Hoosier Craven' a Simple Sandwich

 Why is it you can't git a sandwich at a restaurant jest the way you hanker after it anymore? Back in the day, you could mosey into most any greasy spoon, diner, coffee shop, or soda fountain and holler, "Hey there, could ya whip me up such and such? I don't want it too thick, nor too thin-like." Never a lick of trouble, and if they botched it up, they'd fix it right quick, no fussin' or mussin'.

Why all this jawin'? Well, I've been tryin' to rustle up a nice, flat-top grilled cheese sandwich done jest so—with Swiss cheese, a smidge of turkey (not a heapin' pile or them thick slabs, jest a couple o' thin slices), and a slice or two of tomato. You reckon I can find one? At one joint, they ain't got a notion how to handle a flat-top grill. The next'n brings me a purty grilled sandwich, but there's so doggone much turkey piled on that I can't taste the cheese or tomato fer nothin'. The third place don't cotton to the idea that toasted ain't the same as grilled, that thin don't mean a quarter-inch or thicker... and on and on it drags. I don't even bother sendin' 'em back no more; I jest steer clear of them eateries altogether.

Now, fer them folks who might pipe up, "Well, them things ain't on their menu," and you'd be spot on. But it shouldn't make a hill o' beans difference. They got the fixin's to make exactly what I'm cravin', but the hitch is, they jest don't have the gumption to do it. Much as it pains me to say, there's one spot I fancy goin' to 'cause the vittles is plumb good, but their cooks speak nary a word of English, which throws a monkey wrench in understandin' special orders. They're right fine cooks, don't get me wrong, but they jest can't quite grab hold of what I'm aimin' fer.

You ever git a powerful hankerin' fer somethin' you can't cobble together at home 'cause it ain't worth buyin' all them ingredients? I keep Texas toast 'round most weeks; I surely do love its hearty thickness and that good ol' chew when it's in a sandwich, grilled or plain as day. Most times, there's a tomato or two settin' in the icebox or on the counter, but to git a couple o' nice, thin slices of roast turkey? No siree, I'd have to buy at least a small breast, roast it myself to git it jest right, and slice it thin as paper. I can slice mighty thin by hand—I learnt that trick way back when I was slingin' hash in a couple o' restaurants—but I ain't fixin' to shell out that kinda dough fer somethin' that'll jest sit in the fridge and dry up like an old boot after I've made my sandwich. I can turn out a fair-to-middlin' grilled cheese in my grandma's ol' cast-iron skillet, but it still ain't the same as one done on them big, sizzlin' flat-tops down at the diner. Swiss cheese? Sometimes it's in the house, sometimes it ain't. But roundin' up all that jest to scratch this itch? I can't afford it, no how. So why can't they, fer a few bucks, make me what I'm pinin' fer?

Oh, I'd give my eyeteeth to amble back into that little ol' joint from my salad days, the Hamburger Hut up in Rochester, Indiana. I could saunter in, ask 'em to whomp up somethin' not even scribbled on the menu, and long as they had the goods, I'd git pure heaven on a bun. I can still taste their patty melts, that bubbly fountain pop, and them fries that never seen a drop o' vegetable oil—cooked in good ol' lard or beef tallow, I reckon. Yep, I'm reminiscin' here, yearnin' fer them bygone days, but gol-darn it, they oughta still be possible in this day and age. Thank ya kindly fer puttin' up with my yammerin'. If any o' ya know of a restaurant somewheres in Central Indiana where I can git what I'm after, show 'em this here. If that place don't exist and ya find yerself in another spot that claims to be hometown but serves up nothin' but cookie-cutter grub, show 'em this too. And above all, if ya do know such a hidden gem, please do tell me. I'm starvin' fer my youth, starvin' fer jest a good ol' sandwich made the way I want it. Thanks a heap! P.S. If it happens to come with a real zesty garlic kosher dill pickle, I'd shore like to hear 'bout it.

DMMC

10-22-25