Tuna Sandwich Quotes

Good tuna-fish sandwiches; he’s the tallest man I’ve ever seen! (Pam)

Jamie, you know, you could go clear around the world and still come home wondering if the tuna fish sandwiches at Chock Full O'Nuts still cost thirty-five cents.

Good tuna fish sandwiches; he's the tallest man I've ever seen." -Pam

You will leave now," she said softly, " or I will drag you out of here by your hair." The man had breath like a day-old tuna sandwich. "I hate dykes. You always think you're tougher than you really----" Xhex grabbed the man's wrist, turned him in a little circle, and cranked him arm up to the middle of his back. Then she clipped her leg around his ankles and shoved him off balance. He landed like a side of beef, the wind getting knocked out of him on a curse, his body plowing into the short-napped carpet. In a quick move, she bent down, buried one hand in his gelled-up hair, and locked the other on the collar of his suit jacket. As she draggep him face-first to the side exit, she was multitasking : creating a scene, commiting both an assault and a battery, and running the risk of a brawl if his buddies in the Hall of Fucktards got involved. But you had to put on a show every once in a while. To keep the peace, you had to get your hands dirty every once in a while.

Would you like a tuna-salad sandwich?' 'Yes,' God said. 'Thank you.

People ask me if I like golfing, and I look at them and reply, "Does The Pope wipe his ass with tuna fish sandwiches?" That response is NOT sponsored by Subway.

You’re not distracted by Darius going around all shirtless and shit. Well he’s a tuna sandwich dammit.

Johnny Two-cakes. As a name it didn’t quite fit him, but for some reason that’s what he was called. Man was sour and dour. All business; doom and gloom to the extent it was actually funny. World was coming to an end. US was one tick away from becoming a third-world country’s bitch. Everything was a crisis—including the fact someone had stolen his tuna sandwich.

Because he’s in love with my sister which makes him about as appealing to me as a three day old tuna sandwich – no offence,” I tossed at Darius and he smirked. “You’re an old tuna sandwich to me too, Gwen,” he agreed and I punched him over the name, but couldn’t fight a smirk.

I'm staying right here," grumbled the rat. "I haven't the slightest interest in fairs." "That's because you've never been to one," remarked the old sheep . "A fair is a rat's paradise. Everybody spills food at a fair. A rat can creep out late at night and have a feast. In the horse barn you will find oats that the trotters and pacers have spilled. In the trampled grass of the infield you will find old discarded lunch boxes containing the foul remains of peanut butter sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, cracker crumbs, bits of doughnuts, and particles of cheese. In the hard-packed dirt of the midway, after the glaring lights are out and the people have gone home to bed, you will find a veritable treasure of popcorn fragments, frozen custard dribblings, candied apples abandoned by tired children, sugar fluff crystals, salted almonds, popsicles,partially gnawed ice cream cones,and the wooden sticks of lollypops. Everywhere is loot for a rat--in tents, in booths, in hay lofts--why, a fair has enough disgusting leftover food to satisfy a whole army of rats." Templeton's eyes were blazing. " Is this true?" he asked. "Is this appetizing yarn of yours true? I like high living, and what you say tempts me." "It is true," said the old sheep. "Go to the Fair Templeton. You will find that the conditions at a fair will surpass your wildest dreams. Buckets with sour mash sticking to them, tin cans containing particles of tuna fish, greasy bags stuffed with rotten..." "That's enough!" cried Templeton. "Don't tell me anymore I'm going!

I closed my eyes and I thought of the lash of her skirt snapping around her as she danced one evening in a bar on the South Side to a jukebox that was playing “Barefootin’,” of the downy slope of her neck and the declivity in her nightgown as she bent to wash her face in the bathroom sink, of a tuna salad sandwich she’d handed me one windy afternoon as we sat at a picnic table in Lucia, California, and looked out for the passage of whales, and I felt that I loved Emily insofar as I loved those things – beyond reason, and with a longing that made me want to hang my head – but it was a love that felt an awful lot like nostalgia.

