What would you do for a living if money were no object? If you say, "Sit on my ass all day," you're disqualified. I posed this question to my coworkers a few weeks ago, and got Lifeguard, Camp Counselor, Professional TV Watcher (that's dangerously close to the aforementioned ass-sitting, but hey, he's my boss, we'll let it slide), and video store manager. What about you? After spending half my lunch hour waiting on a simple "Cuban" from the corner store, it hit me. I would work at a deli. Not some New Yorkian, line-out-the-door thing. And I wouldn't be the owner. I'd just make the sandwiches. The more basic, the better. I had a gastronomic flashback today while enjoying a Turkey Rae from Potbelly's. The thought of this recipe of turkey and swiss topped with coleslaw wouldn't have appealed to me in high school. Nor would it have done anything for me in early college, before dating Marky, the Evel Knievel of sandwich eating. No, until I worked for DG's Telshor Deli in Las Cruces, New Mexico during my last couple years of university study, I was strictly a ham and swiss with lettuce kind of gal.
My friend David worked at DG's, and he got me the coveted interview. Everyone wanted to work there in college, because the hours were easy, the owners were super cool, and you got all the free food you could stomach. DG's was also situated next door to the popular liquor store, and these two establishments were connected by a common refrigerator. Of course, a chain link fence separated our respective areas, but the theories of how to covertly lasso a couple beers kept the brain young.
There was a chart of 31 classic sandwiches. I used to have the numbers memorized, but I only remember the standout recipes now. The most popular were the #17: Turkey and Avocado, #21: Turkey, Bacon, and Avocado, and #9: Ham and Swiss. There were also a handful of specialty sandwiches that had no number, like the GCC: Grilled Chicken and Cheddar (served on sourdough with bacon and red chile honey mustard), GSH: Grilled Smoked Ham (also on sourdough with grilled onions, green chile, and swiss), The Pizza Philly (cheesesteak plus cured meats and spaghetti sauce) was beyond my dietary comprehension, but truly an engineering feat. I dropped one on the ground once, and almost cried. There was a host of beefy, meatbally, sausagey, and equally heart-clogging vegetarian choices. In the kitchen, I learned basic recipes for potato salad, coleslaw (perfect in its simplicity: Just cabbage with a dressing of mayo, vinegar, and sugar), chicken salad, and the best way to slice cheesecake (with dental floss). I got to use an industrial meat slicer, learned to clean a grill with lemon juice and a grill stone, and perfected the art of flipping 8 slices of bacon in one swoop. There was a list for everything--the chores, the sandwiches, the meats and cheeses. An outsider might see this as a dirty job, but it truly appealed to my anal retentive side. No one could screw this job up. Everything made sense. I suppose that in the height of college brain drain, it was nice to spend a few hours in a place where you didn't have to make any decisions. It wasn't like working at Target. We were human beings preparing food that made people happy.
After just a couple weeks of chowing down on the #9, a sandwich of which I thought I could never tire, I simply had to branch out, trying everything except the avocado items. I still have a tough time ordering a restaurant meal that includes avocado. Not because I hate avocado, but because my love runs so deep for this green treat. Avocado often loses all its dignity, once pummeled into a spread with mayo, then abandoned in an iced tub for hours. Poor avocados. On the contrary, my love for restaurant pickles grew immensely, especially after the birth of my secret menu item, the DG's Pick-Up. The Pick-Up was a pickle spear, rolled up in ham then swiss, and was named by my Bible-thumpin', Sweet-And-Lowdown-lovin', Baby-Got-Back-recitin' coworker, Robert.
I was so good at this job. I could make a sandwich so fast it would make Jimmy John freak. And I loved a challenge. Philly steak, cheese, meatballs, sauce, veggies? Jumbo size? Lemme at that grill. I could make two pounds of greasy meat look as gorgeous the Mona Lisa in Albertson's French Loaf. And if you liked it bland, fine. Turkey on white with no condiments? I wasn't there to judge. Did send your eight-year-old kid in with cash in hand twice a week to get your chicken salad with an x-rated amount of mayo? I was there. One of the saddest days in DG's was when our boss decided to give us cutting boards. He was unhappy with the slicemarks that had appeared over the years on his formica counters. The problem was, when he added the cutting boards, we no longer had reference marks for mini, regular, large, etc. It slowed production significantly, and covered up the proud wrinkles in the face of the veteran deli.
My last day at the deli, I worked as hard as if it was my first. I mopped, scrubbed that grill until it shined, I made my fair share of subs, and I... I... Okay, I pocketed a pair of tongs. I loved those tongs, and I needed a memento of my favorite job. When I walk into a deli, I want to jump back into the kitchen and help. When people ask me what I would do for a living if money were no object, this is my answer.
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