Gary stood outside “The Gilded Spoon,” feeling less like a hungry diner and more like a nervous financial auditor about to review the world’s most aggressive, avant-garde investment portfolio. He desperately needed a culinary adventure. His weekly diet of meticulously toasted sourdough, buttered with military precision, had rendered him nutritionally sound but spiritually vacant. Tonight, he would splurge. Tonight, he would entrust his inner balance and wallet to a professional. And just in case things went bad, he brought a homemade BLT sandwich as a backup.
Inside, the restaurant was silent, minimalist, and terrifyingly white. The menu, presented on a small, smooth piece of slate, contained no nouns, only abstract concepts. Gary scanned the list, his anxiety spiking:
Menu of Misunderstanding
An Ode to Rust: Seasonal Root Vegetables, earth-distilled and presented with a reduction of morning dew. ($65)
Whispers of Spring Lamb: On a Bed of Existential Crisis. (Market Price, but definitely over $90)
Deconstructed Cloud of Tomato Essence: Served with an heirloom droplet of the Pacific rain cycle. ($42)
Gary needed something solid. Something that hinted at actual protein, not merely philosophical musings. Finally, his eyes landed on an entry that sounded, against all odds, like food: “The Sunken Treasure: Atlantic Catch with Accoutrements of the Deep.” The price: a crisp, $78.
“I’ll have the Sunken Treasure, please,” Gary whispered to the waiter, Miles. Miles, a man whose permanent expression suggested he had just returned from a disappointing meditation retreat, nodded solemnly, gliding away as if walking on water. His dark hair was slicked back with a little too much hair gel, and his suit was just a little too long for him, or maybe he was just too short. But Gary didn’t mind; he was about to have a professionally made meal, something he rarely received these days.
When the dish arrived, Gary realized the phrase “Atlantic Catch” was meant to be singular. It was one perfect, seared scallop, sitting not on a bed, but on a single, aggressively isolated green pea. The whole arrangement was covered in a thin, shimmering film of transparent gel. Gary, still operating on his toast-based metabolism, consumed the entire dish in approximately two and a half seconds.
It was surprisingly, impossibly good. But what was the flavor? It was fleeting, metallic, and vaguely marine, but overlaid with an unmistakable, yet unidentifiable, earthy warmth.
Gary flagged Miles down, who was standing off to the side with his nose in the air as if he was born of wealth beyond all imagination. “Excuse me, Miles. The Accoutrements of the Deep. What, precisely, were those?”
Miles leaned in, his voice dropping to the level of one who is about to share where the bodies are hidden. His breath was just a little too close to Gary’s ear when he said, “Ah, sir, that is the essence. A specific, proprietary blend of ocean air, captured precisely at dawn above the 40th parallel, and… a delicate, finishing sprinkle of our proprietary, ethically sourced, artisanal turmeric dust.”
Gary froze, a disappointed shadow slowly taking over his face. He had expected to hear of a rare spice that only comes from one place in the world. But no, it was turmeric dust.
Like most spices and seasonings, once you know what it is, you understand the dish completely. A single, translucent, nearly invisible speck of spice was the key to everything. He did a quick calculation in his head: $78 for the whole thing. The scallop was probably $5 wholesale. The pea, negligible. The chef’s time…? Generous. That meant the single, ethereal speck of yellow on his plate had cost him about $12.
Gary’s fear kicked in. He had been working so hard on his diet-based foods, and this was supposed to be his big reward: a fine dinner at a fine restaurant. But now he feared the whole thing was a sham. What if the turmeric dust wasn’t truly artisanal? What if the “ethically sourced” label was a lie? Was the ocean air captured at dawn, above the 40th parallel, or was it just a waiter’s breath? Gary’s face, a map of disbelief, slowly crumpled into a mask of pure indignation.
He had been duped. Not by a pickpocket or a con artist, but by a single, expensive, philosophical pea and a tiny dusting of a spice found in every kitchen cupboard in the Western world. He had a whole jar of turmeric at home. A big one. The kind that comes from a warehouse, for less than the cost of a single, ethereal grain he’d just paid for. It was a culinary scam of the highest order. He didn’t even receive any bread, not even a gourmet cracker!
Gary’s gaze swept across the minimalist room, suddenly seeing it for what it was—not an aesthetic choice, but a clever distraction. A way to focus your attention on the single, lonely pea so you didn’t notice the lack of a real meal. The pristine white walls were a blank canvas for Miles’ pretentious pronouncements. The unsettling silence was just a way to make the lack of sizzling, chopping, and general food-prep noises seem intentional.
He reached for his jacket, pulling out a small, foil-wrapped parcel. It was a BLT sandwich he’d made earlier, just in case.
The BLT was made from meticulously toasted sourdough bread, buttered with military precision, along with a sweet and savory bacon jam, made from caramelized onions and a touch of maple syrup or brown sugar, spread lightly on one side. A layer of arugula lettuce and a thick slice from an heirloom tomato complimented the thick-cut, applewood smoked bacon that lay half-melted in the slice of vintage sharp cheddar cheese. Just a little flaky sea salt over the tomato finished this simple, yet tasty backup into a mouthwatering BLT sandwich.
He took a bite, the satisfying “crunch” echoing in the otherwise silent, sterile white room.
As multiple patrons throughout the room gasped, sharp and horrified whispers filled the air. Miles, who had been gliding past, stopped dead in his tracks.
“Sir,” Miles said, his voice a low, strangled whisper. “That is… an outside food item.”
Gary, with his mouth full, looked at Miles as he chewed, “crunch-crunch-crunch.” “This,” he announced, gesturing with the sandwich while his mouth was still full, “is a Deconstructed Cloud of Cheddar Essence, on a Bed of Existential Comfort.” He took another loud, deliberate bite.
Miles’s mouth fell open in a sign of complete disgust. The other diners, roused from their contemplative states, looked on with a mix of shock and slow comprehension. The Gilded Spoon, a temple of culinary pretense, had been defiled by an exquisite, but simple BLT sandwich.
Gary, feeling the spiritual and nutritional balance return with every delicious bite, knew he had been right all along. The best culinary adventures don’t require an artistic masterpiece or a philosophy degree. They don’t need an ethically sourced sprinkle of dust or a single, lonely pea. They simply require good ingredients, a well-stocked pantry, and the courage to make a sandwich that, while maybe not as pretentious as a scallop, is infinitely more satisfying.
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Ok, I get it, a short cheesy story about a BLT isn’t really that interesting. But if you think about it, that’s how a lot of restaurants work. And out own, homemade food can be so much better, and cheaper.
So, if you want to enjoy the same satisfying crunch and taste that Gary did, check out our favorite way to make the perfect BLT sandwich.
