I’ve a friend whom I regularly make fun of over an exchange she and I once had.
One day, I had a personal issue I wished to discuss with her. She suggested we meet for lunch.
I met her at Jervis Street around midday. Instead of her high spirited self, she appeared rattled. Her body language was square and uptight.
“Parking around here is a nightmare,” she said in a forceful exhalation.
I visualised her driving in circles for half an hour, getting impatient (and tense) behind the wheel. I suggested we head towards Henry Street for lunch.
“What would you like to eat” I asked. “Do you want something ‘dinner-y’ or would you like something light?”
“I’d like a club sandwich.”
“Oh right. A club sandwich,” I thought to myself. “Could you be anymore particular?”
“There’s a bagel place just there,” I suggested cheerfully, thinking a Club Bagel might be a compromise. “We could get a bagel, maybe?”
“I don’t want a bagel,” she responded sharply. “I want a club sandwich.”
“OK, a club sandwich. Where can we get a club sandwich?” In my head I scoured the vicinity for sandwich shops and gastro pubs “I am not really a club sandwich kind of person …”
“I would not have come to this area for lunch,” she added firmly.
I could not help but take offence.
We eventually settled on lunch in the Gin Palace. My friend seemed happy in her surroundings. Thank God, the club sandwich was to her standard.
To this day, I give her a lot of slack on the incident. One evening, in a good restaurant I enquired on her behalf if there were club sandwiches on the menu. The waiter informed us there was not.
“You are such a fucker,” my friend said once the waiter was out of earshot.
“You love me really,” I responded.