Steak Amends: The Sandwich Addendum
“Be impeccable with your word”
Lord knows I try my best.
This well-known adage, made famous by self-help bestsellers, was (probably) coined by scholars, centuries ago, to warn us of the dangers of ever giving anyone a restaurant recommendation.
“It’s a fool’s errand, don’t ever do it” is wisdom that perhaps, some ancient elder could have proclaimed, back when they first became aware of everything that could go wrong as a result of shouting out dining suggestions.
Sure, when a recommendation “lands”, it’s the greatest feeling in the world. You feel worldly and learned. Euphoric, even.
Laudatory feedback, via successful restaurant suggestion, is validating and feels exactly like having expertise and honor.
You are a glowing, mystic oracle of insight, truth, and knowledge.
You are Dumont, in the tower. You are a samurai.
Everyone wants to feel like an expert at something.
Everyone wants people to think they have great taste.
Those are some of the main things that people want, right after an improved credit score or the opportunity to take “Today’s Office” pics in a colorful, Italian seaside village.
As validating as it feels to “nail” a request for a suggestion, flopping a food recommendation is a reputationally devastating, nearly-impossible-to-reverse social faux pas.
Fumbling someone’s luncheon is big-time cringe. It feels horrible, one of the worst feelings there is. Because of this, I have learned to think hard before ever going on the record with a restaurant recommendation or with anything as personal as a meal or music.
Most times, nowadays, I stay out of the discussion completely. I’ve learned to stay out of things, in general, as a foolproof formula to happiness. I’m trying to get better at never getting involved.
In anything.
Sometimes, however, it cannot be avoided. We may still, on occasion, find ourselves with all eyes on us to answer that age-old fire-starter, “Where should we eat’?”
With the concept of “making amends” heavy on my mind lately, I felt compelled to come clean about two meals I botched for others. On these two, particular occasions, I gave bad food recommendations.
Twice.
This doesn’t sit well with me. That’s two, big times, I messed up people’s sandwich experiences, one of the worst things you can do as a person.
One of the times was almost 15 years ago, but I still think about it a couple times a week.
In my defense, being impeccable with ones word can only work if the guys behind that counter are being impeccable with their sandwich-making.
I want to talk about these two sandwiches that failed to connect.
One night, way back before the end of the world, back before they mysteriously demolished my old building on John Street, in the Financial District, I was up late and hungry.
I tweeted something like, “Yo there’s this sandwich in Jersey I wanna get. Who’s down?”
My homeboy, an esteemed artist for whom I have a great deal of respect, hit me with something like, “Yo, what’s up. I’m down for this sandwich.”
I started to describe the sandwich but he was already committed to our mission.
He was basically like, “I don’t care. Fuck it. Let’s go get this sandwich.”
He too lived in Lower Manhattan. Minutes later, I picked him up and off we went.
The whole drive took about 40 minutes, by the time we got out of Manhattan and onto the B.Q.E. and all.
We drove through Brooklyn, over the Verazzano, through Staten Island, and across the Outerbridge Crossing, into New Jersey. From there, it’s just a few minutes to the Menlo Park Diner, in Edison.
It had been a couple years since I had been.
Many years before, my cop cousin put me on to an amazing sandwich of theirs…
London Broil, medium rare, charred on the edges, served open-faced on heavily garlicked garlic bread with steak fries and three, giant, house-made onion rings.
I’d slather it in A1 and it was phenomenal.
Any time I was out that way, I’d stop for this sandwich and the Menlo Park Diner always delivered the fire.
Of course, the one time I bring a friend to sample this sandwich, they drop the ball.
Of course, the one night I drive my friend (and sometime business associate) all the way from Manhattan to Central Jersey, that’s the night the sandwich is wack.
Embarrassed, I may be making it out to be worse than it was, but on this particular night, the sandwich was “just okay”, at best. Not really worth the drive.
It wasn’t the end of the world.
The food was “fine”.
My friend and I had a nice enough time, catching up, cracking jokes, etc., but we both knew that sandwich was going on my permanent record.
This man has children for Christ’s sake. There I was, dragging him across state lines in the middle of the night for a mid-ass meal. The substandard sandwich was surely gonna get pinned on me. Which is right. I certainly deserved it.
I felt ashamed.
It would be years before I’d return to the Menlo Park Diner and give them another shot.
I didn’t go back until 2019, right in the middle of the end of the world.
Not only was “the sandwich” even less good, but I happened to accidentally notice something that I very easily could have overlooked, something very alarming.
On each of the diner’s tables, sat a bottle of cleverly disguised, bootleg Heinz Ketchup.
I was enraged.
Bootleg ketchup!
The fugazi paste was contained in a Heinz-shaped bottle and was called something barfy like, “American Heritage” or something.
It was spelled out in the Heinz font and everything.
Disgraceful.
Not even Hunt’s.
Not even Del Monte!
Sadly, the diner caught fire in 2023 and has been closed ever since.
Regardless of the diminished glory of their special sandwich, the Menlo Park Diner, with its chrome exterior and flickering neon, is an iconic Jersey Diner.
