I stepped out of my office, a renovated section of the ol’
JC Penny building, and enjoyed a brisk walk down the street lined with grungy
half-melted snow. Traffic kicked up brown spittle and I took great care not to
step too close to the curb.
It was grey outside, but not un-enjoyable. A slight breeze
carried the smells of food from the restaurants in Downtown Bismarck. Grilled
meat seemed to be the dominant smell and I imagined a cadre of carnivorous cave
men grunting in JL Beers, thumping their forks and knives on the tables in
impatient anticipation.
A little cakery sits on Broadway. It changes names and
handlers it seems every other month. They serve specialty sandwiches and soups
of the day. I’ve stopped in there a few times, and its like a hen house. By
hen, I mean, testosterone impaired. The clucks of the women-folk are
accompanied by the clinks of freshly-brewed coffee, expensive tea, and forks
used to delicately peck at their special sandwiches.
I walk past the man-cave and the hen house towards Caffé Aroma.
You read that right, two effs. It’s a nice little coffee and sandwich joint tucked
away inside a building. The owners liken it to having “a warm, friendly, family
atmosphere.” I liken it to a library that you can eat and drink in and that’s
comfortable to me.
A wooden carving of a cowboy greets patrons with a real red kerchief
tied around his neck. It’s cracked with age and because it’s dry. Terribly dry.
It could probably turn to ash in a minute with a Miyagi friction rub – you know,
the rub that Master Miyagi does to heal Danielson’s charlie horse – and the
thing is dusty as hell. Not the kind of dust that’s earned out in the field
rustlin’ ponies, but the sickening kind of dust that’s more of a build up of
dead skin.
I order a cold turkey sandwich to go and because I’m feeling
healthy I order it on wheat. I over-pronounce the “wh” in wheat like Stewie
Griffin accompanied by an arching brow. The sandwich artiste looks at like she
wants to laugh but isn’t sure that she should laugh because I might be serious.
It takes a few
minutes to prepare so I nonchalantly peruse the place. I pick a magazine from
the bottom of a neat stack of National Geographics and casually make
non-committal remarks, “hmmm,” and “mmm-mmmm,” before setting it down on the
corner of the table.
My sandwich is ready in a jiff. I feel a little guilty with
leaving the magazines disheveled so I reach in to my wallet and pull out two
bucks for a tip – I always leave a tip whether I’m feeling saucy, artsey, or
convivial. Then I beat a hasty retreat back to work.
Upon my return I crack open the Styrofoam box and waiting
for me inside is a great sandwich. I asked for a turkey on wheat. The artiste
must have been feeling generous today. Inside lay a thick warm slice of twelve grain
wheat – that’s wwhheat – bread, on which lay about four delicate turkey slices,
fresh thick cut provolone cheese, and about eight rashers of crispy bacon,
topped again with that wonderful warm wwhheet bread.
Let me just share with you I don’t have any great love for
twelve-grain bread. My bread shouldn’t crunch without being toasted, God damn
it. Perhaps it was the artistic presentation of the sandwich, or the cold gray
day, or my sanctum of an office away from man-caves and hen-houses, but it
almost melted in my mouth.
I rarely visit CaffĂ© Aroma, but the few times I’ve been
there, I’ve requested bacon with my sandwich. I didn’t ask for it this time,
but these people KNOW their patrons. I ate every bite of my sandwich and bacon
that I didn’t realize I wanted until the anonymous artiste remembered for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment