The Perfect Sandwich by David Flynn

The café was empty as it almost always was. The tables and chairs had no one in them, and the bright lights revealed a stark room with a tile floor and pale green walls. Someone driving by the strip mall in a suburb might wonder if The Perfect Sandwich was open.

Joe stood behind the counter, the grill at his back. He stood there for hours, as he did seven days a week, 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. He had spent all of his money, his inheritance from his father who worked in a mill, on his business. On a good day three or four customers wandered through the door.

And this was one of those good days. It was dinner time, the “dinner rush.” Joe stood blankly. He was boney and tall, his black hair cut to a gauze. He didn’t like to eat. The noise of the door opening woke him up.

A man entered. “Hello”, he said. “Hello,” Joe said. He didn’t like to interact with the customers. “Let me study the menu a few minutes.”

“Of course.”

So the man stared at the lighted menu on the wall above the grill.

“Everything is fresh. I insist on it being fresh. The chicken sandwich now has ham instead of pineapple like it says because I couldn’t get fresh pineapple.”

A few minutes later the man ordered a beef sandwich and a chicken sandwich with a side of macaroni and cheese.

“And two cookies,” he said. “This is to go.”

“Yes. I will give you the cookies for free,” Joe said. He wasn’t sure why he said it. He just did. There went any profit.

“Please have a seat. “

The man sat at a table and began staring at his smartphone. Joe went to work. This was what he loved more than anything on Earth. This is what he had chosen above a wife, children, wealth. He began assembling the perfect sandwiches.

The buns, which he had made himself, were heaped with the meats, cheese, vegetables, and once carefully put together, making sure nothing oozed over the sides, Joe put them on the grill. He pushed the timer. Exactly two minutes. Sizzling was his favorite sound in the whole world. When the timer began its alarm, he scooped up the sandwiches with the spatula. The look, the smell, these were his favorites in the whole world too. He especially loved how the cheese melted everything together. The sandwiches he wrapped carefully in brown paper and placed them in The Perfect Sandwich boxes. The macaroni and cheese had taken him more than hour to make when he first came to work that morning. It went into cups with lids. The cookies, his creation of course, included chopped up bits of premium chocolate.

“Sir, your order is ready,” he said.

The man was pacing back and forth by the front windows, watching the cars ease by to the other stores. The sandwiches had taken a half hour to make.

$19.45.

When the man left, Joe stood blankly behind the counter again. Nobody had come in while he made the sandwiches, which he preferred. Nobody came the rest of the night. As always, sadly, he had to throw away most of what he had cooked that day. That made the sandwiches that were bought precious.

He wasn’t dumb. He knew that people with an hour for lunch wouldn’t eat at his café if they had to wait so long for their orders. He was going bankrupt, probably in the next six months. He couldn’t help it. The sandwiches had to be perfect.