Tomorrow marks the fifth month that Jorge and I have been married, which has set me to thinking back to the early days of our relationship. When he and I first started dating in 2014, one of the really sweet things he would do for me was to make me a sandwich at the end of the night, after our dinner shift. We had met working together at a small restaurant in Greenwich Village – my first job in NYC. He was a server and I, a bartender. Jorge was definitely the best thing I took away from my experience working there, along with a revelation that I no longer wanted to work in bars, but that’s another story.
When Jorge prepared a sandwich for me, I fell for him a little harder each time. His sandwiches were the best, always made a little spicy and tangy with the addition of pickled chiles and, against my wishes, a thin smear of mayonnaise on the bread (as anyone who really knows me knows, I think mayo is GROSS and evil). Somehow it tasted good in those sandwiches, though.
I would occasionally return the favor and make sandwiches my way: with mustard or a little drizzle of vinaigrette, tons of paper-thin-sliced red onion, slabs of tomato, avocado, maybe some ribbons of shaved ham, but likely as not just the veggies on some good, seeded bread. Our sandwiches, paired with spicy jalapeño potato chips and a cold beer from the bodega, came to be a meal I looked forward to every night. It was easy to forgo our usual after-shift ritual of heading out to a bar with other coworkers when given the prospect of a tasty homemade sandwich back across the river in Brooklyn, shared with my sweetheart.
Tonight, Jorge and I are taking a Bolt Bus to Silver Spring, MD, to visit my beloved 98-year old grandma. I know he’s packing sandwiches for the trip – maybe cucumber and avocado, maybe ham, onion and chipotle. Whatever the combination, I know it will taste great – and I also know that I’m a fortunate lady.