As beef sandwiches go, this one was pretty good. Sitting at a counter in a warehouse-turned market, I sat quietly as my friend complained to the owner.
“I don’t know what it is. You get away from Chicago and it’s like Giardinara doesn’t exist. I mean this sandwich is good, don’t get me wrong. But a little Giardinara would take it to a whole new level! I’m telling you, next time I come I’m bringing a jar. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”
He’s Italian so he talks with his hands. Seen from a distance, he’s conducting a symphony with a greasy napkin.
The commotion of the market has been constant. From across the aisle the fish monger occasionally yells to his helper further down the counter. At the butcher a group of firemen shop the meat and place a large order.
In the space an arms length away a man in a dark suit appears where there once was no one. On his lapel is a small American flag. From his ear twirls a pigtail of white wire. Then came the cameras. Still and video all walking backwards in a swarm.
As I wipe my hands with yet another napkin a small man with white hair puts out his hand. I shake it with a head nod, “Mr. Sanders…”