If you are unfamiliar with the Chik-Fil-A, first our condolences, but by way of brief explanation it is the chicken-sandwich corner in the triforce of amazing Southern fast food chains.* Their breaded, grilled chicken is so fucking tender and delicious it can kill the fiercest meth-hangover by smell alone.
You imagine the author tracking down a vendor of fried-pork sandwiches, cornering him on the fine points of a recipe that has never been recorded, and then going home and writing a recipe so that it can be prepared in a nonstick pan for a family of four and served on a pretty ceramic platter.
Or eating a steak sandwich from the corner deli, like we did when I was last there.
During the Asia Society installation, Sze usually ordered a grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwich from the corner deli while her team took a lunch break.
What's more, these meals have come a long way since the first time my gang treated a birthday boy to a club sandwich at the corner deli.
There he was, head of a department that frowns on an officer taking so much as a tuna fish sandwich from the corner diner.
"I'll just grab a sandwich at the corner deli" on the way back to the studio, he said -- but he ate at least a few bites of the first course (lobster) before his speech.
People began to appear: bawabs, or doormen of sorts, from the apartment buildings, who were dressed mostly in turbans and long, flowing djellabahs; customers from a corner sandwich shop; guards from the Police Hospital, across the street; and a few bearded young men dressed in Western shirts and trousers.
Food stalls have undergone major upgrades and people stand on line every Friday for a sabich sandwich on the corner of Dizengoff and Frischman St.; the food fair in Dizengoff Center is packed every week, and the marvelous stalls in the marketplaces offer genuine Turkish burekas, Moroccan sandwiches, malabi desserts and much more.
While we here at THUMP would never explicitly endorse drug-taking of any kind, it'd be churlish to pretend that clubbing isn't pretty much nearly entirely predicated on young people ingesting illegal substances that make them, y'know, feel different from how they feel at work or in seminars or on the bus or on wet Wednesday nights waiting for a sub sandwich on your corner bodega.
But stumble in unannounced after hours on a weekend and you might also find a doo wop or jazz band sandwiched into the corner between the usual crowd of transvestites, metropolitan hipsters and veteran Italian locals.
