Pie Sandwich
I went to a deli yesterday that I’d never been to. It was a tiny old place packed with workmen huddled around the few small tables they had, while others stood, waiting for their take-out lunches. I took my place in line and watched the man at the counter load up sandwiches and drinks into cardboard boxes and my eyes widened when the cashier said, “That’ll be $106.35". Holy shit, I thought to myself. And then I thought, they’re busy which means their food is good and fresh.
I placed my order - turkey on wheat bread, provolone, lettuce, tomato, mayo, salt and pepper. You know, keeping it simple and sort of light as far as sandwiches go. I grabbed a drink and a small bag of baked chips and waited with all these manly-men feeling very out of place as their sideward glances indicated they hadn’t seen woman in many years. Or maybe it’d just been a few hours but they didn’t remember my species.
They called my order and I wove my way to the checkout counter where the man told me it was $12.05. What? I know that’s not a lot of money but it seemed high for a simple turkey sandwich, drink and small bag of chips. I was thinking more like $7.25 including tax please.
“Are you sure that’s the right price?” I asked politely.
“Have you ever been here before?” he asks.
“No, but….” I said.
“Enjoy your sandwich. It’s the best you’ll ever have.”
I was intrigued. He handled my inquiry quite cleverly and I made a mental note to use that line or something similar with my own customers. I eagerly walked to my car carefully holding the most expensive turkey sandwich like it was a folded flag in a ceremony. I was giddy with anticipation, and wondered what could be so special about it. I got in my car, unwrapped the gem and sat there staring at it befuddled.
“What the hell is this?”
It was a pie sandwich is what it was and I didn’t order a pie sandwich. I wanted a 1950’s style sandwich and I didn’t want to be super-sized. The FOUR inches of turkey was mounded up so high it looked like a pie with the filling about to explode through the center. A turkey pie sandwich with mayonaise oozing down the sides to hold the ingredients together. It was a beast that required eating it out of a bowl with a fork, knife, and bib, and I was on the road, heading out of town, with none of said utensils and no hose to shower off with afterwards.
I should’ve taken it back and asked if they could make eleventy-nine sandwiches out of the filling and fed all my neighbors here in the Hood. It’d make me popular and I’d be a good Samaritan and go to Heaven and everything would be right with the world.
I’m opening up my own restaurant where portion sizes are for human consumption and simply calling it, 1950.
I placed my order - turkey on wheat bread, provolone, lettuce, tomato, mayo, salt and pepper. You know, keeping it simple and sort of light as far as sandwiches go. I grabbed a drink and a small bag of baked chips and waited with all these manly-men feeling very out of place as their sideward glances indicated they hadn’t seen woman in many years. Or maybe it’d just been a few hours but they didn’t remember my species.
They called my order and I wove my way to the checkout counter where the man told me it was $12.05. What? I know that’s not a lot of money but it seemed high for a simple turkey sandwich, drink and small bag of chips. I was thinking more like $7.25 including tax please.
“Are you sure that’s the right price?” I asked politely.
“Have you ever been here before?” he asks.
“No, but….” I said.
“Enjoy your sandwich. It’s the best you’ll ever have.”
I was intrigued. He handled my inquiry quite cleverly and I made a mental note to use that line or something similar with my own customers. I eagerly walked to my car carefully holding the most expensive turkey sandwich like it was a folded flag in a ceremony. I was giddy with anticipation, and wondered what could be so special about it. I got in my car, unwrapped the gem and sat there staring at it befuddled.
“What the hell is this?”
It was a pie sandwich is what it was and I didn’t order a pie sandwich. I wanted a 1950’s style sandwich and I didn’t want to be super-sized. The FOUR inches of turkey was mounded up so high it looked like a pie with the filling about to explode through the center. A turkey pie sandwich with mayonaise oozing down the sides to hold the ingredients together. It was a beast that required eating it out of a bowl with a fork, knife, and bib, and I was on the road, heading out of town, with none of said utensils and no hose to shower off with afterwards.
I should’ve taken it back and asked if they could make eleventy-nine sandwiches out of the filling and fed all my neighbors here in the Hood. It’d make me popular and I’d be a good Samaritan and go to Heaven and everything would be right with the world.
I’m opening up my own restaurant where portion sizes are for human consumption and simply calling it, 1950.
Comments