The Perfect Reuben: A Deep Dive Into the Greatest Sandwich Ever Argued About
There is no sandwich more argued about than the Reuben. Not the cheesesteak, not the club, not the BLT. The Reuben inspires a specific category of argument — the kind where everyone involved has eaten hundreds of them, formed positions over decades, and will not be moved by evidence. It is the sandwich of strongly held opinions. This piece exists to provide the correct positions.
The Origin: Two Men, One Disputed Sandwich
The Reuben has two origin stories and neither side will fully concede the other.
Story one: Reuben Kulakofsky, a Lithuanian-born grocer and poker player in Omaha, Nebraska, invented the sandwich sometime between 1920 and 1935. The game was held regularly at the Blackstone Hotel, and Kulakofsky — or "Reuben K," as the game regulars called him — assembled a late-night combination of corned beef, sauerkraut, and Swiss cheese on rye for the group. Charles Schimmel, the hotel owner who played in the game, put it on the Blackstone's menu. His daughter confirmed this story in writing decades later.
Story two: Arnold Reuben, founder of Reuben's Restaurant in New York City, invented it in 1914 for actress Annette Seelos, who asked for "a big sandwich" and got something assembled from whatever was in the kitchen that night. Arnold Reuben's son maintained this account publicly for years.
The Omaha story is more documented and more credible. The Blackstone Hotel version won a national sandwich competition in 1956, which helped solidify the Kulakofsky attribution in the public record. The New York claim tends to get more attention because New York gets more attention, not because the evidence is stronger.
The verdict: Omaha. Reuben Kulakofsky. Poker table. Accept it.
Corned Beef vs. Pastrami: Why It Matters
This is the most consequential choice in Reuben construction, and it is treated too casually by too many people.
Corned beef is brisket cured in a brine of salt, sugar, and pickling spices — the "corns" of coarse rock salt give it the name. It is boiled or braised to tenderness. The result is a meat that is moist, slightly pink, relatively mild in flavor, with a gentle spice note from the curing brine. It slices cleanly and doesn't assert itself over the other components.
Pastrami starts the same way — brisket, curing brine — but then gets coated in a dry rub of black pepper, coriander, garlic, and mustard seed before being smoked and then steamed. The result is entirely different: deeply savory, peppery, smoky, with a crust (the "bark") that adds textural contrast and concentrated flavor. Pastrami is louder than corned beef in every dimension.
The traditional Reuben is made with corned beef. Kulakofsky used corned beef. Every diner that has been making Reubens since 1940 uses corned beef by default. But here is the position this publication takes: a pastrami Reuben is the superior sandwich. The pastrami's smokiness cuts through the sauerkraut's acidity and the cheese's richness in a way corned beef cannot. It adds complexity. It earns its place in a sandwich that has a lot going on.
If you want tradition, order corned beef. If you want the best sandwich, order pastrami.
Russian Dressing vs. Thousand Island: They Are Not the Same
This is the point where many menus go wrong, and it is time to be clear: Russian dressing and Thousand Island are not the same condiment. They are related but distinct preparations, and only one of them belongs in a proper Reuben.
Russian dressing is a mixture of mayonnaise, ketchup or chili sauce, horseradish, hot sauce, and often Worcestershire. It is tangy, slightly spicy, and has a heat from the horseradish that builds as you eat. It was invented in New Hampshire in 1910 and became associated with delis and Reuben sandwiches throughout the mid-20th century.
Thousand Island is a mixture of mayonnaise, ketchup, sweet pickle relish, and sometimes hard-boiled egg. It is sweeter, milder, and the pickle relish adds a sweetness that Russian dressing does not have. It is the condiment of iceberg wedge salads and Big Macs. It is not the condiment of a proper Reuben.
The difference matters because a Reuben has three strong flavors competing — the meat, the sauerkraut, and the Swiss cheese — and it needs a condiment with enough backbone to register among them. Russian dressing's horseradish heat does this. Thousand Island's sweetness gets lost.
The verdict: Russian dressing, always. If a deli puts Thousand Island in a Reuben without disclosing it, that is a minor deception worth calling out.
The Sauerkraut Question
Sauerkraut is not optional. Anyone who says "I'll have a Reuben but can you hold the sauerkraut" has ordered a grilled corned beef and Swiss sandwich. That is a fine sandwich. It is not a Reuben.
The sauerkraut does four things simultaneously. It adds acidity to cut through the fat of the meat and cheese. It adds a fermented tang that deepens the overall flavor. It adds moisture, which keeps the sandwich from being dry under the heat of the grill. And it adds textural contrast — the slight crunch against the softened meat and melted cheese.
The sauerkraut should be well-drained before it goes on the sandwich. Wet sauerkraut produces a soggy Reuben, and a soggy Reuben falls apart. Press it in a strainer or squeeze it in a clean towel. This is a non-negotiable step that many delis skip and then wonder why the bread goes translucent.
The Bread Question
Marble rye is the tradition and marble rye is correct. The combination of light and dark rye bread in a single loaf is not just aesthetic — the marbling comes from mixing plain rye dough with rye dough that has been colored with cocoa or molasses, which adds a slight sweetness to some bites and creates flavor variation across the sandwich.
Regular dark rye also works. Pumpernickel is acceptable in a pinch but tends to be too assertive and too moist. Sourdough is an interesting variation but it's a different sandwich. White bread is wrong.
The bread must be sliced thick enough to hold up to the grill without becoming brittle — at least three-quarters of an inch. Thin rye slices will shatter under the weight of the filling when grilled.
The Grilling Question
The Reuben must be grilled. An ungrilled Reuben — a cold Reuben assembled and served without heat — is not a Reuben. The grill does three essential things: it melts the Swiss cheese, it crisps the bread exterior through butter-contact Maillard reactions, and it warms the meat and sauerkraut so the flavors integrate instead of sitting separately.
The correct method: butter the exterior of both bread slices generously, assemble the sandwich cold, and cook in a pan or on a griddle over medium-low heat, pressing gently with a spatula, until the bottom is golden and the cheese begins to melt. Flip, press, and cook until both sides are golden and the filling is hot throughout.
The pan must not be too hot. A Reuben cooked on high heat will burn the bread before the cheese melts — the most common failure mode in home and diner Reuben preparation.
The Cheese Question
Swiss cheese. Specifically Emmental or Jarlsberg. The mild nuttiness and high melt temperature of Swiss cheese makes it the correct choice — it becomes creamy without becoming greasy, and its flavor doesn't compete with the meat or the dressing.
Gruyère is an acceptable upgrade: more complex, slightly more assertive, melts beautifully. Fontina works. Provolone in an emergency. American cheese is wrong for this application — it melts perfectly but has no flavor complexity, and a Reuben needs everything to contribute.
The Definitive Recipe Recommendation
Bread: Marble rye, sliced 3/4 inch thick, buttered on the exterior. Meat: Pastrami, thinly sliced and warmed slightly before assembly, 4-5 oz per sandwich. Cheese: Swiss (Emmental or Jarlsberg), two slices per sandwich. Sauerkraut: Well-drained, approximately 1/3 cup per sandwich, room temperature. Dressing: Russian dressing on both interior bread surfaces, approximately 1.5 tablespoons per side. Method: Assemble cold. Cook in butter over medium-low heat, 4-5 minutes per side, pressing gently. Serve immediately with a half-sour pickle, never a sweet gherkin.
This is the correct Reuben. It has been argued about enough.