There we were, two teenage girls pouring out our teenage woes. Interspersing gossip with deep shit and not feeling embarrassed about afflictions of the heart. We hated to admit it but we were snobs, spending hours on end creating metaphors about smells, feelings, and the simple beauty of life. Once someone called us “Euro Quirk”; I guess we dress like that too. Suddenly, we stood up from the bench and walked as if we were guided by an internal GPS. Of course it led us to Gorgers, the sandwich shop. At that point we decided we were hungry and that the internal GPS couldn’t possibly be wrong, so Gorgers it was.
In the window there was an industrial-sized KitchenAid lethargically churning a giant vat of fresh dough. We naively poked through the door, head first. As we walked into Gorgers, loud music, which sounded more like a disorderly kitchen brawl, played in the background. The walls were amorphous splashes of black and red, like a deck of cards. Despite the shop’s attempts to be badass with their tattoo-artist vibes and notoriously massive sandwiches, its quaint charm was undeniable. It was like a sweet grandma with faded tattoos as a reminder of her rebel past. We quickly ordered their famous banh mi and some mango mint juice and scuttled out of the little shop with our paper package. Rule of thumb: any sandwich wrapped in thick, white paper will be good.
A heavy rain cloud had set up camp above our heads and did not move all day. It was a breezy day; not the breeze that slams into you, but the breeze that passes through you as if you were completely perforated. Everything intimated rain. However, it never did rain. We sat in the hard metal chairs of the Ithaca Commons with the subconscious expectation that the brightly colored metal and geometric flower pots would become cozy and comforting; they didn’t, so we gave up the thought. After neatly arranging our napkins, we tore at that thick white paper as if it were a Christmas present. As we licked pork grease off our fingers, we began to notice that our surroundings were much more than geometric flower pots. Nearest to us on the left a street musician with chewed-up dreads plucked his guitar and sung twangy Bob Marley songs. A little farther was a well-dressed man preaching about our Lord Savior Jesus Christ. This man drawled about the Bible and how everyone should be trying real hard to repent their sins. Personally, I couldn’t think of a better time to take a bite of soft, chewy bread filled with succulent meat. I guarantee this will drone out a lecture on gluttony anytime. (This collision of “preachers” was happening in front of the Mate Factor, home to Ithaca’s premier Jewish cult; how fitting.)
Biting through a crunchy cucumber, I realized that something else needed to be preached: grub. Sure everyone wants to “make peace not war” and some people need to go on spreading the gospel, but everyone needs one very important thing: grubby food. There comes a time when everyone needs to set aside their Ps and Qs, their diets, their ceramic plates, and eat grub food. Grub is the greasy paper napkins all crumpled up in a pile. Grub is the thick, paper wrappers, the boat shaped plates. Grub is the greasy, the salty, the involuntary groans. Grub is fingers impregnated with the aroma of pork. Grub is the taste of fries and onions on that kiss. Grub is “just one of those weeks.” Grub is human and for the love of God every now and then pick it up with your hands, stick your elbows out, and grub.