I had a po’boy from Willie’s. It was good. Need I wax blogetic about the blacktop moving under my feet? No, I need not.
There was time – me being the only early customer – for a chat. Willie told me, “I’m a po-boy enthusiast. It’s all about the bread.”
The righteously squashed oysters of this po’ boy were bedded on bread from New Orleans. Doughed, shaped and baked by Leidenheimer Baking Company. The sandwich was terrific, the bread terrific too. It was a day, another day, punctuated by lunch. For what else do we live, I ask you? Lunch.
It was a day. A day not to remember, but a day not to forget. Or regret. That’s the days that mostly make up our lives. With lunch.
The remoulade had a lotta mustard and a lotta vinegar. Did I do right by the righteous oysters? Did Willie do right by me? Yes indeed. It was a day unlike any other day. Another day, another sandwich. The interrobang of lunch.
The Lunch Encounter 