I had a summer camp counselor who, in a frenzied moment of word association, once called me “Sauerkraut.” 

I’m inclined to forgive her because, among a team populated with curvaceous women (a style of painter Peter Paul Rubens known as Rubenesque) and Pee-Wee Herman (Paul Reubens), the Reuben sandwich is the marquee celebrity. 

Though I was back then a pescetarian who had never tried the sandwich with which I share a name, my camp counselor’s christening of a new nickname would prove prescient. 

Since then, I’ve unencumbered myself of all dietary restrictions and — perhaps because or maybe in spite of my name — become a full-throated enthusiast of the Reuben sandwich. 

A Reuben at Andy’s Old Port Pub in Portland. (Derek Davis/Staff Photographer)<?xml version="1.0"?> Purchase this image THE HISTORY OF A SANDWICH

The Reuben, traditionally speaking, is a heaping grilled sandwich of layered corned beef, Swiss cheese and sauerkraut doused in Russian dressing and grilled between two slices of rye (many sandwich-mongers now opt for Thousand Island dressing, a close relative of Russian that forgoes horseradish). 

Like any good cultural touchstone, the Reuben has a ripe body of contradictory mythology behind it. In her writing, Elizabeth Weil has repeatedly and convincingly litigated the claim that her grandfather created the sandwich at his family’s Omaha hotel in the 1920s for poker player Reuben Kulakofsky, dismissing those who backed the claim that it was Reuben’s Restaurant and Delicatessen in New York that invented the sandwich in 1914.

As Weil wrote in a 2016 essay, the Reuben “has a huge personality, it’s loud.” It is, she notes, evocatively Jewish and yet egregiously unkosher. 

Is it possible to see oneself reflected in the swirling streamlines of marbled rye?

It was with an affinity for the sandwich with which I share a name that I undertook this assignment. My mission? To try Reubens. Not all of them (this would be medically inadvisable), but a few classics and some riffs. 

Being a member of the local press, I thought it fitting to start this journey at The Local Press, Casey Sheehan’s Woodfords Corner sandwich shop that’s endured some 14 years. Sheehan keeps it traditional with his Reuben ($14.95), which is named for his best friend from high school, Flip, who loved the towering hot sandwich. 

“I feel like a Reuben should be stacked,” Sheehan says, piling some 6 ounces of Boar’s Head corned beef, preheated on the griddle, onto a slab of Botto’s Bakery marbled rye. 

To ensure the sandwich is of adequate stature, he grills the Reuben on a panini press but doesn’t compress it. 

The result? A robust sandwich, crusty on the outside and steaming from within. 

It’s messy. Any good Reuben is.

It’s also salty. Inevitably so, given the reliance on kraut and corned beef — both salt-brined.

The creamy, sweet dressing collides with the tangy kraut, and together they bathe the thick-cut corned beef and musky Swiss in a sweet-and-salty perfume.

Reubens are popular, sure, but too much of an acquired taste to take the top spot on a menu.

It’s in Sheehan’s top five most popular menu items, and top four at Andy’s Old Port Pub. The Reuben is something I rarely think to cook myself at home, but often relish when I spy one on a menu. They are the comfort you didn’t know you needed — until suddenly you do. 

I stopped by Andy’s to try their Reuben ($19) on a humid summer day. The brick-walled kitchen there holds in the heat, as lead cook Staycen Lamarre piles sauerkraut on the griddle to make my sandwich. 

They also use a mass-produced corned beef, but make their own sauerkraut and Thousand Island in-house. The beef is thinner and shredded — not necessarily my preference — and results in a sandwich with slightly less structural integrity.  

Their marbled rye is plush, which I appreciate in a characteristically wet sandwich. I consume it at the corner table in their back room by the pool table. There’s nothing fancy about this sandwich and there doesn’t need to be.

Lead cook Staycen Lamarre makes a Reuben at Andy’s Old Port Pub in Portland. (Derek Davis/Staff Photographer)<?xml version="1.0"?> Purchase this image WHAT’S IN A NAME?

There are, for better or worse, a number of riffs on the Reuben. Each of them draws key elements from the traditional recipe and inevitably begs a question I’ve asked myself many times (albeit never in consideration of a sandwich): What makes a Reuben?

There is a notable absence of sauerkraut in some of these alternatives, an exclusion that tends to rankle this fan of the fermented.

Docks Seafood, a family-owned restaurant in South Portland offers a haddock Reuben ($20). The Thirsty Pig, an Old Port sausage and craft beer joint often bumping with live music, has a Reuben-style hot dog ($10). The Great Lost Bear, another beer hall with an expansive offering of pub fare, has a vegetarian Reuben with tomatoes and steamed broccoli ($14.99).

At Docks, Morgan Betts, the front of house lead who waited on me, said he moved to South Portland and came into Docks, asking first for a Reuben and second for a job. Bravo on your priorities, Morgan. 

The restaurant lightly batters 5 ounces of fresh-caught haddock and serves it on marbled rye with melted Swiss cheese, Thousand Island and fresh slaw. 

The restaurant’s sandwich is delicious. Betts estimates that one in every four tables orders it. 

“We pay attention to the fried seafood, especially the local product,” owner Chris Mills said. “We, if you will, kind of honor it.” 

The gluten-free corn and rice flour batter is light and perfectly crisped. 

But my mind played tricks on me.

Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, so expectant was I of the warm spice of corned beef and briny zing of kraut that I conjured the flavors in their absence.

I recalibrated my expectations and finished what was, truly, an excellent fish sandwich. 

This was not a one-off.

At the Thirsty Pig, you can choose from a variety of sausages (I had the classic 6-inch hot dog) and order them dressed up a number of ways, including the Reuben.

Because the Thirsty Pig makes their sausages in-house, the hot dog was more flavorful and less off-putting than your average frank. They nestle it in a bun and tuck it in with a sheet of sauerkraut (thank goodness) and a comforter of melted Swiss, drizzled Thousand Island on top.

It’s not bad. Nor is the open-faced veggie Reuben down Forest Avenue at the Great Lost Bear. I was delightfully surprised by the crunchy texture of the broccoli and the rather headstrong caraway flavor emanating from the rye. Tomatoes ensure the sandwich is a proper mess and the slaw makes sure you really eat your greens.

Both sandwiches are unruly, arguably unconventional and entirely tasty. (If you have a problem with me calling a hot dog a sandwich, well, this isn’t about you.)

They are, for lack of a better word, Reuben-esque.

But they cannot match the unexpected chemistry that happens between those two pieces of rye when corned beef, sauerkraut and Swiss are made into one.

The Reuben is an odd sandwich. Indulgent and irreverent. I admire that they are simple to make but daring to eat, brash yet still a humble staple of the commoner’s haunt.

It’s colorful, in both the poetic and literal senses. It doubles down brine and forces you to do the same. It disassembles itself as you eat it, its ropes of melted Swiss clinging to the mouth.

Reuben demands a zest for life. And that’s exactly what I’m looking for.