Sandwiches for the Soul by Michael M. Jones

In the tangle of streets affectionately referred to as the Haystack, set away from the worst of Puxhill’s downtown chaos, there’s a place where shops come and go at their own whim, usually with no one the wiser, as if they’ve all agreed to swap cities now and again as necessary.

One such place is Sandwiches for the Soul. Its plain logo, unassuming exterior, and lack of advertising mean it doesn’t get a lot of business. In fact, its clientele consists solely of walk-ins, passersby drawn in by a hunger that goes deeper than the stomach.

There’s no menu and no prices, no specials of the day, no choices to be made. Just a plump, pale-skinned, middle-aged woman with a long reddish-brown braid and a welcoming smile, who treats every customer as though they’re long-lost family. She has a way of deflecting questions with pleasantries, and before they know it, patrons are settled at a small table with a cold or hot drink, and assurances that their sandwich will be right out—even if they don’t remember ordering one. She bustles into the back, returning a few minutes later with her latest creation carefully arranged on a plate.

Every sandwich is just right, uniquely tailored to the recipient as though plucked from their heart’s deepest reaches. No two are exactly alike. The ingredients are fresh—the lettuce crisp, the tomatoes juicy, the onions have the ideal crunch, the meat is never dry and the bread never stale. These sandwiches will never win awards for artistry or innovation, but they’re satisfying.

For the businessman far from home, who’s made a proper mess of balancing work and personal life: turkey with brie and apple, slathered in honey mustard, on sourdough. The sort of sandwich his husband made back for his lunch back when they were both young and in college and those lunches were a moment of calm amidst the chaos and stress. To the businessman, this sandwich tastes like… “home.” Later, he’ll call his husband and confess his fears about the deal in progress. Not only will he avoid a costly mistake, the conversation heals cracks in the marriage neither realized existed.

For the young woman with the tension around her eyes and the bruises where no one can see: peanut butter and banana, drizzled with honey, layered on white bread, just the way she enjoyed it as a child. The tension ebbs as she eats, and she realizes it takes like “courage.” The next day, she finally leaves a problematic relationship before things get any worse. It will take time before she trusts her heart again, but her next partner will be the love of her life.

For the Vietnamese artist who’s come to the city to promote her latest exhibition: a banh mi with honey-glazed pork and fresh vegetables, on a crispy baguette so fresh it might have been baked an hour ago. She eats it with her eyes closed, in perfect silence, but when she’s done, she says it tastes like… “family.” Later, she’ll reconnect with her estranged grandmother, mending bridges while there’s still time, revitalizing her connection to both kin and art.

And so on. Cheesesteak. Peanut butter and jelly. Club. Monte Cristo. Quesadilla. Banana and mayonnaise. Lobster rolls, ploughman’s and po’boys. The sandwich maker is sometimes surprised by what her talents conjure up. It’s astounding how many ways a sandwich can be interpreted and defined, and yet she never falters. She has an album containing pictures of everything she’s ever made, which she flips through late at night, remembering how the act of creation felt, how the customer responded.

Sometimes, the sandwich maker sees one customer in a week, other times a dozen in a day, but they all get the same consideration and attention, the same insight into their deepest needs, the same sense of healing. They come in with a hole in their soul, and leave with a question answered, a new sense of resolution, a deeper connection to the world.

More than once, someone asks the maker what her favorite sandwich would be. Here’s where her smile wavers just a titch and her eyes go distant. She shrugs the question off with a laugh, saying she likes them all too much to choose. The truth is, she’s never found her sandwich. Identified what she was missing. She’s made so many in her time and found them all lacking.

One day, there’s a shop across the road that wasn’t there before. “The Soup Solution,” it says across the plate glass window. Driven by something richer than curiosity, the sandwich maker heads over to greet her new neighbor, taking a freshly toasted Reuben as a housewarming gift. She just knows this is the right one for the occasion.

The proprietor of The Soup Solution is a dark-skinned woman of roughly the same age, tall and solidly built with greying curls, her expression solemn but her eyes warm. She’s already got a bowl waiting for the maker: chicken noodle soup with a giant matzah ball, the broth warm and rich and comforting. It tastes like… “Companionship.”  

Ah yes. That was the missing ingredient.

They talk for long hours, sharing their creations with one another, flashing uncertain, hopeful smiles across the small table, and when hands finally meet in the middle, it’s somehow no surprise.

Now when the need is real and the time is right, wanderers may just stumble across a small, cozy restaurant which offers both soup and sandwiches to feed the soul and heal the cracks in one’s heart. Its name: Satisfaction.