We got passes, till midnight after the parade. I met Muriel at the Biltmore at seven. Two drinks, two drugstore tuna-fish sandwiches, then a movie she wanted to see, something with Greer Garson in it. I looked at her several times in the dark when Greer Garson’s son’s plane was missing in action. Her mouth was opened. Absorbed, worried. The identification with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer tragedy complete. I felt awe and happiness. How I love and need her undiscriminating heart. She looked over at me when the children in the picture brought in the kitten to show to their mother. M. loved the kitten and wanted me to love it. Even in the dark, I could sense that she felt the usual estrangement from me when I don’t automatically love what she loves. Later, when we were having a drink at the station, she asked me if I didn’t think that kitten was ‘rather nice.’ She doesn’t use the word ‘cute’ any more. When did I ever frighten her out of her normal vocabulary? Bore that I am, I mentioned R. H. Blyth’s definition of sentimentality: that we are being sentimental when we give to a thing more tenderness than God gives to it. I said (sententiously?) that God undoubtedly loves kittens, but not, in all probability, with Technicolor bootees on their paws. He leaves that creative touch to script writers. M. thought this over, seemed to agree with me, but the ‘knowledge’ wasn’t too very welcome. She sat stirring her drink and feeling unclose to me. She worries over the way her love for me comes and goes, appears and disappears. She doubts its reality simply because it isn’t as steadily pleasurable as a kitten. God knows it is sad. The human voice conspires to desecrate everything on earth.

Here, bubuleh, I made you a tuna sandwich to nosh on while I get closer to death without any grandchildren.

It reminds me of going to a seafood buffet with Dad when he took me to a conference in New Orleans. Dad got this intensely focused look on his face. Don't eat the filler, he said, meaning breadsticks, tiny sandwiches, even the beautiful, tiny-but-flavorless cakes. Dad made a beeline for the crab legs, crawdads, and seared tuna. Breathless small talk right now would be breadsticks.

I don't know what love is, but I know what love isn't. Love isn't a peanut butter and tuna sandwich, because no young man should spend his time searching for his "once in a lifetime." Take it from me, a love like that doesn't exist. And if it did, I'd have already eaten it.

It's my latest recipe." She beamed. "Roast leaf." "It's gone off. That's not like any roast beef sandwich I've ever tasted." "No, no. Not roast beef. Roast leaf." He stared at her. "I'm a vegetarian," she explained. "I don't eat meat. So I create my own substitutions with vegetables. Roast leaf, for example. I start with whatever greens are in the market, boil and mash them with salt, then press them into a roast for the oven. According to the cookery book, it's every bit as satisfying as the real thing." "Your cookery book is a book if lies." To her credit, she took it gamely. "I'm still perfecting the roast leaf. Perhaps it needs more work. Try the others. The ones on brown bread are tuna-ish- brined turnip flakes in place of fish- and the white bread is sham. Sham is everyone's favorite. Doesn't the color look just like ham? The secret is beetroot.

She was always making silly mistakes when it came to preparing her son’s food—mistakes that anybody could have made, really. Like sprinkling chilli powder instead of cinnamon into his birthday cake batter every year, or accidentally spreading crushed cockroaches instead of tuna onto his tuna sandwiches.

I didn't like crab. Not at all. My stepmother had tricked my into eating a crab sandwich once in a cafe in Cromer, told me it was tuna. I'd never forgiven her.

Here we are, squabbling over tuna fucking sandwiches and there she is – almond-shaped green eyes, snub nose, lopsided grin, the hint of a dimple in her cheek. ‘MISSING’ is stamped over her face in large black letters.

Well, imagine you are alone in a room. The lights are down low, you’ve got some scented candles going. Soothing New Age tunes, nothing too druid-chanty, seep out of the hi-fi to gently massage your cerebral cortex. Feel good? Are you the best, most special person in the room right now? Yes. That’s the gift of being alone. Then a bozo in a CAT Diesel Power cap barges in. What’s the chance that you are the best, most special person in the room now? Fifty-fifty. If you both were dealt two cards, those would be your odds of holding the winning hand. Now imagine ten people are in the room. It’s cramped. You’re elbow to elbow, aerosolized dandruff floats in the air, and the candle’s lavender scent is complicated by BO tones, with a tuna sandwich finish. What are the chances you’re the best, most special person in the room? If you were handed cards, you might expect to be crowned one time out of ten. People, as ever, are the problem. The more people there are, the tougher you have it. Just by sitting next to you, they fuck you up, as if life were nothing more than a bus ride to hell (which it is). But what if you moved to another seat? Changed position? Your seat is everything. It can give you room to relax, to contemplate your next move. Or it might instigate your unraveling.

