Michelangelo could not come close to the divine edible creations of Dallas Mostafa Montana. Or, at least that was how Dallas felt, sitting on a bench he'd gingerly brushed clean of debris so he could fully surrender himself and his tastebuds to his magnificent creation.
From a stranger's perspective, it was a sandwich as long as Dallas' arm, stacked high enough to resemble a prop from a scooby doo movie, but to Dallas, he'd created life.
Slow-roasted chicken delicately seasoned in herbs and buttered, basted every forty-five minutes until it came to temp, perfectly sliced in juicy morsels lay on a fresh bed of lettuce. Stacked in rows on top of the meat, Dallas had layered his creation with the most succulent choices of vegetables, tomatoes, artichoke hearts, onions, and pickles, but that was only the first layer. On top of his hearty filling sat another layer of chicken, this time drizzled with a sauce thickened with the very broth used to cook his chicken. He considered using cheese but found himself unsure as to what would aid the flavors of his meal, deciding finally on a mix of mozzarella, gouda, provolone, and asiago, grated fine to ensure it would not overpower the rest of his sandwich. His choice of breading was as important as the carefully smeared portions of spiced mayo, a crusty baguette he'd made especially for the occasion.
Dallas was eager to consume his meal at home but felt he'd be wasting its potential, choosing instead to pack himself a small picnic in pursuit of a view.
He'd find that view, taking care to set himself up with a bag of chips, homemade tea, and a napkin in his lap for the main meal.
Today was perfect. The best day!
Only gravity had other plans, and when the tall man with dark curls raised his monster-sized sandwich to his mouth, the very first bite sent a large slab of pickle flying, landing directly on someone's shoe!
His pickle!
“Excuse me, sorry. Are you going to eat that?” The man asked, pointing at the fallen condiment.
From a stranger's perspective, it was a sandwich as long as Dallas' arm, stacked high enough to resemble a prop from a scooby doo movie, but to Dallas, he'd created life.
Slow-roasted chicken delicately seasoned in herbs and buttered, basted every forty-five minutes until it came to temp, perfectly sliced in juicy morsels lay on a fresh bed of lettuce. Stacked in rows on top of the meat, Dallas had layered his creation with the most succulent choices of vegetables, tomatoes, artichoke hearts, onions, and pickles, but that was only the first layer. On top of his hearty filling sat another layer of chicken, this time drizzled with a sauce thickened with the very broth used to cook his chicken. He considered using cheese but found himself unsure as to what would aid the flavors of his meal, deciding finally on a mix of mozzarella, gouda, provolone, and asiago, grated fine to ensure it would not overpower the rest of his sandwich. His choice of breading was as important as the carefully smeared portions of spiced mayo, a crusty baguette he'd made especially for the occasion.
Dallas was eager to consume his meal at home but felt he'd be wasting its potential, choosing instead to pack himself a small picnic in pursuit of a view.
He'd find that view, taking care to set himself up with a bag of chips, homemade tea, and a napkin in his lap for the main meal.
Today was perfect. The best day!
Only gravity had other plans, and when the tall man with dark curls raised his monster-sized sandwich to his mouth, the very first bite sent a large slab of pickle flying, landing directly on someone's shoe!
His pickle!
“Excuse me, sorry. Are you going to eat that?” The man asked, pointing at the fallen condiment.