I am happy that Everything has provided me with yet another fine vocabulary item, one that allows me to tell the following story.

I used to work at an Italian restaurant in Boston. As they had a substantial lunch crowd, they offered a number of "gourmet" sandwiches for those young executives on the go. Many of these involved some of those really disgusting Italian hams, and the ones which included prosciutto tended to contain only three paper thin slices.

My favorite was the simple yet elegant Pollo Pesto sandwich (excuse me, "sammich") which offered grilled chicken breast, marinated in pesto, served on a sub roll with provolone. Others added lettuce, but I felt this detracted from the sheer flavorious force of the chefs' fine pesto. I ate these by the ton, and what's more, they were generally free and came with a cookie.

I graduated from college and moved to Denver, leaving my life at the restaurant behind. Flash ahead about 4 years--I was working for a company and spearheading their efforts to create a multimedia sales presentation. We were scheduled to interview some guys from a Boston production company located almost across the street from the old restaurant. I strongly hinted that it would help their cause if they could pick me up one of these sammiches and bring it on the plane. Sadly, they had to postpone the meeting, but the next day I received the sammich via Federal Express. I'm sure it was unhealthy to eat it, but eat it I did, and it was a wonder.

We did not award the job to these guys. Them's the breaks.

The most rewarding aspect of the whole thing, apart from the sammich, was what I heard later. During my time at the restaurant, I worked with an asshole named Murad. He was still there when I got the sammich. One of the owners taunted him, saying that, thanks to my restaurant experience, I could compel guys in suits 2,000 miles away to order sandwiches for me, while Murad was still washing dishes.

Oh, yes. And I owe it all to the Pollo Pesto.