I am smitten.

Oh Reuben. How I love thee.

With you, man has mastered the sandwich. You make the turkey club cower for mercy. The patty melt averts its eyes. Even the mighty monte cristo walks away in shame.

I will find you, Reuben, where you most expect me to: any fine establishment, or shithole, at which you are prepared. The best amongst you will be documented here, for all to share in your majesty.

Let those who have gone before me lead the way. And I, Reuben R. Reuben, will share tales of your glory.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

The Whaler, Venice, CA

The Venice Whaler is on Washington Street, right at the ocean. Apparently the Reuben price goes 100% to the rent for this location.


Marble Rye is an affront to the very fabric upon which this nation's flag was weaved. Marble Rye is an atrocity akin to genocide. Too strong? You must not have had Marble Rye recently.

The Reuben's components were not melded together in a symphony of chewy bliss as much as they were slapped haphazardly into place by a line cook with one eye on the waitresses' lumpy rack.

Still, I ate the whole thing, because even a terrible Reuben is better than a great non-Reuben.

Go to the Venice Whaler to meet up with good friends from when you were 10, as I did. But for the love of god, get a burger.
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