A man came across an interesting advertisement in the newspaper. Below a photograph of three women in aprons and hairnets (the advertisement was for a local sandwich shop) were the words: We Give Our Customers More.
“More sounds great to me,” said the man. “Certainly better than less. In conclusion, I’ll have to pay them a visit.”
And visit them he did, on a particular afternoon a few days later after his wife had refused to serve him lunch on account of a sudden flare-up of her lumbago.
When he walked through the front door, jangling a little bell attached to the top hinge, the three women from the newspaper advertisement were standing at attention behind the counter, dressed in aprons and hairnets just like in the picture.
“Check out this little bitch,” the first one said, regarding the man with a sneer.
“Ha ha ha!” said the second. “Good call, Sandy. He could easily pass for a female Bichon Frise wearing a strap-on cock and a Richard Nixon mask.”
At that, the third of the women reached across the counter and pinched the man’s nose so hard his eyes watered.
“Hey!” he said, swatting her hand away. “What’s this about? I thought you gave your customers more.”
“We give them more, all right,” said the one evidently named Sandy.
“Yeah,” said the one who’d implied that the man resembled Richard Nixon. “More grief!”
“It would have been nice of you to include that important detail in your newspaper advertisement.”
“Would you be here right now if we had?”
“I take your point,” said the man. “Furthermore, if I had any sense I’d have walked out already. But seeing as how I haven’t eaten in so long I’m starting to feel light in the head, all thanks to my wife’s lumbago, I think I’ll go ahead and order myself a sandwich, instead. Let’s see here.” He put on the pair of glasses he’d carried with him hooked to his shirt collar and began to scan the menu posted to the wall. “Hmm,” he said, scanning. And then: “Well, would you look at that?” And finally: “I’m having trouble deciding between the Korean sloppy joe with gochujang sauce and kimchi, the roast chicken with olive tapenade and goat cheese, and the crispy pork schnitzel. I’m sure they’re all fantastic, but if you had to recommend one of those three, which would it be?”
“Ham and cheese,” said the woman who’d pinched his nose.
“Ham and cheese? Why would I want ham and cheese when you’ve got so many more interesting options to offer?”
“Oh, the menu you’re reading from is just for decoration. We found it in the alley after that fancy sandwich joint down the block went out of business last year. As far as what we ourselves serve, it’s pretty much ham and cheese or nothing, and between the two, if you want my honest opinion, I’d probably go with nothing.”
“In that case,” said the man, “I’ll take the ham and cheese.”
“At your service, you soggy old cunt.”
Without further ado, the first woman retrieved a pre-sliced sandwich roll from the front pocket of her apron, the second stuffed it with a square of orange cheese and a greyish oval of ham, and the third sprinkled a stingy little pinch of pepper on top before sliding the whole pitiful concoction across the counter unwrapped.
The man picked it up, tilted his head to one side, and took a big bite. Objectively, it tasted like trash, but he found it satisfying and delicious nonetheless, an apparent paradox that in fact just goes to show that hunger, or possibly pepper, truly is the best spice.