The preeminent sandwich of my lifetime, could be found just three
blocks from my parents' house. Several years ago the sub-shop
inexplicably shutdown. I was devastated.
I roamed the San
Fernando Valley in search of something that could take it's place. I'd
find the right pickles (chopped dill), but the seasoning would be off.
I'd find the right seasoning, but the bread would be off (thick sesame
roll.)
I found good sandwiches, but never my sandwich. In high school I introduced a friend, to the sandwich. He shared the
same yearning for Turkey Breast, Pickles, Onions, Provolone, Oil, Salt
& Pepper (hold the Tomatoes.)
Using "Web 2.0 skills" he asked if anyone knew where to find a spot-on
replica of this sandwich.
Within an hour, he got a response. A user claimed that the sandwich existed somewhere in the depths of the West Valley.
Skepticism arose from deep inside my belly.

I went to the French Laundry restaurant located in the Napa region (specifically, Yountville, California) in 1996 and haven’t been able to get a reservation since – at least until a week ago. Of course, that’s what happens when a chef later becomes tops in the U.S. and his restaurant is voted tops in the world. But with one day’s notice, I was told my group of four were in. Pack your dinner jacket we were told. They should’ve added cash out your 401k and clean out your savings account with a scrub brush. The price to party was now $240 per person for a nine course tasting menu (two options: Chef’s and Vegetarian) not including wine – a decent bottle (not a case) of which will cost you $200 more.
I can’t help it. I really can’t.
Lunches for me have been a mixed bag of sorts, I'm never sure what to eat, and I'm not always satisfied with what I get. But the sandwich shop near my workplace always seems to have the right sandwich for me. It's my standby.
My family likes sandwiches. My present husband had his bachelor party at Langer’s. The day before our wedding, while I was at a ladies’ lunch thrown by my sisters, my husband, his son, my son, his daughter’s boyfriend, my brother-in-law, and one of my nephews went to Langer’s Deli (across the street from MacArthur Park) and ordered pastrami sandwiches, lots of them, I understand, more than one apiece. And it was further evidence to me that I was marrying the right person.