I’m pretty sure we went to Orvieto for the sandwich. Two hours on the train was worth it for the magical moment.
Wandering a side street looking for something to calm the rumbling monster in my tummy. It looks like he’s about to close but let’s go in and see. The meats are hanging above the counter, cheese behind the glass. I can feel in my bones this place is authentic as he asks me what I want in Italian from under his glasses.
“What do you recommend?”
“Number One!” Holding up his finger with a wink!
Sign me up.
Watching him make it is an art form in itself. He slices the meat fresh, carefully placing it on the bread. Folding the edges. Like tucking the sheets on a bed. Next comes the cheese. Cutting off the edges to fit on the mattress. Next comes the fun. Gentle brush strokes like a painter and on goes the truffle sauce. He holds up the jar and a thumbs up. Communication is on point, I understand completely. Wrapping it up in my little brown bag we say goodbye and walk out the door.
The first bite out the door and magic dust should be falling from my mouth. The family walks by and asks if it’s good. I can’t even speak through the mouthful as I mumble sounds at them. They understand!
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