No Salad

We were starving.

We had been pounding the streets of New York since the first commuters had surfaced from the subways like moles into the dazzling shine of fifty million windows.

And now they had returned to the tunnels and we were on the prowl.

A pretzel cart, a diner, anything.

Just not another Starbucks.

My stomach reeled at the thought as it continued its struggle to absorb the flood of lattes that had settled like swamp water.    

Our feet were burning from the shoes that seemed to be shrinking the more and more we dragged them across zebra-striped crossings and tarmac.  I decided in that moment that I hated shoes, that they were invented by people with a vendetta against feet. I scowled at the bag containing a brand new pair of sandals clutched in my left hand and knew that I would forgive them as soon as I smelt the leather and stroked the sequined strap.  But for now, there was only venom.

My stomach grumbled, long and hollow; my sister’s answered in rapid response.

And then we saw it. That lit up van with its menus proudly displayed; the vendor, hot and sweaty and scratching in his hair net. It was beautiful.

The sign read ‘Halal Sandwich Bar’.

I rested my arm upon the sill of the open hatch and stated my order without hesitation.

“Two ham salad sandwiches, please.”

The vendor blinked. “No ham,” he announced and pointed at the sign with a blue latex finger. “Halal.”

I amended my order swiftly. “Cheese salad then, please.”

Again the vendor blinked. “No salad.”

I could feel the frustration of my hunger rising. “Just cheese is fine,” I said.

The vendor set to work, slapping four pieces of pre-buttered bread down on his work surface and ripping open a packet of pre-sliced cheese. His fingers worked quickly, but just as he was about to seal the sandwiches with the second slices, he paused, I moaned, and he turned towards me.

“You want tomato?” he asked.

It was my turn to blink. “Erm, yes please.”

On they went.

“Cucumber?”

“Yeah, sure,” I responded slowly.

Plop, plop, plop.

“Lettuce?”

“Ok.”

My sister giggled.

“Three dollar,” the vendor informed me gruffly.

“Thank you,” I said, passing over the coarse notes.

We walked away with our cheese, tomato, cucumber and lettuce sandwiches, doubting our definition of salad in New York.