two giant chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies with vanilla ice cream, peanut butter, chocolate bars and chocolate syrup.

Taking a big bite from a sandwich, Peter Lee, who graduated from UC Irvine last year, declares, “Mistakes can be miracles.”