She had finished her sandwich, but mine was still wrapped in the white paper: tuna with lettuce and tomato on rye bread. I was hungry, having eaten my bowl of oatmeal (105) and green apple (53) hours before, but I was worried about the sandwich. It felt like a brick in my hand. The tuna was loaded with mayonnaise and the whole thing could have easily been packed with five hundred, even six hundred, calories.

Judge Sims called for a lunch recess until 1:00 P.M. The diner would bring over tuna fish, chicken salad, and ham sandwiches for the jurors, who would eat in the deliberation room. To be fair to the town's two eating establishments, the Dog-Gone Beer Hall would deliver hot dogs, chili, and shrimp po'boys on alternative days. They always brought something for the cat, too. Sunday Justice preferred the po'boys.

...it's nice of Mrs. Goe to think that marching against the juvenile juror law is going to keep kids safe. But the fact is, we're NOT safe. Nobody is. That's the whole point. There's no such thing as being safe--here or anywhere. People get hurt every day. Some people get killed by weirdos like Bob White and some people just get teased to death at the lunch table for drinking orange soda or eating a tuna fish sandwich.

Smith and Kemp bought a run-down restaurant on the beach that had formerly served burgers and fried clams, and they transformed it into the Blue Bistro, with seating for over a hundred facing the Atlantic Ocean. The only seats harder to procure than the seats at the blue granite bar are the four tables out in the sand where the Bistro serves its now-famous version of seafood fondue. (Or, as the kitchen fondly refers to it, the all-you-can-eat fried shrimp special.) Many of Ms. Kemp's offerings are twists on old classics, like the fondue. She serves impeccable steak frites, a lobster club sandwich, and a sushi plate, which features a two-inch-thick slab of locally caught bluefin tuna.

In fact, several studies have shown that losing weight and exercising vigorously can sometimes actually reverse the disease, at least during its early stages. One extreme study placed eleven diabetics on a grueling ultra-low-calorie diet of just 600 calories per day for eight weeks. Six hundred calories is an extreme diet that would challenge most people (it’s about two tuna fish sandwiches a day). After two months, however, these seriously food-deprived diabetics had lost an average of 13 kilograms (27 pounds), mostly visceral fat, their pancreases doubled how much insulin they could produce, and they recovered nearly normal levels of insulin sensitivity.51 Vigorous physical activity also has potent reversal effects by causing your body to produce hormones (glucagon, cortisol, and others) that cause your liver, muscle, and fat cells to release energy. These hormones temporarily block the action of insulin while you exercise, and then they increase the sensitivity of these cells to insulin for up to sixteen hours following each bout of exercise.

