The Bukkhead Comes with a Side of Maui Onion Potato Chips

Postaday for May 6th: You, the Sandwich. If a restaurant were to name something after you, what would it be? Describe it. (Bonus points if you give us a recipe!)

I have no idea why a cheese, mustard, and pickle sandwich tastes so good. But it does. Not all of the time, but sometimes. And I’m talking cheap-ass cheese, cheap-ass mustard, none of your Grey Poupon here, monsieur. French’s Yellow Mustard. But good bread, quality bread, thick slices, white bread.

If I had my druthers I’d be the type of person who gets hungry around 11:45, shuffles out the door with his Chromebook under his arm, and waddles to a nearby cafe and orders a Bukkhead (on white). So there’s me eating my sandwich and tippy-tapping the day’s blog entry.

They’d name it after me because I’d eat it every day. Some days it would have onions on it. Some days the pickles would be sweet. Occasionally, instead of American cheese, it would be a hand-sliced slab of sharp cheddar, and the mustard would be brown, and the bread would be fortified white. It would still be a Bukkhead.

Other days it might be a more wheaty-bread than white, a more mayonnaisey-mustard than yellow, a more lettucy-cheese than American, a more turkey-like pickle than dill. Still a Bukkhead, though.

Maybe the blog would be influenced by the sandwich ingredients. No, I have a better idea: the sandwich would be influenced by the blog. No one would know how or why. I’d lock my front door, shuffle to the cafe, stand there in front of the ordering counter and peer at the menu as if I hadn’t memorized it years ago, a thousand blog entries ago, as if I wasn’t going to order what I always order. “Gimme a Bukkhead,” I’d say and:

As I’m typing up a screed lambasting the new proto-nerds for their hypocritical denigration of so-called neckbeards, Carl, the chef, is grabbing sauerkraut and corned beef. As I’m pecking away at a short story about a secret door behind Mrs. Tanner’s refrigerator, Carl’s looking for the pimento-loaf and the thousand island dressing. As I’m formatting a review on a novel I’ve just read about a Henry VIII’s Thomas Cromwell, Carl’s adding a few dashes of paprika to give the egg-salad some zip.

He rings a bell. Order up. The kid grabs it, brings it to my booth. Sets it down. For a few moments gazes at the rapid-fire staccato of my two index fingers whizzing around the flat keyboard. Until I start to slow down. He blushes like he caught a glance of his dad coming out of the shower. I give him a look as he walks away, which he doesn’t see, but Carl does. It’s a look that seems to say “I don’t know how I do it either, kid.”

I pick up my Bukkhead and take a bite. Chew slowly. First it’s the tang of the mustard, and then the vinegar bite of the pickles comes through. The coldness of the pickle against the softness of the bread. Chew, chew, swallow, the tang and bite fade to the fullness of the cheese. Inhale,exhale, another bite, set the sandwich down, go back to the keyboard. Correct some typos.