I ordered a $16 sandwich last night and this is what I learned.
Absolutely nothing. I am not well.
Longtime readers may have surmised by now that sandwiches mean a great deal to me. While I more or less keep it together while leering at Instagram videos of sandwiches on the subway, I constantly fight the urge to deliver a series of staccato, Beavis-style “yeah-yeah” reactions the more I see images of boujee BLTs. There is something both liberating and terrifying in lustily drooling over various kinds of sandwich/food porn options despite basic groceries becoming more financially unattainable—even and especially if it’s challenging to my self-respect. Some of these concoctions I see on Instagram are among some of the most deranged foodstuffs I’ve ever seen, but there is an unmatched thrill of getting something approximating these sandos and standing in the street with a heavy pile of grease. Say what you will about how some of these meals look and their overall merits, but it sure beats talking about how Trump wants to suspend due process.
Eventually, my commute will end, and I’ll be back in my apartment, struggling to muster the work ethic to assemble a sandwich of my own, which may be symptomatic of what too much grindset does to a slightly maladjusted brain. So I caved to my impulse-purchase impulses and ordered a $16 sandwich last night. It wasn’t even a special sandwich for that matter—just a regular bánh mì. And for some reason, it cost $16. I literally had turkey, provolone, mayo, lettuce, basil, lemons, Calabrian chilis, and heirloom tomatoes in my fridge. I just didn’t have the Jimmy John’s bread, although I had hamburger buns. As you read this, you may be thinking: Why would you order a $16 sandwich when you have the exact materials in your fridge to make one at home?
I crashed out. The worst part about this regular ahh bánh mì is it was $16 before tax, tip, and delivery fees. So it was really a $26 sandwich, despite what the title of this post would suggest. I keep telling myself I’m going to stop with this financially deprecating nonsense, but I have succumbed to sprawling consumer tantrums. It’s not my fault that every time I make a sandwich, it sucks—and every time I order one, it tastes delicious. The same logic applies to salads: They’re just better when someone else makes them because my ratios are always off. I should start putting on latex gloves and sit on my non-dominant hand until it goes numb, so it feels like someone else is assembling my sando. Or I could order a panini press off Amazon so I can transform my homemade sad sandwiches into homemade sad paninis; if my meals are going to be pathetic either way, might as well be fancy
What’s wrong with me?
Time will tell. I make a sandwich every day and get nearly as much joy making as eating. Fresh cut slices of loaf, thinly sliced meat cheese, vegetables, and at least 6 dressings to choose from. Add a side dish and beverage and I’m satiated.
Mate, there’s nothing wrong with you. You just had a small psychic break in a sandwich economy designed to ruin us. A $16 bánh mì is what happens when we’re expected to live like this.
I too have stood in front of a fridge that looks like the liner notes of a Wilco album - full of potential, aching with melancholy - and still decided to order a sad, over-priced meal wrapped in compostable lies. Because let’s face it, homemade sandwiches taste like failure. They carry the scent of regret and fridge funk. Ordering one feels like asking someone else to take responsibility for your internal architecture, just for a moment.
Making your own? That’s the real danger. You didn’t buy a sandwich. You bought mercy. And honestly, we all need a little mercy right now.