BUTTERSCOTCH BONANZA BARS Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position.   ½ cup salted butter (1 stick, 4 ounces, ¼ pound) 2 cups light brown sugar*** (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) 2 teaspoons baking powder 1 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 beaten eggs (just whip them up in a glass with a fork) 1 and ½cups flour (scoop it up and level it off with a table knife) 1 cup chopped nuts (optional) 2 cups butterscotch chips (optional) ***- If all you have in the house is dark brown sugar and the roads are icy, it’s below zero, and you really don’t feel like driving to the store, don’t despair. Measure out one cup of dark brown sugar and mix it with one cup regular white granulated sugar. Now you’ve got light brown sugar, just what’s called for in Leslie’s recipe. And remember that you can always make any type of brown sugar by mixing molasses into white granulated sugar until it’s the right color. Hannah’s Note: Leslie says the nuts are optional, but she likes these cookie bars better with nuts. So do I, especially with walnuts. Bertie Straub wants hers with a cup of chopped pecans and 2 cups of butterscotch chips. Mother prefers these bars with 2 cups of semi-sweet chocolate chips and no nuts, Carrie likes them with 2 cups of mini chocolate chips and a cup of chopped pecans, and Lisa prefers to make them with 1 cup of chopped walnuts, 1 cup of white chocolate chips, and 1 cup of butterscotch chips. All this goes to show just how versatile Leslie’s recipe is. Try it first as it’s written with just the nuts. Then try any other versions that you think would be yummy. Grease and flour a 9-inch by 13-inch cake pan, or spray it with nonstick baking spray, the kind with flour added. Set it aside while you mix up the batter. Melt the butter in a small saucepan over low heat on the stovetop, or put it in the bottom of a microwave-safe, medium-sized mixing bowl and heat it for 1 minute in the microwave on HIGH. Add the light brown sugar to the mixing bowl with the melted butter and stir it in well. Mix in the baking powder and the salt. Make sure they’re thoroughly incorporated. Stir in the vanilla extract. Mix in the beaten eggs. Add the flour by half-cup increments, stirring in each increment before adding the next. Stir in the nuts, if you decided to use them. Mix in the butterscotch chips if you decided to use them, or any other chips you’ve chosen. Spoon the batter into the prepared cake pan and smooth out the top with a rubber spatula. Bake the Butterscotch Bonanza Bars at 350 degrees F. for 20 to 25 minutes. (Mine took 25 minutes.) When the bars are done, take them out of the oven and cool them completely in the pan on a cold stove burner or a wire rack. When the bars are cool, use a sharp knife to cut them into brownie-sized pieces. Yield: Approximately 40 bars, but that all depends on how large you cut the squares. You may not believe this, but Mother suggested that I make these cookie bars with semi-sweet chocolate chips and then frost them with chocolate fudge frosting. There are times when I think she’d frost a tuna sandwich with chocolate fudge frosting and actually enjoy eating it!

Delta Airlines, you might have noticed, does not run negative TV ads about USAir. It does not show pictures of the crash of USAir Flight 427, with a voice-over saying: “USAir, airline of death. Going to Pittsburgh? Fly Delta instead.” And McDonald’s, you might also have noticed, does not run ads reminding viewers that Jack in the Box hamburgers once killed two customers. Why? Because Delta and McDonald’s know that if the airline and fast-food industries put on that kind of advertising, America would soon be riding trains and eating box-lunch tuna sandwiches. Yet every two years the American politics industry fills the airwaves with the most virulent, scurrilous, wall-to-wall character assassination of nearly every political practitioner in the country—and then declares itself puzzled that America has lost trust in its politicians.

It was also easy to do because just about everything annoyed them. I really got Abbie torqued one time while she was eating a tuna sandwich and droning on about how she only ate tuna that were "dolphin safe" as she called it. I pointed out it wasn't so safe for the tuna, which she must have turned her back on when it came to caring about God's little creations, since she had a mouthful of the tasty things. She got so red I thought her head was going to explode.

I grabbed a menu and looked at the selections. There were several tempting salads, including one with field greens, goat cheese, pecans, raisins, and fresh sliced apple. The tuna salad also looked good- albacore, diced celery, onion, capers, and mayonnaise, served on mixed greens. Capers? I'd never heard of putting capers in tuna salad. It sounded interesting. Farther down the menu I saw sandwiches. Rare roast beef and Brie with sliced tomato on a toasted French baguette. That sounded great, but I'd have to forgo the Brie- too much cholesterol. But then, without the Brie, what did you really have but just another roast beef sandwich? The chicken salad sandwich also looked good, with baby greens, tomato, sprouts, grapes, and crumbled Gorgonzola, but there was the issue of the cheese again. Then I saw something that really caught my eye- the Thanksgiving Special. Oven-roasted turkey breast, savory stuffing, and fresh cranberry sauce on whole wheat bread. Perfect.

Guilt is claimed to be more civilized, less awkward, more likely to lead to reparation, and cheaper than shaming, which requires the group to pay attention to who is being singled out for what, and to care. Guilt obviously can work to motivate behavior, as it did when I found out that my family’s tuna sandwiches were killing dolphins.

Those retailers are simply fated to live in the inflexible world of racks and aisles, where products must obey the uncompromising physics of atoms, not bits. One of those unfortunate rules of corporeal matter is that it cannot transcend time and space. Obviously, a physical item can be in only one place at any given time. For instance, a can of tuna cannot exist simultaneously in multiple categories, even though the interests and browsing paths of each shopper might suggest many: “fish,” “canned food,” “sandwich makings,” “low-fat,” “on sale,” “best-selling,” “back-to-school,” “under $2,” and so on. A physical store cannot be reconfigured on the fly to cater to each customer based on his or her particular interests.

