Sandwiches are ruining my life.

What quality do I like most about myself?    

Cheapness.

I bask in frugality. I let her golden rays nourish every crevice of my earth-toned soul. I do not hide her when in the company of others, nor do I hope to one day escape from her grip. She is my mistress. I am her whore. My miserly ways have little to do with money itself. No, my friends, I’ve got a deeper love. Cheapness is my comrade in arms, my paramour in lust and without her, I am nothing. While many revel in flaunting the excessive amounts of money they spend, nothing gives me more gives me more pleasure than exclaiming to the world that I paid $40 for a $700 sofa.

 

Although I am quite cheap, I don’t actually value money all that much–I’ll save rigorously for months and then one day on a whim decide to blow everything on popsicles and skittles. I save for the sport of it. It’s like when teenage boys hang out at the mall asking every woman who walks by for her phone number knowing damn well that they’re not attracted to, and thus will not call, the overwhelming majority of them. But there’s an undeniable thrill in the pursuit.

As for me, I get my thrills in other, more economical ways. Last Friday I went to the ATM and took out $100. I resolved that I would live within a $100 budget for that entire week. All my expenses–food, transportation, entertainment, laundry, everything–would have to be $100 or, preferably, less.

Well, it’s Wednesday morning, and that $100 has been gone for three days.

The culprit: food.

 

I got 99 problems, and somehow 93 of them are related to sandwiches

 

I realized that I spend nearly $25 a day on food. Food! The thing is, western food is expensive in general in Hong Kong and then when you factor in the fact that I live and work in the city’s most expensive areas, something that is already overpriced becomes astronomical. It’s not that I’m eating some highfalutin, gourmet food either. All I eat is cereal and sandwiches (cereal for breakfast, sandwich for lunch and a cereal/sandwich combo for dinner).

Chinese food is pretty cheap here. But I can’t eat it anymore, I just can’t. See, in America we’re spoiled. Our national cuisine is for the most part international. It’s quite common to have American food for breakfast, Thai food for lunch and Italian food for dinner. But not in China (at least not the small city I was in). You eat Chinese food everyday, for every meal of the day. Granted, Chinese food can be rather varied but not if you, like me, are a vegetarian. I had the same 2 dishes everyday, three times a day, for a year . At a certain point, I was eating solely so that I wouldn’t die. The whole time all I wanted was a caprese sandwich from Au Bon Pain and some Kashi cereal. Now that I can finally have those things, I don’t know how to act.

I feel as though food may be driving a wedge between me and my friends here. Everyday they call me for dinner and everyday I have to make up some excuse about why I can’t go. Last year in Dalian, within 2 minutes of meeting any Chinese person without fail they would ask me the following questions: Where are you from? and Do you like Chinese food? They are sooo fucking proud of their food, so much so that they would be tickled in delight if I said I too loved Chinese food, and if I told the truth the conversation would become irreparably sour. So now, I just lie. “Oh sorry, I have to work late.” “Oh, my bad, I actually have to go to the gym.” “Oh, I didn’t tell you? I’m getting my leg amputated tonight.” I’ll say anything I can to avoid eating more white rice and carrots

So here’s the conundrum: I can’t revert back to eating Chinese food everyday, but yet my soul won’t let me continue to pay for this gougingly expensive western food. And so with deep regret, I must confess that I’ve started to whore myself out. I’m not proud of what I’m about to divulge, but I feel like I have to tell someone in order to absolve my guilt.

On the corner of my block you’ll find the best sandwich shop in Hong Kong–the best one I’ve ever been to in my life. They have all sorts of healthy, hearty, vegetarian sandwiches laced with basil leaves and fresh pumpkin and brie cheese and vinaigrette sauces. These sandwiches are more addicting than meth. They’re the fat man’s crack. The only problem is that each sandwich costs about $10. And as you know, I can’t get down with that. This Sunday I went in, fully convinced that this would be my last time. This love-affair was too costly to continue.

I ordered “The Rocko” sandwich and went to the bar to wait. I stared off into space thinking about how I was going to savor every morsel of this sandwich. I was going to eat it slowly, wistfully, experience the texture and the tango of sweet and tart flavors on my taste buds. This was going to be a sensual experience, if not sexual. In the midst of my wet daydream, I looked up and saw the British college student (better known as the deli manager) staring at me and smiling. Now, she’s not my type so I just offered an obligatory smile and nod and went back to the thoughts of my one true love–sammiches. Then all of a sudden it hit me: She, and she alone, had the power to keep my love affair going. She could give me free sandwiches.

So I walked over, introduced myself and started chatting it up. 10 minutes later she gave me my order and just as I had hoped, when I went to pay for it she said, “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”

Victory.

I felt a bit slimy when I first walked out, but once I started eating that beautiful sandwich all feelings of guilt melted away.

Not knowing when to cash my chips in I went back again, and again. She gave me her number yesterday (unsolicited), and we’re supposed to go out sometime next week.

Please don’t judge me: I’ve never done anything like this before. Actually, that’s a lie. I’ve done a lot more for a lot less. But I’ve never done it continually. Now I’m stuck: I have to get out of this, but to reject her is to reject those delectable sammiches. And that’s not a price I’m willing to pay.

"Forever, for always, for sammiches"

 

TG

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