Every now and then I like to take a break from sanctity and mysticism and focus on what really matters in America today: deli sandwiches. I like to review things, and the latest highbrow nonfiction tome I ordered from Barnes and Noble is experiencing a shipping delay. In these times of political upheaval and social discord, is there anything of more import than discussing the particulars of a fine pastrami on rye? Trump is one executive order away from decreeing that people shall no longer eat acai bowls and everyone must eat sloppy joes instead, so this is relevant.
I just got back from a week of driving this bad boy through Kentucky. It was a rental, and I’m no longer used to driving. I lost about ten years off my life figuring out how to get it back to the airport and almost got stuck on an eight-lane expressway. But my time there was glorious: I prayed, I explored, I talked to people. I’m trying to find a new place to live, and West Virginia is next on the investigation list. I suppose you could say I’ve been in a bit of a malaise about The Swamp, so when I find a small spot of joy in it, it makes a big difference.
Enter So’s Your Mom sandwich shop at 1831 Columbia Road. This place provides feasts fit for a king. BE HONEST. Is there anything better than a good olde American deli sandwich? Closed on Wednesdays, and only accepting cash (be advised!), this operation is that wonderful anachronism: a family business, old-fashioned as hell, and the product they make is beautiful. If Subway employs Sandwich Artists, this place houses Sandwich Aesthetes.
Every freaking item on their menu (as far as I can tell) is under $10. That means that whether you order the emmenthaler and avocado on whole wheat, the black forest ham on pumpernickel with swiss, or the meatball sub with provolone, you can fill your belly with one Alexander Hamilton.
Like the Newsroom on Connecticut Avenue, which I reviewed in June, this shop is full of nostalgic tchotchkes. There are handmade signs. Nothing corporate about this establishment. Unlike the plastic environs of a chain, antique furniture lines the walls, full of tea and oil kettles, lamps with old ruffled shades, and wooden baskets. It feels like home.
They put just the right amount of mayo on the bread. The lettuce is always fresh, never limp. Service is fast. There’s often a line all the way to the door.
It turns out that offering a simple product, done exquisitely well, and with consistency, is exactly what most people want and will pay for. It’s a wonderful way to be of service to the world.
It makes me think a lot about my own work. I would like to be, in a word, more useful. I want to learn how to do feature writing and reporting. I would like to tell other people’s stories and stop focusing on myself.
It was intensely glorious to see another part of this great country. Kentucky, as I have written before, is an enchantingly beautiful, largely rural state. The people are funny and kind, and they have gumption. I developed an affection there, too, for a country store that also serves as a gas station and deli, where I chatted with some good old boys and heard the interesting opinions of the woman business owner. When I exited the shop for the last time, headed for Louisville that afternoon, a young man asked me how I was doing — calling me (it always feels weird) “Ma’am.” He had a sticker on the back of his truck that said “God Made / Kentucky Raised / Jesus Saved.” “I’m fine,” I replied. “How are you doing?” “Better’n I deserve to be!” He quipped.
I stopped along the road to check out a farm with a wide variety of animals. Even on a freezing cold morning, several goats approached me, uttering all kinds of salutations. This jolly pig even took it upon herself to perform calisthenics as I stood on the other side of the fence.
America is still alive and free. That much is clear. I want to serve Her well.
If you have suggestions for publications I could read or write for that have great feature writing, or creative reported writing, please respond to this email and let me know.
Haters can exit through the back door. No sandwiches for you guys. I no longer look at all of my messages on this site, due to some rather unsavory missives since the election. If you want to get in touch with me, use email.
I’ve also taken my essay about Rod Dreher’s Living in Wonder out from behind the paywall, if you want to read the whole thing.
Bon appetit and God Bless.