The Italian

I was going to tell the world a story about the greatest sandwich I have ever had, but I wasn't sure how to tell it. I sat around for three hours staring at a blank screen, thinking about how this story could possibly solve all of the world's problems. I knew it could not, but I also knew that this sandwich helped me find myself, just a little bit, and all the Quizno's and Subway Sandwich shops in the world would never fill that void. They can add all the toasters, bargains, and specialty sandwiches they want, and it will never have the same effect. In the spring of 2003 I was fortunate enough to dine on the greatest sandwich the world has ever known, but it was only me who really knew.

When I walked into the shop, the silence hit me like a right hook. Sitting behind the counter with his legs crossed, sat a skinny Italian gentleman, wearing a giant silver cross around his neck. He was nonchalantly smoking a cigarette, blowing small smoke circles into the air. He gazed at me for a moment, gently extinguished his cigarette, and nodded as if to imply that he knew I was soon to be a believer in the power of sandwich art.

"You want the Italian?" He asked.

"No, thanks," I replied. "I'll have the turkey."

"You'll have the Italian!" He exclaimed in a soft whisper. I wasn't exactly sure how to reply to this, so I said nothing. He removed himself from the stool and began to clear off his work space. As he intricately placed the knives and sandwich ingredients on the counter in front of him, it felt like the lights in the room began to dim. When he began to make the sandwich, classical music swelled inside of my head; every detail was exquisitely precise and skillfully mastered, almost hypnotic. From the way he sliced vegetables, to the intricate amounts of spices and oils he used, this man was an artist. I couldn't tell you what the exact ingredients were, but I do remember the heart and soul he put into the construction of this edible miracle, and to this day I carry that memory around like some sort of steel-toed reminder to use when I feel like the world has once again cornered me.

When he finished, he easily sliced the sandwich in two, placed it gently into a basket, and laid it on top of the counter.

"Five bucks," he commanded. Without thinking, I pulled five wrinkled ones out of my wallet and handed them over. He placed the money in the register, looked at me directly in the eyes, and nodded as if to say that this was the end of the line for him. The rest I had to do on my own. He returned to his corner, lifted the still lit cigarette from the ashtray, and took up where he left off. The first bite I took was almost too shocking to process; it hit my taste buds like an eighteen wheeler on a quiet dirt road. I knew at that moment that this would be the greatest sandwich I had ever eaten, and steps had to be taken to savor every moment of this process. I put the sandwich down, stared at it for what seemed like hours, and finally picked it up and began to eat. I ate slowly, pausing often, to devour a chip and take a few sips from my water glass. As much as I tried to fight it, the sandwich slowly went, and as expected, in the end, I was inevitably left with one small corner piece. I couldn't help but get slightly misty eyed as I stared down at the minute remains that were left from this once grand sandwich empire. I knew that I should have expected how quickly the moment would pass, but I tried not to think about it, only live for the moment, now, inside this empty shop in the middle of suburban Texas. I reluctantly ate the last bite. The sandwich was gone.

The next time I went to the shop, it had changed ownership. I ordered the Italian sub, but it wasn't the same. The heart that this mystery man had put into the first sandwich was not there; in fact, I could only eat half of the sandwich I was given. I stared deeply into this pile of half eaten bread, meat and vegetables that lay in front of me, and a calm feeling slowly grew inside. I quietly watched as each person in this now crowded sandwich shop savagely devoured their poorly made sandwiches. I finally discarded what was left of my sandwich into the waste basket by the door and went to Wendy's for a burger.