The Sandwich

Bunk.

I awake to the need of this sandwich.

Watch me stand in line on the sidewalk, kids in tow, waiting for My Man.

This hunger won't turn me loose and now I'm maybe regretting having come inside.

I have an $8 a day habit and I think it be killing me.

It is, at the least, making me fat as shit.

The bread is perfect. The oil leaking out onto your jeans- Perfect. The big men behind the counter shouting your name, a pile of chips and red peppers, a can of beer. There's no ventilation. It's hot and it smells like meat.

Heaven.



I'm not reviewing sardines here, Jim.

I'm talking about sandwiches as a delivery vehicle for anchovies of the finest kind.

Anchovies that were given to Hamachi by a man in a Borsalino hat.

I have eaten of these fish, and they were worth whatever amount of money the man had to pay for them..

Salty, spicy little bastards, each. And perfect.


And, Bunk.

The wine was from Sardinia, and wasn't anything much to speak of, but I remember it fondly.