Mini Muffuletta Party Sandwiches

For a while now the trendy word around the Web has been “obsessed”, and the hyperbole of it all makes me roll my eyes. For Pete’s sake, how often is someone actually obsessed with something, as opposed to just liking it or just wanting it, or just being very interested in it? I assume this linguistic trend is the fault of that curious breed, the Internet Influencer. They are all forever obsessed with something–usually something new and previously unheard of, but very hip and expensive– and they obsess with an alarming frequency.

How does this happen, I wonder? Can you really be obsessed with a previously unknown product this week, and obsessed by some other product the very next? None of this is to say that I’m not impressed with the force that is viral marketing–I am. But can’t they at least be a little more careful with the King’s English? “Obsession” implies something passionate, all-consuming, and wild-eyed; it’s a notion that possesses you, and carries more than a whiff of insanity. The Influencer Class is simply too cool for that.

Yeah, so, whatever. The fact is that I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to make excellent little muffuletta party sandwiches for weeks–okay, for months. Now, you might think this should be pretty straightforward, but it hasn’t been. Big muffulettas cut in small wedges fell apart and made a mess. Muffuletta tea sandwiches had the wrong bread-to-filling ratio. Muffuletta wraps weren’t actually muffulettas at all. Yet I could not stop thinking and talking about it. How does this relate to my tacky comments about influencers? I’m getting there: my interest was firmly off the bell curve, and it was getting worse. “Just make something else!” they said. “What is WRONG with you?!?” I said.

For the three readers out there who are unfamiliar with the muffuletta sandwich, let’s let Wikipedia help:

“The muffuletta sandwich is said to be created in 1906 at Central Grocery Co. on Decatur Street, New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S., by its delicatessen owner Salvatore Lupo, a Sicilian immigrant.[4][5] Another Italian-style New Orleans delicatessen, Progress Grocery Co., originally opened in 1924 by the Perrone family, claims the origin of the muffuletta is uncertain.[6]
The traditional-style muffuletta sandwich consists of a muffuletta loaf[7] split horizontally and covered with layers of marinated muffuletta-style olive salad,[8] salami, ham, Swiss cheese, provolone, and mortadella.[9] Quarter, half, and full-sized muffulettas are sold.[10][11]
The signature olive salad consists of olives diced with the celery, cauliflower and carrot found in a jar of giardiniera, seasoned with oregano and garlic, covered in olive oil, and allowed to combine for at least 24 hours.[12]
A muffuletta is usually served cold, but many vendors will toast it.[10]”

(And as long as we’re talking about that signature olive salad, let me also say this: I personally am not a die-hard olive fan. As much as I adore gin, I am never the girl who stole the olive out of your martini when you weren’t looking. But by the same token, I don’t pout if the pizza shows up with a few black olives on it. HOWEVER, the lynchpin of the muffuletta is all that olive salad. If you skip it, it’s just some random ham or salami and cheese on big round bread. The olive salad and it’s dressing are what really make this sandwich. So no way am I having any sort of muffuletta without good olive salad and plenty of it. Rant over for now.)

Back to my problem: so there I was, bogged down in this party muffuletta business, trying to figure out how to make them so they don’t seem like a silly, miniature, one-off version of the real thing. And so that they aren’t dry. And don’t have weird bread. And don’t force a party foul by dropping oily olive salad all down the front of a guest. In New Orleans muffulettas are often served cold, but some places will toast them for you. I always go for crunchy bread and gooey cheese if that’s an option, and I thought that was probably a plus for a party. Melted cheese should glue them together better, right? Pinterest was zero help. Muffulettas on sesame seed hamburger buns were not going to cut it–toasted or not. Sheesh. Also the best muffulettas aren’t built to order anyway, but made ahead and pressed, Italian-style, so the olive salad dressing soaks into the bread. And then they’re toasted for you if you’re lucky. How best to honor all this so that they’re a reasonable addition to a stand-up party menu and still as good as the best examples? Think, think, think. I really was, quite literally, becoming obsessed with finding the perfect party muffuletta recipe. More than once I caught myself thinking about it in the middle of the night.

Sometimes when I can’t find the answer to a problem, I have to make myself stop thinking about it, and trust that the universe will solve it and notify me at some point. So I forced myself to stop actively obsessing over the dadgum muffulettas and do other things. Then last week I had an idea I wanted to add to my Soup Supper cookbook, a project that’s still in the outline stage. It had to do with those great little ham and cheese sandwiches that you make with a package of King’s Hawaiian Rolls and then pour a melted butter/Worcestershire/poppy seed concoction all over before baking.

It was like a lightning strike. Or maybe like love at first sight. Either way, it hit me like a ton of bricks. The recipe I’d been needing leapt into my head fully formed. And in that moment I knew: my obsessing had not been in vain. The Mini Muffuletta and I would indeed live happily ever after.

Bonus Review from AP, my next door neighbor, and native New Orleanian: “I haven’t had any muffuletta in New Orleans any better than that.”