I just did something insane. I was at the Shine Deli on 20th Street—a block north of my office—about to order my now-customary chicken salad on white toast.
“Chicken salad on toast,” I said, and grunted when Mr. Deli Man asked, “White?” But then I changed my mind, and called out, “No! Wheat!” He gave me a look like I’d…well, actually, he didn’t react at all, but I could see shock squirt out of his pores. I waited, thrilled but fearful, while the little brown squares made their journey through to toast-box.
While I quaked, I was unsurprised to hear the two people in line behind me echo my demand for chicken salad—on rye and an everything bagel, respectively. The chicken salad at Shine is not just tasty but well constructed—a complex blend of flavors rather than one mayonnaisey mush. It is also fresh—crucial, since fresh ingredients allow for that play of flavors and keep me from vomiting them up afterwards.
They also pile the chicken on high, making each sandwich a defiant rebuke to the hegemony of sliced meat. Too often are cold sandwiches, especially those made from prepared spreads, an afterthought, but Shine’s howl: “We are real sandwiches too!”
I could tell that everyone in line behind me was thinking this too. They looked excited, and so was I. On getting back to the office I found my wheat toast cut into triangles—hooray!—and bursting with wheaty flavor. (Note: this is the best kind of flavor.) I had asked for wheat, I realize now, from fear of filling my body with more of the empty nutrients it has relied on lately (dinner’s first course last night was 1/4 of an apple pie), and my gamble paid off. Thanks to Shine deli—and the deactivated elevators that yesterday forced me to climb seven flights to class—I feel healthier than I have in weeks.
Also, they gave me cole slaw. It looks terrible.
[bites]
It’s only mediocre!
[chews]
No, it’s terrible.