Lunch. This rotation varies greatly depending on what we have purchased on sale and what leftovers we have in the refrigerator. Here’s a sample: • Monday: mac and cheese and bananas (as a fruit, not mixed in!) • Tuesday: yogurt with fruit and crackers • Wednesday: PB&J with orange slices • Thursday: tuna fish sandwiches and apples • Friday: leftovers • Saturday: lunch meat sandwiches and pickles • Sunday: BLTs

1 cup milk plus: 1. Small bowl cold cereal + blueberries + yogurt 2. 1 egg, scrambled or boiled + 1 slice toast + strawberries 3. 1 cut-up chicken sausage + toast + ½ banana 4. ½ bagel + cream cheese + raspberries 5. 1 slice ham on toast + ½ orange 6. ½ tortilla rolled up with cheese + melon + yogurt 7. Small bowl oatmeal + cut-up bananas and strawberries Lunch and Dinner 1. 1 salmon cake + carrots + rice 2. Fish pie + broccoli 3. 3 oz salmon + cup of pasta + peas 4. 2 fish sticks + cup couscous + veg 5. ½ breast of chicken + veg + small potato 6. Roast chicken + dumplings + veg 7. 1 meat or peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich + apple + yogurt 8. 1 small homemade pizza + fruit 9. Pasta with tomato sauce and cheese + veg 10. Chicken risotto + veg 11. Ground beef + potato + peas 12. Small tuna pasta bake + veg 13. 4 meatballs + pasta + veg 14. Chicken stir-fry with veg + rice

I am the egg salad sandwich of love. The only problem is, I’m in the mood for a tuna fish sandwich—hold the mercury.

I’m also not a vegetarian. Even as a sheltered suburbanite, I knew that meat wasn’t something that started life wrapped in plastic. I knew the cows didn’t jump off a cliff, despondent over a lost love. I knew the chickens didn’t wring their own necks. And I was pretty sure the fish didn’t commit suicide by jumping out of the ocean into waiting nets for the privilege of appearing in my tuna sandwich. Even now, the free-rangiest chicken ends up dead on my plate, despite the momentary illusion that he was out there running wild and living the good life. Not like those sorry bastards stuck in the coop.

No dinner parties. Unless you count me fighting off Fafhrd and Gray if I make a tuna sandwich, and then it´s less dinner party and more Battle of Helm´s Deep.

Having your best friend move away is like finding a week-old tuna sandwich in the bottom of your back pack. It really stinks. When Luke moved away last summer, I knew things wouldn’t be the same.  Luke was more than just my best friend. He was the coolest person I’ve ever known. He could beat every level on Space Pod Invasion. He could burp the entire alphabet, forwards… and backwards. He could blast a baseball clear over the fence at Parker Field. In gym class, he was always chosen team captain. And for some reason, he always picked me first, even though I was the shortest kid in class. I still remember that day last August when he broke the news. That afternoon was so hot, I thought the rubber might melt right off my high tops. Dad was grilling burgers, while we were splashing around in the pool with my kid brother Dylan, trying to knock him off his

The mediocrity principle simply states that you aren’t special. The universe does not revolve around you; this planet isn’t privileged in any unique way; your country is not the perfect product of divine destiny; your existence isn’t the product of directed, intentional fate; and that tuna sandwich you had for lunch was not plotting to give you indigestion.

