Capri Sandwich Bar - London

While some people choose to use Monday morning blog posts to digress over their weekends drunken escapades, and others prefer to offer social commentary pertaining to politics and world views, I would much rather reminisce over the fucking sandwich I ate while I was in England. The main reason for this being that I spent most of the weekend at home reading comics, which really is not that much fun to write about. A fresh deli is just one of the things I really miss about living in a fully developed country. There is nothing like hot bread straight out of the oven, filled with just a few crisp veggies, some spicy sauces, and a boat load of cold cuts and cheese. I don’t remember where in London we were when we came across the Capri Deli.

But I was starving and the abundant menu was just calling out to me. I could hear him from all the way across the street. There was a time that where stepping up to a board with such a ridiculous variety of items on it would bring me to the verge of a nervous breakdown, but now I am older and more patient and I let the sensation roll over me like a gentle wave rather than tackling me down like the defence line of the LA Raiders. I take my time to study the items while sipping an Orangina, plotting my next move.

At times like these it is imperative to keep your cool. I have seen lesser men standing in front of the glass tank oogling the cuts of meat, pungent cheese, and fresh fillers only to crack under the pressure and walk out with a ham and cheese sandwich on grilled white bread!!! I know he did not really want that but with the vendor asking for his order and people standing around him waiting for their shot, he just said the first thing that came to him mind. Poor bastard, he never knew what hit him. He just sat there on the bench afterwards staring blankly at the brown paper bag in his hand with the look of a jaded 16 year old school girl on his face. He was probably trying to convince himself that next time he would take control of his life and not just be a victim of the system.

I however was not born yesterday. I have been on the front line for quite some time now and I have felt the hot breath of the hungry hoards blow softly upon the back of my neck. That shit does not intimidate me. I felt the icy cold glares burning the back of my skull while I stood face to face with a freezer full of European delicacies. From the generous variety of cured hams I selected a rare Parma imported just that morning from Spain. The Italian chap behind the counter immediately recognized my skill and familiarity with the product and immediately called for all other patrons to back the fuck off while I construct my vision. While I carefully speculated the cheese, he ran in the back and came out with a fresh focaccia that he insisted I use. I chose some creamy brie with a bit of black pepper. And to keep the flavor fresh we threw in some dill and a just a few slices of spicy salami. We were just about to close the deal and slip the little puppy into the oven when I noticed a mixture of sundried tomatoes and red chilli’s marinating in a small bowl of olive oil in the corner of the freezer. I slowly pointed over at them and I heard a lady behind me gasp, and the back man sitting at the small table whispered softly, “That mutha fucka’s good’.

I walked out of that shop with a masterpiece in my hand which I silently devoured as we walked towards the Thames. The sun broke slowly through the clouds and as a golden ray fell upon me I could hear the sandwich gods stomachs grumble. I really love my fresh sandwiches…