I’ve just received news that the owner of a sandwich shop near where I grew up has died. The article pretty much explains everything that was so great about the place. His widow says they’re going to reopen, but it just won’t be the same without a persnickety old man behind the counter, grumbling when somebody gets the order protocol wrong (very much like the Soup Nazi from that episode of Seinfeld). The sandwiches and milkshakes were both amazing and cheap, the store was full of all kinds of weird odds and ends (ancient copies of National Geographic for sale, etc.), and…well, I could go on and on, but I’ll spare you.
I’ll probably go back once to get a sandwich, but I don’t know if anybody can make them quite like the Sandwich Nazi. Man, I’m going to miss that place. It makes me a lot sadder than I feel I ought to be, but…you know, idiosyncratic little places like that (and people like the late owner) are part of what make life fun and special.
(On a related note, I can’t imagine what it will be like for the wife to start working in the store again–she worked alongside her husband there 6 days a week for decades, and starting up alone or with a new business partner…eesh.)