President Obama has tackled many issues in his short tenure, and I put it to you that none has been more important — in the short term — than the question of what goes on top of a hamburger.

You will recall that last spring, the president loped into a popular non-franchised hamburger place and asked for a burger with Dijon mustard on top. Oh, the horror. It was a one-day firestorm: the president favouring French mustard. He seems to have survived that one, but his action brought hamburger toppings to the top of the agenda.

And the question is: how much can a hamburger bear? Dijon mustard is just one small piece.

I used to favour a takeout hamburger place in downtown Toronto, at which you got your burger and then were offered a wide variety of toppings. A choice of mustards plus ketchup and relish and pickles and peppers and lettuce and mushrooms and onions and a sauce or two. Mostly, I took them all.

Then, my burger would be wrapped in foil and I would take it outside onto the unsuspecting street. I would find a quiet spot, unwrap the burger, roll up my sleeves and take that first bite. And bits of topping would fly across the road while sauces dripped down my arms and fell from my elbows.

Yes, I was a messy eater; but I was not alone. For the philosophy behind hamburger toppings is: take all you can get.

It’s not just hamburgers. In my life, I’ve only given in two or three times to the temptation of sausage sellers. I exercise restraint because if I started eating street sausage, I could easily get up to two a day. Or more. That would be two a day with all the toppings, such as sauce and pickles and onion and the added delectation of sauerkraut. All of which would further my “messy eater” reputation.

Said reputation rests on two firm foundations. The first is a submarine sandwich, or hero or hoagy or whatever it’s called; the second is a simple veal on a bun.

Let’s start with the veal. In the days when I had a luxurious beard, I was favoured by a sandwich seller at Toronto’s St. Lawrence Market. He sold me my first breaded veal on a bun and, as he rested it on a paper plate, he asked if I would like a few mushrooms on it. I said I would. Then he offered onions and tomato sauce. I accepted both.

I carted my sandwich off to a corner and chomped down, filling my beard with sauce. I wrestled with that sandwich for 20 minutes, but I finally had to drop the remaining half into my shopping bag.

Of course, I didn’t learn my lesson. Every time I went to the market, I got another veal sandwich. And every time, the toppings flourished. And every time, I couldn’t finish. But I want you to know they were delicious, and now I’m starting to feel a bit hungry.

Now, let us consider the submarine sandwich. My first and last submarine sandwich. Called at that time, I think, a hoagy. I was young and beardless at the time, but surely was old enough to know better when I was handed one by a university professor at a party in his living room. I hefted the sandwich (for it was hefty), inserted one end in my mouth and clamped down hard. At which point, one of Isaac Newton’s laws of motion went into demonstration mode.

As I applied pressure to one end of this long, tubular sandwich, events began to transpire. As best I can recall, the sandwich contained pickles and cheese and rounds of salami. Lettuce lined the inside, and a liberal coating of Dijon mustard and mayonnaise lubricated the contents. Thus, the force of my clamping jaws sent rounds of salami spinning across the room like frisbees while unknown liquids coursed down my chin. And came to rest on my (luckily, for the color scheme) paisley tie.

I excused myself, went to the bathroom for a cleanup, thought of disposing of the sandwich in the obvious way, thought about what vast embarrassment that would cause when it blocked the drain, stuffed the damned thing in an inside pocket, towelled myself down, and went back and had a drink.

That was the last one of those types of sandwiches I ever had. But I am still open to veal and lavishly topped burgers, and maybe a sausage. All with Dijon mustard. IE