I covered her with her blanket and got her a coffee. I plugged in her phone, made her eat half of a tuna sandwich. Family began to show up and they huddled around the waiting room, whispering and crying. Brandon’s mom prayed in Spanish over a rosary. I sat next to Sloan, feigning emotion, doing all the motions. Looking somber and rubbing her back but feeling empty and removed because my crisis response was still in effect. Now that the rush was gone, the velociraptor paced. I couldn’t shut off my brain and the need to be doing something. But the only thing to do was wait. I bounced my knee and picked at my cuticles until they bled. I texted Josh and kept him posted. They’d found a replacement for him at work, but he couldn’t leave until 8:00 p.m. Then, ten hours after the accident, the doctor came out. Sloan bolted from her chair and I followed, ready to absorb what he said with an accuracy that I would be able to transpose onto paper, word for word, two days later. Brandon’s mom wrapped her sweater tighter around herself and stood shoulder to shoulder with Sloan. Brandon’s dad put an arm around his wife. I tried to figure out the outcome from the doctor’s lined, angular face, but he was unreadable. “I’m Dr. Campbell, the resident neurosurgeon. Brandon is out of surgery. He’s stable. We were able to stop the internal bleeding. I had to remove a large piece of his skull to alleviate the pressure on his brain.” Sloan gasped and started sobbing again. I put an arm around her, sandwiching her between Brandon’s mom and me as she breathed into her hands. The doctor went on. “The good news is there’s brain activity. Now, I can’t say what his recovery is going to look like at this juncture, but the tests we ran were promising. He’s going to have a long road ahead of him, but I’m feeling optimistic.” The room took a collective deep breath.

Starters Corn chowder with red peppers and smoked Gouda $8 Shrimp bisque, classic Chinatown shrimp toast $9 Blue Bistro Caesar $6 Warm chèvre over baby mixed greens with candy-striped beets $8 Blue Bistro crab cake, Dijon cream sauce $14 Seared foie gras, roasted figs, brioche $16 Entrées Steak frites $27 Half duck with Bing cherry sauce, Boursin potato gratin, pearls of zucchini and summer squash $32 Grilled herbed swordfish, avocado silk, Mrs. Peeke's corn spoon bread, roasted cherry tomatoes $32 Lamb "lollipops," goat cheese bread pudding $35 Lobster club sandwich, green apple horseradish, coleslaw $29 Grilled portabello and Camembert ravioli with cilantro pesto sauce $21 Sushi plate: Seared rare tuna, wasabi aioli, sesame sticky rice, cucumber salad with pickled ginger and sake vinaigrette $28 *Second Seating (9:00 P.M.) only Shellfish fondue Endless platter of shrimp, scallops, clams. Hot oil for frying. Selection of four sauces: classic cocktail, curry, horseradish, green goddess $130 (4 people) Desserts- All desserts $8 Butterscotch crème brûlée Mr. Smith's individual blueberry pie à la mode Fudge brownie, peanut butter ice cream Lemon drop parfait: lemon vodka mousse layered with whipped cream and vodka-macerated red berries Coconut cream and roasted pineapple tart, macadamia crust Homemade candy plate: vanilla marshmallows, brown sugar fudge, peanut brittle, chocolate peppermints

Because for all my massive appetite, I cannot cook to save my life. When Grant came to my old house for the first time, he became almost apoplectic at the contents of my fridge and cupboards. I ate like a deranged college frat boy midfinals. My fridge was full of packages of bologna and Budding luncheon meats, plastic-wrapped processed cheese slices, and little tubs of pudding. My cabinets held such bounty as cases of chicken-flavored instant ramen noodles, ten kinds of sugary cereals, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, and cheap canned tuna. My freezer was well stocked with frozen dinners, heavy on the Stouffer's lasagna and bags of chicken tenders. My garbage can was a wasteland of take-out containers and pizza boxes. In my defense, there was also always really good beer and a couple of bottles of decent wine. My eating habits have done a pretty solid turnaround since we moved in together three years ago. Grant always leaved me something set up for breakfast: a parfait of Greek yogurt and homemade granola with fresh berries, oatmeal that just needs a quick reheat and a drizzle of cinnamon honey butter, baked French toast lingering in a warm oven. He almost always brings me leftovers from the restaurant's family meal for me to take for lunch the next day. I still indulge in greasy takeout when I'm on a job site, as much for the camaraderie with the guys as the food itself; doesn't look good to be noshing on slow-roasted pork shoulder and caramelized root vegetables when everyone else is elbow-deep in a two-pound brick of Ricobene's breaded steak sandwich dripping marinara.

