A learning experience

The panino is an Italian sandwich of any type, usually made on a bread roll or what we might call a sandwich, grinder, or even hero. It can also be served on ciabatta bread.

In other parts of the world, the panini is a sandwich made on flat bread that has been squished between two heated metal plates to toast the bread and heat up the fillings. In Italy they call this "a squished sandwich"... only they do it in Italian (and likely they don't really say "squished" but "pressed" or "toasted").

In the US and other parts of the world, the panini is its own special little slice of ... sandwich. There's even a whole blog site devoted to the making of the "happy panini." (Interestingly, in Italy, "panini" can, in fact, refer to comic books and comic book heroes like Spiderman and X-Men.) One can also find a version of the panini in the delightful "Louvre mall." They are quite tasty, and the lady who squishes them in the little hot pressing machine is really, really nice and pretends that your French is not hurting her ears, which is a rare thing in Paris, where normally people in the service industry yell at you for pronouncing things badly.

I used to get to visit a friend in Paris a few times a year because I had a job that brought me to France. It's amazing what you can learn from someone who lives in a city. For example, the Louvre used to be a royal residence and the site of many fine musketeer adventures.

One of the things that I learned was that, if you walk past the nice panini lady, the Louvre mall food court also has a gratin bar and a tapas place, each of which is quite a bit more enticing... and affordable, given that the sweater you just purchased at Benetton was en solde, and considering also that you forgot that the euro is worth a fair bit more than the dollar. But I digress.


One of the myriad sights to see on the way to the food court below the Louvre. Some people just go for the art.

I encountered a more disturbing instance of the panini near Camden, NJ during a blind date that took place at a trendy Italian-themed combination bistro and sports bar. At the time, my response to the offer of a blind date was "That sounds fun." I realize now that this is not always the correct initial response to a proffer of a blind date, but one must learn somehow.

In any event, I entered a trendy little bistro-type place in my at the time go-to outfit of skirt, boots and black top, passing a very, very tense looking man in a bright, pastel cashmere sweater. It was the type of garment that simultaneously screamed "easter egg" and "dry clean only." It was not the sort of thing that could be pulled off except by an Italian--or possibly French--man, perhaps holding a panino. The sweater would be worn draped over the shoulders with calfskin shoes in a interesting shade of some neutral color (or matching the sweater) and no socks. Or perhaps with a pastel shirt underneath, collar pulled up at a jaunty angle. The tense man in question was wearing the sweater with jeans in the style of a sweatshirt, accessorized by clunky brown oxfords and socks, which were appropriate to the weather.

I paused for a moment to be stunned by the sweater, tried to edge by unobtrusively. Sadly, the tense man turned out to be my blind date.
Ah well... on to lunch. "Sweater man," was a very voluble physician. At first he seemed cheerful and pleasant.

Then he assured me that even though he was smarter than me, it would be all right and I didn't need to feel bad at all. Ok--well, maybe I'd learn something.

He knew a lot about sandwiches because he was immediately able to identify the panini from the menu. He then asked if I knew what a panini was, and as I was opening my mouth to say I'd had one in the Louvre Mall the preceding week, he explained, at some length, that the panini was a pressed sandwich. My mouth fell open as he explained, and being a man who was--as he had already explained--well acquainted with the burden of speaking to those of far, far less intellectual ability than himself, he kindly repeated his explanation. Verbatim.

He then asked if I'd ever been to Europe, and as I was opening my mouth to explain that I'd in fact just returned from a weekend in Paris where I'd visited a friend after a work trip (and had a panini, since he'd asked), he launched into a loving description of a 10-day package tour to Italy.

I realized that I was not a required participant at the lunch and nodded attentively as "the sweater" (I had, sadly, already forgotten his name) regaled me with explanations about how they can actually get cheese from pecorino sheep and then instructed me on the proper eating of bread and butter, which I wasn't doing right.

This photo was hand-massaged by Jeff G.

Fortunately, his lecture on Italian foodstuffs was interrupted by the waitress. He ordered a chicken, portabello mushroom, and american cheese panini on ciabatta bread (so, in fact a panino although I felt it would be petty to point that out given my own marked deficiencies in the area of eating). They didn't normally offer the american cheese on the paninis and paninos because it was for the kid's meal cheeseburgers, so that needed to be sorted out. I ordered pasta.

By this time, I'd decided to set about the best sort of dating triage I knew, which was to slap a big, fake perky smile on my face and keep talking randomly. I later learned that Rachel Ray has been known to advise would-be cooking show hosts to do this...although she also advised them to keep talking about the food. (That would have been helpful to me to have known at them time.)

This held us through the time it took for the food to arrive, and the sweater was suggesting a follow-up date. I was trying to frame a noncommittal but perky response to this, at which point the sweater looked at his sandwich in some confusion. It was certainly the bulkiest panini I had even seen, and I supposed he was wondering how it could possibly fit into a human mouth. He peered between the slides of bread, as the waitress leaned over to give me my pasta. I picked up a fork, blithely unaware that I would be learning something very important in just a few moments.

A look of rage suffused the sweater's features and he burst out with some venom, "Isn't there supposed to be some sort of topping on this?"

The waitress and I both jumped a bit. She was standing next to him and got a good bit of distance in the hop.

At the time, I worked at a job where violent verbal outbursts were a daily event, and the best way to meet them was with calm and intellectual analysis. And withering sarcasm if the person had yelled something considered "stupid." At my workplace, the sweater would have been roundly mocked because the category of food topping includes things like cool whip, which do not normally go well with american cheese. Or possibly anchovies, which would have become a "filling" once put between two slices of bread.

(Pumpkin pie with a whipped cream topping...hold the anchovies.)

The waitress, however, was not used to being yelled at and was visibly shaken. She looked at me questioningly and I raised my eyebrows in a "got me" kind of gesture and mouthed "sorry." Poor impulse control aside, the sweater had, as he explained, been to medical school and was no idiot. He remembered that he was among those of inferior intelligence and was busily apologizing when the waitress bent down and patted his easter-eggy cashmere shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry," she said brightly, "I'll get you some nice ketchup." She smiled, pleased to have come up with a solution to his panini needs.

I was impressed. She managed to convey her contempt of his panini in a way it would be impossible to complain about. The sweater's mouth opened a closed a few times.

It was with some difficulty that I did not burst out laughing. "Wow," I said. "What a helpful suggestion." The waitress and I beamed at each other and then at the sweater.

I kept chattering, and the waitress, exuding perky good will and extreme cheer arrived back at the table with a large soup bowl simply brimming with ketchup. As she put it on the table a little blob of the ketchup got on the sweater's dry-clean-only pastel sleeve. Oopsies! The red clashed with the easter-eggy color. She apologized profusely.

The sweater looked uncomfortable. He was, in fact, in a bit of a bind. He clearly realized that he might not be getting top marks on his dating behavior, and he'd been making some noises, as I noted above, about a follow-up date. One could almost see the wheels spinning in his head.

Given his earlier outburst, he had to pretend that it was perfectly fine, refuse her offer to reimburse him for the sandwich...and eat the ketchup.

We kept looking at him and smiling until he took a nice, big helping.

He only got a little more on his sweater. (The bowl was really full.)

After the date, I drove around the block and went back to give the waitress an extra tip.

Ketchup image from the Heinz web site. Image and logo subject to copyright. The Heinz corporation does not endorse the use of its ketchup or any other product to mock bad dates.

Panino image by Xavier Snelgrove. Pecorino cheese by Jeff G. Louvre photo by Vinceesq. Pumpkin pie by Nukkus. easter eggs by NaJina McEnany. These photo files are all licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Generic license.

Cashmere sweaters: public domain image.