The Beef Manhattan Project: A Secret History of The Sandwich That Changed Everything

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

In 1942, the United States government gathered the brightest minds in physics to develop a weapon that would end a war.

They called it the Manhattan Project.

Around that same time a team at my local deli, Monty’s, embarked on an equally daring venture in the culinary theatre

They set out to develop a sandwich of sandwiches that would end all other sandwiches.

They called this high-stakes venture…

The Beef Manhattan Project.

And I was there.

Not by choice.

Not by invitation.

But because I happened to be waiting for a turkey club when history was being made.

It started innocently enough.

I was at Monty’s Deli.

A place I’d been going for years.

Reliable.

Unpretentious.

Delicious.

The kind of deli where the menu hasn’t changed in decades

I ordered my usual.

Turkey club. Extra mayo. No tomato because I’m not a child.

And I waited.

But something was different that day.

There was energy in the air.

A tension.

The kind you feel before a thunderstorm.

Or a product launch.

Or a reckoning.

Monty, the owner, was huddled with the kitchen staff.

Whispering.

Gesturing dramatically.

Occasionally, pointing at a chalkboard covered in what looked like… equations?

No.

Not equations.

Sandwich architecture.

Monty cleared his throat.

Loudly.

Like he was about to deliver a State of the Union address to a room of seventeen people who just wanted pastrami.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began.

And I thought: Oh no.

“We are about to do something that has never been done before.”

Someone in line said, “Get us our food in a timely fashion ?”

Monty ignored this.

“We are going to build,” he continued, “the ultimate beef sandwich.”

“You already have a roast beef sandwich,” said an elderly woman holding a ticket that said 47.

“No,” Monty said, with the intensity of Oppenheimer explaining fission.

“Not a roast beef sandwich.”

“THE Roast beef sandwich.”

“The one that ends the conversation.”

“The one that makes every other sandwich obsolete.”

He paused for effect.

“We’re calling it: The Beef Manhattan!”

The team assembled before us.

Like the Justice Society.

But sadder.

And holding tongs.

There was:

Carlos - the grill master. A man who once told me he could “hear when the meat is ready.” I believed him.

Sanjay - the vegetable specialist. Which sounds made up, but he took it very seriously. He once spent ten minutes explaining the structural integrity of lettuce.

Kim - the sauce architect. Quiet. Intense. Rumored to have worked at a Michelin-starred restaurant before “the incident.” No one knew what the incident was. No one asked.

And Daryl - Monty’s cousin. Daryl’s job was unclear. He mostly just nodded and said “yeah, bold” whenever someone suggested something.

This was the team.

This was humanity’s best hope for sandwich perfection.

God help us all.

They started with the foundation.

Bread.

“Ciabatta or sourdough?” Carlos asked.

“Neither,” said Monty. “Both.”

“You can’t use both,” Sanjay said.

“Why not?”

“Because that’s insane.”

Monty stared at him.

“So was splitting the atom.”

Travis nodded. “Yeah. Bold.”

They toasted two different kinds of bread.

Put them on the same plate.

Stared at them.

Someone in line said, “My number was called twenty minutes ago.”

No one responded.

The sandwich had priority.

THE ESCALATION

Next came the beef.

Not just any beef.

Three types.

Roast beef - traditional, thinly sliced.

Pastrami - for “complexity,” according to Monty.

And brisket - because Kim insisted it needed “a bass note.”

They layered them.

Carefully.

Reverently.

Like they were handling plutonium.

Which, in a way, they were.

This sandwich was becoming dangerous.

This is where things got heated.

Kim suggested a horseradish aioli.

Carlos wanted au jus.

Sanjay—bless him—advocated for “something lighter, maybe a vinaigrette.”

Monty listened to all of them.

Then said: “All three.”

“That’s too much liquid,” Sanjay protested. “The bread will disintegrate.”

“Then we engineer better bread,” Monty said.

And I swear—

I swear—

I saw the light of madness in his eyes.

The same light that must have been in Oppenheimer’s eyes when he realized what he’d created.

Travis said, “Yeah, bold.”

They built it.

Layer by layer.

Meat.

Cheese—three kinds, because “why stop now.”

Pickles—dill AND bread-and-butter, which caused a brief argument.

Onions—caramelized, because this was a serious sandwich.

Lettuce—iceberg for crunch, arugula for “sophistication.”

Tomato—despite my personal objections.

And the sauces.

All of them.

Drizzled.

Slathered.

Poured.

The sandwich grew.

Higher.

Wider.

More unstable.

It became clear that no human mouth could accommodate this.

But they didn’t care.

They weren’t building it for function.

They were building it to prove it could be done.

THE MOMENT OF TRUTH

Monty stepped back.

The team stepped back.

We all stared at it.

The Beef Manhattan.

Sitting on a plate.

Towering.

Glistening.

Defying physics and good sense.

Someone had to eat it.

Monty looked around the deli.

His eyes landed on me.

“You,” he said.

“Me?” I said.

“You’ve been here the whole time. You’ve witnessed this. You have to be the one.”

I wanted to refuse.

I wanted to say I was just here for a simple turkey club.

But I couldn’t.

Because I understood—in that moment—

that this was bigger than me.

This was history.

I approached the sandwich.

Picked it up.

Or tried to.

It immediately began to collapse.

Meat sliding.

Sauce dripping.

Structural integrity compromised.

I took a bite.

Or… the sandwich took me.

I’m not sure which.

It was—

Overwhelming.

Too many flavors.

Too many textures.

Competing.

Clashing.

A culinary arms race with no winner.

Just… chaos.

Delicious chaos.

Terrible chaos.

I chewed.

Swallowed.

Set it down.

Everyone waited.

“Well?” Monty asked.

I looked at him.

At the team.

At the sandwich—now half-destroyed, ingredients spilling across the plate like the aftermath of a very specific disaster.

And I said:

“This… this is too much.”

Monty nodded slowly.

“I know,” he said quietly.

“But we had to know if we could.”

The Beef Manhattan Project was never put on the menu.

It couldn’t be.

It was too powerful.

Too dangerous.

Too expensive, probably.

But it existed.

For one brief moment.

In a deli in a strip mall.

Between the dry cleaner and the tax prep place.

A sandwich that defied reason.

And I was there.

I tasted the future.

And the future was… complicated…

Sometimes I go back to Monty’s.

Order my turkey club.

And I see Monty.

Older now.

Tired.

But every once in a while—

when the light hits him just right—

I see that spark.

That mad glint.

The one that says:

“We could do it again.”

And I think:

Please don’t.

But also:

Please do.

Because someone has to push the boundaries.

Someone has to ask: How much beef is too much beef?

Someone has to build the sandwich that should never be built.

And if not Monty and his team of cafeteria Oppenheimers—

then who?

Fortunately for us, a team of culinarians were able to pick up where we left off and finish The Beef Manhattan Project. Open-Faced, Mashed Potatoes. It was as simple as that.

Until next time…