Around the corner from my French school is German Town Deli. I’ve always walked past and looked inside but never thought to actually traverse the threshold and enter, if only because I’ve not been properly seduced by their sign which reads: “MEAT SANDWICHES!” encased within a bubble radiating from the head of a Dutch girl in clogs.

Listen, I like meat as much as the next carnivore, and have – on an all too regular basis – driven one and a half hours to Montreal to kill my craving for a Schwartz’s smoked meat sandwich.

Recently, my friend Sharon stated that “The German Town Deli is really good and totally cheap. Best sandwiches around, and fresh too!” Quite often, she sounds like a well written and executed radio commercial, but that is a subject for a different day. For now, let us concentrate on my tendency to remain exceptionally susceptible to suggestion. After hearing her petite publicité, I recommended we go immediately, which we did.

As we walked in, I noticed the line-up curved around the interior of the shop. I also noticed there was barely a whisper of space between any of the patrons. I pointed this out to Sharon who smiled, nodded and said “It’s always this packed at the German Town Deli! Where people come for cheap food and friendly service!”

While in line, we conversed about the nature of a “meat” sandwich and whether or not that generally meant “pork” or “beef”.

I leaned over the counter and asked:
“Hi. Is your smoked meat sandwich beef or pork?”
“Your smoked meat is beef?”
“No, I’m asking you. Is it beef or pork?”
“Your smoked meat is beef?”
“I’m sorry. But is it PORK or BEEF?”
“PORK? BEEF?”
“I’ll take a turkey breast sandwich on rye. Thank you.”

There was much humming, hawing, and braying from behind me; to none of which I paid attention. To my left was Sharon who had paid and was waiting for me to collect my sandwich. Also to my left was The Gigantic Guy Who Makes Small Sandwiches And Who Was Looking At Me Disapprovingly.

I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking how inefficient I was. How I was slowing down HIS line up of customers. How sad and pathetic the girl with the question about the nature of their meat really was. Thinking he didn’t like me, I was immediately stressed out.

He asked me if I wanted soup.
I said no. I want a drink, not soup.
He asked me where my drink was.
I told him he had it. “I’ll take a diet cola, please.”
“You MUST get your drink YOURSELF.”
“From behind your counter?”
“NO! From THERE!” and he pointed at a bunch of his patrons.
“I don’t understand.”
“THE REFRIGERATOR.” and then I noticed the sliver of red neon atop the heads of the patrons. There were so many standing bunched together that I missed the refrigerator.

Suddenly, not only was I stressed, but I was also panicked and hysterical, because inefficiency is my arch nemesis.

“It’s ok. I don’t want a drink anymore. Thank you.”
“I have already charged you. Go get it.”
“Ok.”

I got it.
Came back and paid.
Asked for a paper bag.
And received the world’s smallest paper bag, approximately the size of my eye, which I ripped in half while trying to place my items within.
My bag, not my eye.

I ran out of The German Town Deli without salt, pepper, mustard or a straw. My sandwich fell out of my ripped bag into a puddle of melted and dirty snow. It was a day.