Sandwiches for lunch

It was a small shop. The glass counter took up a great deal of space, and neatly piled boxes of pasta and tinned goods made maneuvering about the shop floor quite difficult. It was as if the idea of browsing wasn’t really supported; the shopkeeper had made a direct channel through the produce toward the counter, so as soon as you’d stepped in the door you were looking into the eyes of your hosts, the shopkeeper and his wife.

From time to time you find Italian shopkeepers who look exactly like their trade, just as butchers and well-fed chefs do. I couldn’t imagine either of this couple doing anything but standing behind that counter in their striped aprons taking stock of their produce, and their clients.

The shelves were stacked with food, but nothing at all had a price on it. There was nothing to see beyond the beautifully simple Italian labels on the tinned food.

Besides, all of the best produce was behind the counter. The baskets of salted focaccia and that dry stiff Tuscan bread that is made for soaking up sauce, the cured meats and the cheeses.

You were supposed to know exactly what you wanted when you walked in that store and most of the people who went in there were house-wives who would pull out hand written lists from their purses which they would wait patiently for their turn to read out to the shopkeepers at an ever increasing cadence as if trying to catch them out by reading out the lists, 

‘un etto di prosciutto crudo, due pane, i pomodori’ 

 while occasionally throwing in a bit of light gossip, 

‘hai vista la Romina? In tanto ho sentito que lei era lasciata per la sua marito…” 

 – before cutting quickly back to the shopping 

“due mozzarella anche…’

This particular grocery was a few hundred metres from my apartment. There were several closer, but this one was open on a Monday morning, unlike the others which would close from Saturday night until 4pm on the Monday.

The first time I went there was on one such Monday when I had been away for the weekend and had gone for a hard ride in the morning, forgetting that nowhere would be open until mid-afternoon. It was a hot day and I had fumbled through the door still in my salt-stained kit awkwardly moving past the vegetables and up to the counter.

I was, and still am, English, so I thought that a sandwich would be the best option for lunch. I planned on buying all of the component parts, taking them back home to my castle and making one. I started asking for the ingredients, only to see a look of total confusion appear on the grocers crumpled face.

“But what are you going to do with this?” he asked.

Confused, I replied, “I’m making a sandwich.”

“Un panino?” And he looked over at his wife. “How far have you ridden?”

“Erm, four hours, about 120km.”

“Then you should eat pasta! Sei un corridori, devi mangiare la pasta!”

His wife nodded in absolute agreement. Italians I had discovered really seemed to believe that eating pasta wasn’t just a matter of consuming carbohydrates; it was a hugely important part of daily life. Food is never just food in Italy. If you didn’t have your pasta for lunch, then you had to have it for dinner, and it had nothing to do with food either. For a corridori – a cyclist – like me, pasta was vital.

Unfortunately by now I really had my heart set on a sandwich, I love pasta, but I just could face boiling the water by then. I wanted to eat. So I stood firm and explained that I just didn’t want pasta.

Defeated by my insistence he responded, “Ok, ok... so what would you like?”

“Some prosciutto crudo, erm… and some of this cheese” I said pointing at a hard cheese in the glass counter. Once again though I drew that pained look of horror that comes over Italians when insulted by someone’s total lack of culinary culture. Again, this had little to do with food, and everything to do with food.

“But look at the weather outside!” he cried. “You don’t want a hard cheese. No, no, no. Let me make the sandwich”, mumbling under his breath, “ti faccio io una pannino buona fresca…”

My new favourite shopkeeper then took down a bread roll, opened it up poured in a little olive oil and fished out a fresh mozzarella from the big bowl of brine under the counter. He chatted some more and asked me about my recent races as he put several minutes of artistry into making what would turn out to be the best sandwich that I would ever eat. He sliced the meat and cheese; he selected and cut the salad, he darted about the store seemingly finding  inspiration as he went. When he was done I’m fairly sure he just guessed the price.

But still as I went to leave the shop with my paper-wrapped sandwich, delighted with what I thought would be my new found lunch stop, he couldn’t help but say, “please, don’t come back here for sandwiches for lunch, have some pasta. Sei un corridori …”