The Sandwich Theory

Every year on National Sandwich Day, people gather to honor the humble meal between two slices of bread — predictable, balanced, and blessedly portable. But somewhere out there, nachos wait in quiet defiance, knowing deep down they could be sandwiches if they ever cared to follow the rules.

Think about it. A sandwich is just a vessel for ingredients — a structure designed to contain chaos. Nachos are the same idea, but with no lid, no symmetry, no shame. They’re the open-faced philosophers of the snack world, challenging the notion that food should be tidy. A sandwich wants to hold things together. Nachos exist to let things fall apart on purpose.

There’s no judgment here — sandwiches are reliable, even admirable. But nachos don’t play by structure or symmetry. They’re the messy middle of the meal, the part that refuses to stay contained. Sandwiches are designed for control; nachos exist for flavor.

So today, when everyone’s raising a club sandwich to tradition, grab a chip instead. Call it a sandwich if it helps you sleep at night.