Marge & Dad: A Love Story from Wright's Gourmet

 

Mrs. Wright was the woman who ran the deli in South Tampa where everyone knew you got the best sandwiches. She was tough, like the soup nazi, you braved her shop to savor the flavors found in the delicious combination of mayo-mustard slathered on sandwiches piled high with Roast Beef or Turkey. She would throw the menu at you if you asked the question, "Whats on it?", or some other stupid question about the food.

 Once, she waited and eyeballed me and I could tell something rude was coming my way. I dared to stand my ground and said something defiant right back at her like, "I'm not ready"...or something slightly rude. Mrs. Wright actually seemed to respect insubordination, because she eyed me on that day with a hint of  new-found grudging respect. That was my Fathers secret in dealing with "Marge", as only he got away with calling her.

He took guff from no-one and Marge loved that. That was their bond.

 She would keep his sandwiches cold in the fridge, and cut them in quarters just the way he liked. To understand my Dad’s non-gourmet but slightly neurotic food obsessions, you must understand his passions about people. He had such idiosyncrasies that it seemed many were out to “get” him if he didn’t see things going his way.

For example, once I sat with him at a charity trade show booth. For lunch, he had his prized Wright’s sandwiches ready to go. I heard this passionate exclamation, “Those bastards! I couldn’t imagine what calamity had occurred, but I should have known. I said, “Dad! What is it?”

“They didn’t cut my sandwich into quarters.”…That was that.

He was not a gourmand, but his peculiarities extended to the ritual of sandwich rites of passage. There was a “wet” sandwich, which consisted of a turkey salad with mayonnaise. The “dry” sandwich was the plain turkey slices on the same bread. So “wet” and “dry” combined for the perfect palette of gastronomic delight in Dad’s world.

Marge understood my Dad. She “got” him whereas there were many who just couldn’t fathom him. She was one of a kind as was my old man. They were simpatico on the sandwich front and they spoke the same language. It was the language of love for the minutiae of food. That was the secret bond they shared.