In the archives, a bun is a border, and a border is a story.
I talked to a historian who said a hot dog is a sandwich. He had a degree from a university. He was very certain.
I asked another historian who said it was not a sandwich. He had a book published about food. He was also very certain.
I went to a deli and they called it a sandwich. They sold sandwiches and hot dogs. They put meat between bread.
I think it's a sandwich because it has meat and bread. That's what sandwiches have. It's a sandwich.
the documentary rolls in like a rolling pin, a time machine, a street vendor shouting “extra mustard!”—cooking up the story of words, the way a hot dog slides between the crust of linguistics and the mustard of culture, and the historians pop up like steam, like fireworks, like a marching band of footnotes, all arguing whether the bun is a bread, a cradle, a courtroom bench for the sausage‑in‑a‑sack case
the etymology of “sandwich” is a gentleman’s hand‑to‑mouth gesture, a ship’s galley, a love letter folded in rye, while the hot
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