A Grilled Cheese Mystery: My Search for a Simple Sandwich

Illustration by Mark Matcho

I can’t deny that I’ve got major skills, all of which have zero marketability. I can identify a Springsteen song two seconds in. I can always find parking in Charlestown, and I can always annoy the crap out of my wife and kids trying to find parking in Charlestown.

But I know jack about running a restaurant. I’ve never waited tables, bartended, or scooped ice cream for a summer. It still won’t stop me from asking the following: What the eff is going on with the effing grilled cheese?

There’s no debate on the sandwich’s Hall of Fame status. Even if you don’t like it, you do. I’m vegan, and I want one because if there’s anything I miss more than juiciness, it’s melty goodness.

And it’s so simple. Bread. Cheese. Butter. Heat.

But some people still muck it up. I was out with my 12-year-old son, Milo, on a Saturday afternoon, and he wanted one. More specifically, he needed one. It was 2:15 p.m., and the local place that makes it just right was closing at 3. We were five towns away, but I thought we could get there, and I was right. We walked in at 2:50 p.m. Apparently, the grill closes at 2:45. I’m sure there’s a good reason for this, except that there isn’t.

I could have seethed, but instead I kept my heart open to the world, and that allowed me to view this not as pure foolishness, but for the beautiful, generous gift that it was. This small café was allowing me to teach my son—on a Saturday, after a long car ride, while he was hungry—about patience and flexibility in the face of such statements as “We’re open until 3…unless you want grilled cheese, and then, not really.” So yes, thank you. Thank you, small-café owner, for that gift. In return, I want to give you something. A new name. The Asterisk. Yeah, that is catchy. Hey, I’ve got another skill.

Now it was on to Plan B, a specialty market down the street, which some people in town have loved for decades and others think is overpriced and precious (and I’m using the royal “others.”) Still, it was no time for contempt. My son was hungry, so I entered that store because that’s what good fathering looks like. (It also looks rugged, a touch mysterious, and wears an orange Detroit Tigers hat to hide its balding head.) I found the menu board. It was on the back wall. It offered many sandwiches, and one was, in fact, grilled cheese—I feel hope is on the menu, as well—along with seemingly every bread imaginable: focaccia, ciabatta, whole wheat, marble rye, sourdough. But for a store that sells 37 kinds of chips, amazingly it has no shelf space for a loaf of white.

So much for the hope.

Then I saw it on that same menu board. A small, thin rectangle. A kids’ section, and on it was, yes, grilled cheese, which could be done with American or cheddar on whole wheat or white. And while the print was small, the font was non-Gaelic, so I could clearly read the takeaway message: We have what you’re looking for.

Back to hope.

Milo stepped up and ordered American on white. I heard him. It was a good, strong, polite order. They took that order and started working on his sandwich, and I could start to dream.

This might work out. He might get to eat. I might get to give this place my money, and this might be the greatest lesson in never quitting, staying open-minded, and realizing you, my son, always have choices.

Or not.

The sandwich arrived. We brought it home and discovered that it was on sourdough. Milo gave it a shot. He took one bite, and…it was still sourdough. I went back, thinking it was a mistake, and hoping for a redo. The staff looked confused as they stared at the sandwich. The counterperson told me that when they say white, they actually mean sourdough. Uhhh, about that…yeah, even she didn’t believe what she was saying.

Sourdough isn’t evil. It’s just not white bread—never has been, never will be. I also have no issue with it being on a kids’ menu, although I don’t see why it ever would be. Rarely have the words “sourdough” and “stoked” been strung together by a Little League team post-game at a snack bar.

So to review: In my town, within two blocks, I have one place that’s not serving food when they’re open because they’re not really open, and another that’s fully open but is redefining the meaning of words. I feel that’s just not cool, but again this isn’t my turf. I wonder what an industry professional would say.

“That’s just not cool,” says Charles Kelsey, co-owner of Cutty’s, a sandwich shop in Brookline. The customer-restaurant relationship isn’t complicated. All it needs to work are two basic things, hours and menus. I need to know: If I push the door, here’s when it will open, and when I enter, here’s what I can get, according to the printed thingy that you created.

Menus are like contracts, Kelsey adds. If they are solid, we have trust. If they are weak, what do we have? Is it anarchy? No. It’s something way worse. It’s heartbreak and betrayal, and there’s already enough of that in the world. The always-unifying, always-peaceful grilled cheese doesn’t need to be a part of that.

Still, if we’re now into subjective rules, I have some of my own for when I get to the register. Oh, you want money? How about I pay you with salt, like the ancient Mayans? Or I’ll offer my writing services? (As you can tell, they’re pretty good.) Or how about I give you one of my memories? It could be from overnight camp or my honeymoon. I’ve got a bunch, and they’re all priceless but valuable enough to cover your mediocre falafel. And yes, I’ll expect two holes in my punch card.

Look, I know running any food place is difficult, and I’m sorry my kids aren’t more adventurous, but they like what they like and don’t want any sharp deviations, which is completely different from your adult customers, who are always so, so, so flexible and undemanding with substitutions. I also know that chefs like to push the boundaries, but there’s a balance between creativity and respecting history, and that’s a thing we should be able to dominate at in Boston.

Except we don’t.

We’ve taken our kids to restaurants where the menu appeared friendly, i.e., they had mac ’n’ cheese and French fries. But the former came with truffle oil, the latter dusted with herbs and spices. Guess what? The kids didn’t eat either. So congratulations on getting two children to hate mac ’n’ cheese and French fries during the same meal. Maybe that’ll be a new James Beard Award category.

I hope these are just blips and not a sign that the grilled cheese sandwich is getting phased out. I implore you not to succumb. The grilled cheese might be basic and boring; the people who eat it may have no money of their own, but here are two “facts.”

1. Innovation can be super. Can be. Wheels on a suitcase? Maybe the greatest invention ever. The screw top on milk cartons? Not far behind. But a coffee pot with a clock? We already have phones, microwaves, and actual clocks in the kitchen. Thirty gears on a bike? Twenty-four too many. Keyless car key? I’ve been driving for 40 years. In the 38 with an actual key, you know how many times I unknowingly got out of a car with it still running? Zero. In the past three weeks, I’ve done it seven. This might be heresy to say within 25 miles of MIT, but I will: Good enough sometimes is good enough.

2. Grilled cheese is a cash cow. If you have a solid version, parents will come to your place a lot and be happy because they get to eat and not have to clean plates. The kids will be happy because they’re eating grilled cheese. And you’ll have kids everywhere during recess saying stuff like, “Oh, her food. Sublime. Very cheese forward.” And in my world, Milo would take my phone and post a review along the lines of, “I wish my bed was made out of their grilled cheese it’s soooooo good.” Then you’d be swamped with customers looking for the Killer GC. (Just made that up. My newfound skill has been unleashed.) It would be like getting visited by Guy Fieri without having to be visited by Guy Fieri.

Yes, you’ll be overrun with parents and their kids, but the upshot is we’ll be out by 4 p.m., 5 at the latest. On our end, we’ll make sure no one mindlessly rips open sugar packets. And all you have to do is have white bread and be open when you say. Cool?

Oh, and order napkins and ketchup—more than you think you’ll ever need. And make it the plain and unspicy kind, for God’s sake.

First published in the print edition of the September 2024 issue with the headline, “A Grilled Cheese Mystery.”