A lot of people would probably try to tell you that this sandwich could be bested by swapping out the cheap white bread for some fancy-pants slice of 59-grain this or that, but I disagree. I am rigidly traditional, and tradition demands the worst bread on the planet. The bread is the foundation of the sandwich. One doesn't go about swapping out foundations if one wants his house to stand. The turkey Manhattan is not a house, but I am firm in my conviction, especially when there is an entire loaf of this junk to be plowed through.
Once a year this bread comes home, the Prodigal Son of White Bread. What a dream! It's unsliced and of the lowest quality. I buy it for pure comedy value. It cracks me up. You could stuff a couch with it. In this rich country, this poor bread barely qualifies as food anymore, and for 360 days each year it hides itself. This, of course, is giving agency to a loaf of foam, but how boring would it be to say that the white bread manufacturers make this seasonal product? This bread pops onto the supermarket shelves, enters a million turkeys that have been raised in a manner that will make your stomach turn, and then it disappears again, gone for another year, just like me. I go home once a year to see my family—for Christmas—and then I leave again. I don't go home for Thanksgiving—I miss home on Thanksgiving. To respect my own nostalgia, I do not mess with the white bread tradition. Cheap white bread gives me comfort. I could use it for a pillow.