Reuben
Eggrolls

New York, a deli on the Lower East Side, a waiter older than the building. He set down a Reuben sandwich the size of a paperback and said, "You'll need a nap." He was right. I've been chasing that sandwich ever since.

I did not expect to find it again on a putting course at PopStroke Las Vegas, on a breezy April afternoon, while my college roommate Jules explained, in exhausting detail, why my stroke was "all wrists."

We were on the 8th. A two-tier green, ball on the bottom shelf, cup on the top. I hit it hard enough to climb and not a whisker more. It crested the slope, wobbled and died at the lip.

A tap-in. Jules went quiet. I parred the 9th, marched us to the patio at the turn and ordered in triumph. While we waited, Jules beat me at ping pong and blamed my wrists for that too.

Reuben Eggrolls. Hand-rolled wonton wrappers, blistered and golden, stuffed with corned beef, tender and salty, swiss cheese melted into every corner, and sauerkraut, sharp and tangy, bringing the whole thing to attention. And beside them, a zesty thousand island dipping sauce, creamy and bright, the kind of sauce that makes you dip twice and look around to see who noticed.

Jules noticed. Jules took two.

It was the old deli, folded into Reuben egg rolls you could hold in one hand with a scorecard in the other. No nap required. I parred the 10th and nobody mentioned my wrists again.