They say Tuesday is the worst, and I hope they’re right! I don’t think there is a muscle that isn’t sort – although only an aged athlete understands the term “sore in a good way.” That is until you try and do something, like climb the stairs on out of the train station going to work, bending over to pick up a pen, typing, sitting still, standing, drinking coffee. You get the idea.
A friend has been raving about a new sandwich place a few blocks form where I work, so we ventured up there today. I thought it would be a good idea to attempt to “walk out” my muscle woes, but I must have looked like an invalid creaking my way amongst the early lunch time crowds.
And just as well it was the early crowds. As we approached we saw a few people walking in the other direction holding large bundles wrapped in aluminium foil. The matching accessory to the large foil bundle was a smug grin, and every time we passed one, my guide turned around (he was a few metres ahead, of course, not being as afflicted as I was) and nodded knowingly in the direction of the foil carrier. It was only as we entered a fairly ancient and non-descript arcade that the concentration of foil carriers increased.
They were carrying sandwiches.
When we got to the allegedly famous sandwich shop, there was a queue out of the shop. There was also a calm anticipation in the air, although fortunately none of the tension that seemed to pervade the Soup Nazi’s shop. The queue was moving fast, and once we got close it was easy to see why – there were seven sandwich hands working furiously. “Next Please!” was shouted out constantly. I barely had time to study the board and make up my mind before it was my turn. “Smoked salmon on white,” I said. Two enormous cross-cut pieces of vienna loaf were smothered in a mountain of ingredients before my eyes. The harsh fluorescent lightly flashed off the metre long piece of foil my sandwich-maestro peeled off the huge roll in front of her, and my meal (I use the word advisedly) was bundled up and handed to the owner of the shop, who ran the till.
Ten bucks. I saw a lot of ten buck notes changing hands.
We found a seat in a nearly food hall, where there were a number of people chowing down on enormous sandwiches that had been released form their foil tombs.
It was delicious. I’ll be back.
I had a revelation tonight at home. The supply of teaspoons is an ever diminishing resource in our house. There are never enough, and tonight I got a hint at why. Mrs Cricket requested a hot chocolate before bed, and when opening the very large Milo tin that fuels the children’s habit, I found 2 teaspoons, apparently permanently in residence. One looked clean, one looked like it had had a few goes at stirring milk. I took them both out and put them in the dishwasher. I didn’t have a milo myself.
Read the next entry in Dad’s Cricket Diary here
This work of fiction © Dave Cornford