Sandwiches she has known, loved

Ever since I went on the low-carb Atkins diet, I’ve been thinking about sandwiches, which are basically forbidden on the plan. I’ve been thinking of the incomparable taste and satisfaction of meat between two slabs of bread, of where renowned sandwiches -- the po’ boy and the croque-monsieur, for example -- came from and of great sandwiches I have known during my travels.

The precise origins of the sandwich are shrouded in mystery, despite the credit often given to British statesman and rake John Montagu, the fourth earl of Sandwich, for inventing them. Culinary historians suggest that he got the idea from meat-filled pita pockets he saw during his travels in the eastern Mediterranean. Back in England, he ordered a cook to make him something he could eat without utensils during an all-night gambling marathon in 1762, considered the official birth date of the sandwich.

After that, the English went nuts for the earl’s creation. From there, they created and perfected the tea sandwich, made of such delicacies as watercress, cucumber and salmon between two dainty squares of bread (no crusts, please).

The British, it seems to me, will put just about anything into a sandwich with what they call “salad,” meaning lettuce. The sandwiches you get from vending machines in England aren’t bad, but truth be told, I’ve never had a really top-notch sandwich there.

But I fondly remember sandwiches I ate in Ireland on a bike tour my sister and I took about 10 years ago through County Clare. These were made of tough, thick farm bacon on fortifying brown Irish bread, with butter, the leavings of hearty breakfasts. I remember breaking them out on the windy Cliffs of Moher, followed by a dessert of Cadbury’s hazelnut chocolate bars.

In effect, they were BLTs without the L and T, just one of America’s great contributions to the culinary art, though it took the French invention of mayonnaise in the 18th century to complete it.

For reasons only a sociologist could fathom, America has been a sandwich hotbed, home of that controversial symbol of globalization, the hamburger, not to mention its divine patty melt variation -- ground beef, American cheese and caramelized onions between slices of toasted rye.

The best patty melt sandwich I ever tasted was at a Woolworth’s lunch counter in downtown East St. Louis, Ill., where no one gave a fig for Dr. Atkins then.

America is responsible for a whole new world of sandwiches, including grilled cheese, peanut butter and jelly, sloppy Joes and the French dip, created in L.A., though the actual originator is disputed.

Some credit 97-year-old Cole’s, in the landmark Pacific Electric building at 5th and Main. Others claim the first French dipper was Philippe Mathieu, a French immigrant to Los Angeles. In 1918, he is said to have accidentally dropped a sandwich he was making for a policeman into a pan of juices. The cop offered to eat it anyway and loved the result, which can still be sampled at Philippe the Original on North Alameda Street.

New York is associated with many other sandwiches, including fried egg on toast, bagel with cream cheese, the club and meat-stacked heroes sold all over Manhattan, though my favorite place to get them is Manganaro’s Heroboy on West 9th Street.

But the city can’t be considered the birthplace of the hero. The sandwich -- also known as the submarine, grinder, hoagie, wedge, torpedo and Dagwood (for Chic Young’s cartoon character Dagwood Bumstead, who perfected them during midnight raids on the fridge) -- seems to have arisen spontaneously in cities where Italian immigrants settled.

Portland, Maine, has been known for Italian subs since the beginning of the 20th century, when Giovanni Amato, a baker, started peddling them to dock workers. His concoctions, made of soft, chewy rolls packed with meat, cheese and vegetables, were so popular that Amato opened a shop on India Street, now the headquarters of the Amato’s restaurant chain, reaching into neighboring New Hampshire and Vermont.

Of course, Philadelphia lays uncontested claim to the hoagie, declared the city’s official sandwich in 1992. It’s thought that the hoagie was born during World War I in the shipyards of nearby Hog Island, hence the name. For visitors to the City of Brotherly Love, eating a hoagie is as mandatory as seeing the Liberty Bell, especially the variation known as the Philly cheese steak. It was invented around 1932 by Pat Oliveri, owner of a South Philly hot dog stand, and is made of sliced beef, melted cheese and grilled onions, still cooked according to the original recipe by Oliveri’s grandson at Rick’s Steaks in Philadelphia’s Reading Terminal Market.

Wherever they were invented, the stacked sandwich on a roll had legs. A variety of sub known as the muffuletta is a New Orleans signature, together with the oyster po’ boy. Muffulettas are thought to have been devised in 1906 by Lupo Salvatore, owner of the Central Grocery on Decatur Street in the French Quarter, and feature familiar layers of meet and cheese, with a secret ingredient: Salvatore’s famous olive salad, a feisty blend of pimento-stuffed olives, capers, pickled cauliflower and spices.

On a swelteringly hot day in the Big Easy some years ago, I had a Central Grocery muffuletta that still holds a special place in my gastronomic memory.

There are sandwiches aplenty in Paris, where I live, including the inevitable long baguette sandwich and the croque-monsieur, a grilled ham and cheese eaten with a knife and fork that becomes a croque-madame when topped with a poached egg.

These don’t particularly appeal to me, but I occasionally get an irresistible urge for a cheesy English, sold at Cosi, a Left Bank sandwich shop on the Rue de Seine. This tasty, multicultural creation is made of rare roast beef and Cheddar cheese on flat bread, pressed in the style of a Cuban sandwich -- proof positive that the sandwich has gotten around.

Wherever it goes, diet or no, I will follow.

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Susan Spano also writes “Postcards From Paris,” which can be read at latimes.com/susanspano.