The Sandwich

Never underestimate the powerful combination of ham and Swiss cheese sandwiches. That’s a mighty good sandwich.

I pulled the bread out of the bag, slathered on some Miracle Whip, ran a knife through some fresh Vidalia onion, placed the onion, ham, and Swiss cheese upon the freshly slathered bread, and took a bite.

And I was in Heaven.

I can’t remember ever having a ham and Swiss sandwich. I was always more of a roast beef and cheddar kind of guy.

I’ve always enjoyed pastrami. I remember my grandparents used to buy something called olive loaf. I loved it. Of course, a tuna or chicken salad spread is good, too.

But when you get that freshly sliced ham and Swiss cheese from the deli, Heaven comes down, and God personally blesses such a combination.

I’m not a Mayo guy. On a sandwich, I prefer Miracle Whip or Mustard. Mayo is a travesty on a sandwich. My wife disagrees. She can’t stand the smell of Miracle Whip, much less the taste. She likes to mix Mayo and Mustard on a sandwich.

She made us a couple of sandwiches with that combo once, which meant she had two sandwiches to eat. I took one bite and decided a couple of birds in the parking lot looked hungry. As it turns out, I can spit long distances with extreme accuracy.

Growing up, I’d eat two slices of American cheese with half a bottle of mustard between two slices of bread. That was a treat. I still make those from time to time.

There’s nothing quite like freshly sliced meat and cheese from the deli. There’s a potency of flavor that pre-sliced packaged meat and cheese lack.

The first time I went to our local deli, I wasn’t sure how to order.

“What can I getcha?”

“Turkey Pastrami.”

“How much?”

“About a bag full.”

“It comes in weight.” She held the pastrami with both hands, and it looked heavy.

“How much does that thing weigh?”

“I don’t know. Ten pounds.”

I wanted to get a modest amount. I knew I could eat a lot of food. I was in my teens and had been lifting weights, so I knew five pounds wasn’t much. That was my reasoning.

“I’ll take five pounds.” I saw the sign that showed you could choose the thickness of the meat.
“Thin slices, please.”

“Honey, are you sure about that?”

I wasn’t sure what the big deal was. “Yep.”

She weighed it and printed out the price tag, and I thought I was going to faint.

And she said once it’s sliced, they can’t take it back.

I paid $6.95 a pound for five pounds of meat when all I’d ever bought was the pre-sliced bologna. It was a hard lesson to learn. And it was a lot of pastrami.

to the delicatessens,
– Caleb