Was an iconic Jersey diner.
The Menlo Park Diner remains closed to this day.
There is another flopped sandwich suggestion to which I’d like to plead “guilty”.
Another instance that bothers me and that I still think about all the time.
A few years ago, while visiting Vegas, I told my brother about Capriotti’s, the Delaware-based sandwich franchise that I myself hadn’t heard about until I got my first apartment out west, back in 2001.
Capriotti’s has great, freshly-roasted turkey and they are famous for “The Bobbie”, their take on the “Day After Thanksgiving” sandwich; turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, mayo.
The Bobbie is a great sandwich.
Capriotti’s also had solid meatball subs and Philly cheesesteak sandwiches for many years. This is what I told my brother.
The day we went, guess what?
Murphy and his lousy law.
In the time since I had last ordered from Capriotti’s, their marinara sauce had become cheaply seasoned and too-sweet. It tasted like the synthetic oregano-laced red gravy found on school lunch pizza or on a frozen bagel bite.
As for the cheesesteaks, they had lost any semblance to their original, Philly / Delaware regional authenticity. It was as if the cooks had freestyled their own interpretation of what they imagined a Philly Cheesesteak may taste like.
It was not good.
Other than the occasional Bobbie, or cold turkey sub, I no longer frequent Capriotti’s.
Let me tell you, I feel horrible about these occasions, the disappointment in Jersey, with my friend, and the Capriotti’s let-down, with my brother.
In reality, the sandwiches let us down, but it was I who made the faulty recco, so it is I who must fall on the sword.
I take full responsibility for both of these disasters (and others).
Big snare fill intro.
“Sorry”, by Foxy Brown, starts playing in the background. The chair-back and picture frames rattle slightly when the beat and bassline kick in.
It feels like we’re sitting in an old, dark room, maybe on Mulberry. Everything’s made out of wood and everything’s worn. That’s the mood.
A popular self-help program reminds us to continuously take personal inventory of ourselves and “when we are wrong, to promptly admit it.”
That’s a great suggestion I try my best to follow.
Being wrong about stuff is good.
Well, realizing that you’re wrong about stuff, is good.
Promptly admitting it is even better.
If you’re doing life right, at least once a day, you should realize that you’ve been completely wrong about something major. If you are being honest with yourself and continuously taking your personal inventory, it’s not very hard to do.
This process is called “learning”, and if you do something to improve, it’s called “growing”.
Ever heard of it?
This is what it looks and feels like to get broken things fixed. Don’t be so attached to the wrong, just because you feel stupid for not having caught it sooner. The “best” time is often in the past, but the “second best” time is always right now.
I saw another meme the other day that read, “Don’t cling to a mistake just because you spent a lot of time making it.”
Word.
I’m happy to admit a mistake, then drop it. I love learning the right way to continue.
Some beef becomes poisonous when you let it ferment.
I like to deal with problems right away. If that includes an apology, so be it. Promptly admitting when I am wrong is something I like doing.
So many stubborns love dying on silly hills.
I’ve learned (the hard way) to be careful with the unattended beefs to which I never gave proper closure.
Untreated beef can become toxic and over time, some people will churn the facts around in their head until it takes the shape of a story they can live with. The final product is usually something far from the truth.
Lucky for me, I can’t help but to save my records and tapes from the 70s and 80s, my club flyers from the 90s, and my clothes from the 00s. Of course, I’ve also hoarded literal and figurative receipts.
Everybody knows the minimum amount of participants necessary for a Tango.
But sometimes, you, and you alone, are just plain wrong.
Sometimes, I am just plain wrong.
When people speak of “making amends” they are (usually unwittingly) referring to the 8th and 9th Steps, as recognized by 12 Step recovery programs around the world.
Step 8: “Made a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all.”
Step 9: “Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.”
In many instances, that second half of Step 9 can be tricky.
“…except when to do so would injure them or others.”
My old sponsor once explained to me that, with this step, to “injure”, most definitely includes emotional injury.
In other words, sometimes, you need to take immediate responsibility for your transgression(s), and in other situations, it is best to “let sleeping dogs lie.”
Barging into someone’s life with a messy, uninvited, and or overdue apology could most certainly bring emotional injury. There are many situations in which making a “direct amends” to someone may not be the most gentle or considerate option.
Basically, if you need to apologize to someone, and they are happy and chilling, you don’t need to go busting into her life, just so you can complete your Step 9 and feel better. It is important to give consideration to any boundaries the other person may have put in place. It’s easy to be ignorant and selfish and to run up on someone just because clearing the air would make you feel better.
It is firmly up to you to understand whether or not an apology would make them feel better or just make you better.
Hopefully, everything works out so that everybody feels better.
This is a delicate decision and should be made with reflection and care.
I have definitely messed this up. I’m definitely always looking for a better way.
In many instances, simply growing and becoming a better person is the best sort of “living amends” one can make.
My partner tells people (me), “Don’t be sorry, be careful.”
That’s great advice.
But, sometimes, “sorry” is all that you can say.