I think of myself as generally happy, but every so often I’m struck by a fleeting mood of unhappiness or anxiety that quickly escalates. On a really bad day, I may spend hours stuck in angst-ridden maunderings, wondering if I need to make major changes in my life. It’s usually then that I realise I’ve forgotten to eat lunch. One tuna sandwich later, the mood is gone. And yet, ‘Am I hungry?’ is never my first response to feeling bad: my brain, apparently, would prefer to distress itself with reflections on the ultimate meaninglessness of human existence than to direct my body to a nearby branch of Pret A Manger.

Tuna, like eggs, can be kind of stinky, so if you work with a bunch of uptight dickwad complainers, bring a tuna sandwich for lunch and give them something to complain about.

luxury wines such as Gaja Barbaresco, Conterno Barolo, and Super Tuscans such as Sassicaia and Masseto, we revel in the challenge of finding the most interesting and tasty Piedirosso, Pigato, and Procanico to tempt our guests. To that end, when the restaurant was under construction and still uninhabitable, we found ourselves in a whirlwind of tasting appointments off site, often up to eight hours straight, auditioning hundreds of wines daily for several weeks. Each day, we asked our trusted wine sellers to bring only the wines of a particular region of Italy. Alto Adige day seems to always be a bit easier, as these northern wines tend to have a nice palate-cleansing and reviving acidity that certainly helps when there are so many wines to taste. On that day we taste wines like crisp, clean Sauvignon Blanc from Zemmer and the elegant Chardonnays of Elena Walch, both made from international grape varieties, and Hofstatter Pinot Bianco and Mayr-Nusser Lagrein made from homegrown grapes. On the other hand, Tuscany day can be a tough one, with all of the rich, high-octane reds that are typically presented, and for the tremendous number of high-quality wines that we just cannot bring ourselves to forgo swallowing. Tuscany provides us with glassfuls of the classic Sangiovese-based Chianti, Brunello di Montalcino, and Vino Nobile di Montepulciano, and their more reasonably priced facsimilies: Sangiovese Toscana, Rosso di Montalcino, and Rosso di Montepulciano. The neoclassic Tuscan reds include the blends in which Sangiovese is married with grapes like Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Syrah. These are the Super Tuscan wines. We call these few weeks of intense wine tasting “The Gauntlet.” As much fun as it sounds, you realize that tasting can actually be very hard work. Thank goodness for the chef’s sandwiches: Sicilian Tuna to revive the palate after all of that Sicilian Nero d’Avola, Bresaola and Arugula on Lombardy day when we have been drinking Sforzato di Valtellina and its simpler cousin, Rosso di Valtellina, both made from Chiavennesca—all perfect vehicles for bringing our palates and ourselves back to life!

sicilian tuna sandwich panino con tonno siciliano 8 slices whole-grain bread 1 fennel bulb, trimmed and shaved ¼ cup drained capers, rinsed Twelve ½-inch-thick tomato slices 8 leaves romaine lettuce, ribs removed and leaves halved 3 cups Tuna Salad (recipe follows) 1 Lightly toast the bread slices. 2 Place a slice of bread on each of 4 serving plates. On each slice, lay a quarter of the shaved fennel, 1 tablespoon of capers, 3 tomato slices, and 2 romaine leaves. Top with equal amounts of the Tuna Salad and then the remaining slices of bread. Press down gently and then cut each sandwich in half and serve. This sandwich is as much about the tuna as anything else. The salad is pretty classic, made with celery, scallions, and pickles, but when you make it with imported Italian tuna, it takes on a new dimension you may not have experienced. Sure, you can make this with any canned tuna you have in the cupboard, but once you taste the imported Italian tuna, which is far richer than other types, you will recognize it for the treat it is! You could buy good pickles to use in the tuna salad, but I hope you’ll try making your own. Get some really good cucumbers and go to town. It’s surprising how easy pickling is, and yet it’s almost a lost art.  serves 4 tuna salad makes about 3 cups Three 6-ounce cans tuna packed in olive oil, drained and chopped (see Note) 3 tablespoons finely diced celery 3 tablespoons minced House-Made Pickles (Chapter 2) 3 tablespoons sliced scallions 3 teaspoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley 3 teaspoons chopped fresh tarragon 3 teaspoons snipped fresh chives 6 tablespoons Rick’s Homemade Aioli (Chapter 2) Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper