I am immersed in Stephen King’s book: On Writing, A Memoir of the Craft. This book gives you the confidence to write a friggin’ novel. When one of the greatest and most consistent writers of our time gives you tips on how to convey a great story, you listen with your eyes wide open. There are no writing exercises or anything of the sort, actually only one, but, I’ve read a few books on improving your writing and this one is a blast that I know I will reread just for the fun of it. This man can write and he does it well. With this fountain of knowledge, you gain an appetite.
I was in poor health starting Wednesday morning this week and seemed glued to my bed. Not easy to do when you have a lovely little one-year-old to take care of, but, I was lucky I had help or else it is impossible to recover quickly. For my recovery, I just wanted a simple pick me up energy-wise. Besides the ginger-lemon teas, the medicines, the overdose of vitamins, ibuprofen, and the plenty of water everyone in the world tells you to drink I still didn’t have enough energy to cook something up. Slicing a loaf of bread and putting mayonnaise, cold cuts, and a slice of cheese in between does the job, not properly, but it is survival at this point.
It got me through to the next day where I planned to get the ingredients I needed to make a chicken noodle soup. My plan sounded simple and solid, so I picked up my daughter from kindergarten and continued my adventure of staying alive. I bought carrots, potatoes, sweet potatoes, onions, garlic, more ginger, turmeric, plenty of cilantro, green onions, limes, and one whole beautiful chicken. My mind was satisfied with my mental shopping list checked off, even though I felt as if I had forgotten something. I shrugged the feeling off with my head feeling triple its size and replaced it with the need to refuel my woozy self with another quick and effective meal, a sandwich.
I love sandwiches. I love them so much it was both on my Instagram and Twitter bios and it said: “I love sammiches”, spelled exactly like that. A good sandwich is not something to be taken for granted. If you have that available to you, be grateful, and don’t take it for granted. Germany is infamous for having shitty sandwiches. It’s supposed to be joy between two slices of good, warm crunchy bread. Instead, it’s a depressing stack of two slices of despair, spread with a sauce that screams zero fucks and lay on top of freshly washed and crunchy regret. Every damn time I get a sandwich from the baker I regret it. No matter the baker, or at least the affordable ones, it is the same repetitive options. I am a hopeful masochist, not sexually, but, I think I’m at a point where I believe I enjoy these sandwiches which is humiliating, and I know I will be disappointed. It’s madness, it’s insanity.
“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” - Albert Einstein
I have one hand pushing the stroller that my daughter is in and the other holding the best sandwich I found from a chain bakery called Steinecke (or Stone Corner, they might as well sell stones too). It took me a solid two minutes staring at the lame sandwiches on offer. The man working behind the counter was abnormally chipper, and, hairy. He came to ask which one I wanted. I didn’t have the confidence I was hoping for and pointed to what I thought would be a turkey sandwich. The man told me I guessed wrong, and that it was a ham sandwich. I wanted the one closest to me, he teased me by pointing to the one closest to him. This went back and forth for a while until my breath fogged up the glass counter and I lost sight of his hairy wrists. His sick German humor got to me and I settled. I didn’t care which one it was, the cucumbers looked dry, and the tomatoes were worthy of throwing against a wall — I knew I was going to be disappointed. I said I’d take it to go, with a chocolate croissant to console me afterward. The smiling salesman sent me away with a ‘Have a great day’, I wasn’t so sure, and replied with a ‘Yeah’.
I stepped out and unwrapped my sandwich under the falling snow. I took my first bite and a rumbling regret made its way from my mouth to my mind. The second bite caught me off guard with a yellow sauce that seemed to have a very small brunoise of carrots. I have no idea what those orange squares were, nor did I know what that sauce was. I was worried that I was enjoying it until I walked past a bus stop and the people waiting gave me looks of — ‘Oh that poor man is having a Steinecke sandwich’. I saw it in their eyes.
I sucked my bottom lip and scurried off into the falling snow to pick up my package, in shame. I walked into the package store to retrieve one of my many cookbooks that made their way to my home when I wasn’t there. I opened the package to find Turkey and The Wolf by Mason Hereford, a sandwich cookbook, of course! Out of the dozen cookbooks I ordered this is the one to arrive, huh? I sighed and decided it was best to head home. On the way back, I whipped out and ate the chocolate croissant to console myself.
I went ahead with my mise-en-place for the chicken soup until I realized I had forgotten to buy noodles. Another sigh. I decided to throw in some Jamaican spinners, or festivals, to give my soup some sort of oomph, just a bit. I spruced up my soup at the end with plenty of cilantro, green onions, lime, and hot sauce which helped my recovery from another certain failure of a sandwich. Why do I do this to myself? Maybe I like the potential of getting a decent sandwich, but it never happens. So why do I keep going for it? I feel like I’m in an abusive relationship hoping one day it will turn around. That it was all worth it.
Sandwich accessibility doesn’t mean squat! We need accountability, for all of us on the search for a better sandwich. I call on you, my friend, in a time of need, hunger and hope to pass me your favorite sammie, sando, or sandwich joint to a man in dire need of what should be a universal right. If you know of a place that conveys honor by treating its bread which hugs its ingredients with respect and love and is worthy of its place on a pedestal, let me know. I’m in Berlin. Help. Please, help.
Brioche-ly yours,
The Greasy Pen.
Thank you for reading.
My very awesome globe-trotting friend started throwing dope tracks at the end of her newsletters (which you should check out!) and I am completely jacking that idea for this one.
I agree. Most prepared sandwiches on display are dry because of the lighting which calls attention to them. Spreads, spices, herbs and moist ingredients like pickle or mushroom aren’t included because the idea is to appease the blandest buyer. If someone wants to add to it they can buy those items separately.
Love the Detroit Poo Bahs sound and sense of humor. Great choice!
I am with you on the importance of sandwich accountability.