One time I was given free reign of a bagel store I worked in. I was in charge of everything. Everyone was gone for the day. I made a hero out of bagel dough. Whole wheat dough, everything bagel toppings. I made the bread into garlic bread, with REAL garlic and REAL onions that I sauteed up in fresh butter. The day before, my boss was having a family party so he ordered REAL Italian gourmet meats from Italy, to do it right. He made all the platters ahead of time, but still had leftover meats that he said we could use for our own delight. Real prosciutto, real salami, real provolone cheese that was unprocessed and unpasteurized. Capicola ham, spiced ham. I made a spiced mayonnaise myself, in the store. Roma tomatoes. Romaine lettuce that I delved through to find the perfect pieces. Red onion. I stacked the meat so that it would be fluffy, folding each piece and making sure that it was in line with the bread-horizon. I used a perfectly sharpened bread knife to cut it on a slight diagonal across the hero-bagel-bread. I roasted some red peppers that we had over our grill, and used the true, raw olive oil that he had used for the party for antipasto trays. I used a few olives to make a small tapenade that went into the center of the bread, injected via turkey baster. After I cut it, I wrapped it up and put it into our walk-in refrigerator to marinate for about half an hour. I made a sandwich whose street value was easily over 150 dollars. I made two of these sandwiches. I gave one to my friend Kenny for his birthday. The other one I ate over the course of a day. I ate nothing else that day. I wept. Guys, I don't want this to sound like some bullshit story, but I fucking cried. I fucking cried over this sandwich, and I think about it every few weeks. This was almost four or five years ago.
poop
