The Baguette

I went into Tel Aviv this morning with blackwifeo. She had a meeting and I decided it was time to get some culture and go to the Tel Aviv Museum of Art. It was fascinating and thought provoking. I found I like the work of Yves Tanguy and his wife Kay Sage. But the real work of art was the sandwich that was made to order for my breakfast on Eben Gvirol Street.

Walking from blackwifeo's meeting to the museum, I eyed the Saturday morning Tel Aviv yuppies eating and drinking at the roadside cafes along Eben Gvirol. At some point my hunger overtook me and I stopped in at a sandwich bar that seemed busy, but not too swamped. I patiently waited my turn. After the old guy in front of me shuffled off to a table, after he painstakingly mulling over whether he should have tuna or potato salad with his omelet, the server turned to me with an exasperated look. "Its not like he doesn't have breakfast here every morning", he muttered, "and every morning he has the same conflict, and he always chooses tuna". "And that woman of there", and he nodded in the direction of what blackwifeo would call a beaut-in-training (subject for another blog), "she always brings her coffee back after 15 mins claiming its too cold."

I smiled and asked for the perfect breakfast sandwich, no meat, no fish, no pesto and no olives. "Trust me", he said and proceeded to build me a 3 cheese (feta, some kind of cream cheese and labeneh, I think), pickled pepper, roasted eggplant, lettuce, fresh and sun dried tomato on a freshly baked whole wheat baguette, creation of wonder. It was a masterpiece, wrapped in grease proof paper to go, cut in halves, just bursting out of the roll. It was so good I saved half for blackwifeo. She gobbled it up while driving us home. Perfection (100%).

As I walked out the sandwich store, I spied the beaut, straining to get out of her corner seat in her tight white jeans, cup of coffee in hand she waved to get the server's attention. I looked over at him and he just smiled and shrugged.