Unity in Variety: How Pickles and Parker Bring Us Together

There are two new books about Dorothy Parker hitting the shelves soon, and Jimmy Johns is now offering a pickle sandwich. This is not a sandwich with many pickles; it’s a sandwich that uses a giant pickle as the bread. So meats and cheeses, oil and spices are all sandwiched (is that redundant) in the giant pickle. Imagine that. Seriously, take a moment to imagine the meeting in some office, in some high rise, with men and women in power suits drinking coffee from bone china cups. At the same time, minions on the outskirts hovered pens over legal pads, waiting to record the greatness that was sure to be streaming from these masters of business and the culinary standards that capture the American taste bud: the result, a giant pickle used as a bun for a Vito or a number 4. GENIUS!

I cannot think of more polar opposites than these two events. One is the reissuing of work from one of America’s most celebrated writers, who gave us The Constant Reader and her book reviews, great bon mots like, “What fresh hell is this?” and “He and I worked in an office so tiny, an inch smaller, and it would have been adultery.” The other is a punch line available for a limited time at your local Jimmy John’s sandwich shop.

Here’s what would make me happy, really giddy, and really laugh out loud: I’m going back to bed for the rest of my life because nothing would be more wonderful. Seeing a person sitting at a table in a Jimmy John's, eating one of these pickle things, and reading The Portable Dorothy Parker would crack my nut!

Look, I’ll be honest with you: I have no idea why I’m fixated on these two events, if you can call a pickle sandwich unveiling an event and, in some ways, if you can call the publishing of more of Dorothy Parker’s work and event. Some will say yes to the Parker material being put on shelves again, and others will say, “A sandwich that’s a pickle, hell, f*cking yeah.”

Both sets of people are right. I am not condemning or condoning one or the other; I am saying these two things are happening simultaneously in the same country.

Think about that.

Seriously, think about that. Think about these two seemingly unconnected events happening. Think about who will be happy with each event. Who will be waiting in line at a bookstore, hopefully, an Indy bookstore owned by people who love to read, love books, love spending hours moving slowly between the stacks, maybe an index finger running down spines, a few books already nestled in their arms. Think about the people who spend time in book shops, not to sit at the table in the Starbucks, but the ones who go into book shops because the books are the main event. Think about those types. I know one of those types, and the fact that she is one of those types is one of the many reasons why I just adore her. But those are specific people. And there are a ton of them. And that’s good.

Now, turn the page and think about the ones who would see an ad for a pickle sandwich and think, oh, yes, I gotta get me one of those. And they rush to the local Jimmy Johns and, crazy fast, get a giant pickle stuffed with meats and cheeses sandwich.

So, you wonder, what are you asking me to think about? Are you saying that Dorothy Parker fans are more literate, more special, more high-brow? Too high brow to enjoy the American invention of the pickle sandwich? What are you driving at here, writer boy, that we, the pickle sammich eaters, are less intelligent, less classy than the Parker lovers? Is that what you’re suggesting we think about? Is it? Cause if it is, I will kick your intellectual ass all over lower Manhattan.

That’s not what I’m saying, stereotypical New Yorker whom I just made up and voiced; that’s not what I’m saying at all.

Let’s take this a little further, shall we?

“Shall we? Who the f*ck says shall we? What are you, some intellectual snob?”

I’ve created a monster.

Imagine, if you will, Dorothy Parker herself striding into a Jimmy John's on her lunch break, raising a singular, judgmental eyebrow as she gazes at this newly christened pickle-sandwich concoction. I’m convinced Parker would have had something to say about this culinary wonder—a cutting quip, no doubt, but then again, maybe not. Who can resist a truly American innovation like that? And isn't that the beauty of it? We, in our diverse glory, are equally capable of celebrating poetry and pickles: Tolstoy and the KFC Double Down.

Maybe that’s what keeps this wild experiment, this wonderful mess called America, chugging along this vast capacity to hold both reverence for literary wit and delight in gastronomic oddities. And yes, it might seem like the pickle eaters and the Parker readers are miles apart, but they have more in common than they think. After all, both camps are simply people in search of a bit of joy, a good laugh, a reason to pause and enjoy something that speaks to them.

There’s a unity in that, even if it’s not one of the loud, banner-waving kinds. Think about those people waiting in line to get their hands on Parker's reissued books, and think about the pickle sandwich devotees—they’re both ready to invest a bit of themselves, a few bucks, a bit of time, for the simple act of embracing what they love. That’s where they meet, even if it’s not in the same line, maybe not even in the same building, but they meet in that same spirit. Because the Dorothy Parker fan with a tote bag full of hardcovers, just like the Jimmy John's enthusiast wiping pickle juice from their chin, is out there experiencing the same profound and universal American truth: sometimes, you just have to treat yourself.

In fact, let's go a little further. Let's imagine a book signing for The Portable Dorothy Parker, hosted, of course, at an indie bookstore. The crowd here is an eclectic mix of Parker fans—academics, hipsters, lovers of sharp wit, and maybe even a few skeptics who are just curious about this woman with her biting humor. The Jimmy John’s around the corner from the bookstore is humming with excitement, the line stretching around the block as people wait their turn for a moment with the famed pickle sandwich.

Maybe, just maybe, some brave soul is even carrying their Parker book into Jimmy John’s, reading it by the counter, a kind of quiet rebellion in a sea of pickle-eaters. Maybe they're savoring Parker’s wit between bites, pausing to appreciate that they don’t have to choose between the “high” and the “low” pleasures. They can have it all—words and whimsy, philosophy and fast food.

Because isn’t that really the American dream? Having it all, or at least as much as we can carry in both hands? We’re here, each of us, juggling our peculiar interests and intellectual and indulgent cravings. Maybe that’s the secret sauce of America—not that we all agree or that we’re even aiming to. Instead, it’s this marvelous ability to disagree over our tastes, to debate the literary merits of Parker in the same breath as we marvel at the ingenuity of a pickle sandwich, and to live with that very chaos, even celebrate it.

One might say this is what America’s always been good at—bringing together people with wildly different interests, finding room for every voice, every taste, and every peculiar, wonderful quirk. It’s not a place that asks us to be the same; in fact, it’s often a place that relishes our most outlandish and unexpected ideas. And perhaps we’re most American when we stand back and laugh at the ridiculous beauty of it all, like watching someone order a pickle sandwich with all the earnestness of a seasoned connoisseur. Or when we pass a bookstore, slow our step and remember the time we stayed up too late reading Dorothy Parker by flashlight, reveling in her wicked honesty.

So maybe the people in the high-rise meetings, the ones who came up with the giant pickle-as-bun idea, and the re-publishers of Dorothy Parker’s work aren’t so different after all. They’re all curators of the American experience in their own way, providing something delightful to hungry people—whether it’s a hunger for wit or something to bite into.

Maybe you, dear reader, are a little like them, too. You’ve probably felt that same craving for something more, something unexpected—a sentence that makes you laugh, a taste that wakes you up. And in that, we’re connected, no matter how distant our paths might seem. It’s a quiet, absurd kind of unity built on shared hunger and simple pleasures.

So, the next time you see a pickle sandwich or a classic book of wit and wisdom, pause a moment. Imagine all the people who smile at the thought of each, maybe for different reasons, but with the same joy. And in that pause, in that smile, maybe you’ll see it too—the same weird, wonderful, one-of-a-kind spirit that keeps this place and all of us going, pickle sandwiches and Parker fans alike.

“Awright, you got me there, writer boy, that’s not too bad, not too bad at all. I’ve decided I ain’t gonna kick your ass. Why don’t you let me buy you a pickle sammich.”