Leon and His Grilled Cheese Sandwiches

Shirley was in the breakroom discussing lunch. She was indecisive in what to have to eat during her lunchbreak, as usual. When one of her workmates piped in, “It’s a cloudy, dreary day, a great day for a grilled cheese sandwich and a steaming bowl of creamy tomato soup.” “Yuck,” Shirley replies, “maybe some soup, but grilled cheese sandwiches are a disgusting bunch of goo made with yesterday’s old bread.” She stuck her finger in her throat, like she was going to vomit. “Wait! I don’t fully understand”, one of her co-workers said, “how anybody could not like grilled cheese sandwiches. It’s just not possible.” Shirley let out a groan, she didn’t realize that HE was in the breakroom and would have avoided all talk of her upcoming sustenance if she had known.  “Grilled cheese sandwiches are a symbol of comfort food on a cold rainy day, or a day in which everything is bad, bad, bad, or when your hair decides it has a mind of its’ own, or when you discover at the end of the day that you have a piece of spinach stuck between your two front teeth and not one single soul that you encountered during your entire miserable day mentioned that it’s blatantly there.” He went on and on without taking a single breath. Shirley just let him drivel on, thinking blah, blah, blah. Finally, Shirley pipes in, interrupting his soliloquy,  “I just don’t like grilled cheese. I prefer my cheese cold, on crackers, or a piece of soft French bread fresh from the market, or just alone in bite-sized chunks so I can savor every single taste and have the experience of it melting on my tongue.”

“Well,” replied Leon, “You’ve never had MY special home-made grilled cheese sandwich. I truly and undoubtedly make the best grilled cheese than anyone I know, and certainly better than anyone I don’t know.” Shirley rolled her eyes thinking how in love with himself he was, his narcissism in full bloom, just like the poison ivy on the walking path to work this morning, hard to avoid just like his judgmental opinions.  It was the same story every time her co-worker, Leon, discovered that someone doesn’t like some kind of food. Out comes his uppity, obnoxious and snootiness pouring out of his facial expressions and nasally voice. I cringed while he continued on “Well, you’ve never had MY….” Ugh. This time, though, he was adamant and there was no stopping him. “Look,”, he said with an extreme amount of confidence, ”I was taught by my very French Aunt Jeannette, who was the best cook ever, well, maybe except for me. She really knew her way around her spacious kitchen and concocted the most amazing mouth-watering… well, anything and everything.”

“The first secret of my grilled cheese is the bread. Bread is of utmost importance, no day-old bread, here. I use a sweet Brioche that I acquire only from the independent French bakery on 1^st Street owned by an authentic French woman named Cecile. She has a thick accent and uses the freshest duck eggs from the brood of mallard ducks that she raises, and the creamiest butter that she churns herself in the back room of her store. There’s no other bread that exists like this bread, at least without having to travel all the way to France.” He takes a short breath and gives a short hurumph, but doesn’t stop yet. “Fortunately for me, this lovely French woman adores me,” he smiles inwardly. “And she sells me her butter, too. And the cheese, well, you can’t go wrong with cheese, but I use only the finest cheese that I discovered at that posh little wine bar on 7^th Avenue. You know, the fancy establishment where you have to be superbly dressed to enter.” I could feel his judgement of my current state of dress, worn green corduroy pants with an over-sized pilled, beige, though more gray than beige these days, sweater.

 “I don’t use that fake sliced orange American cheese individually wrapped in plastic that ordinary people use to make a grilled cheese sandwich, I use specialty cheeses only.” He flares his nostrils like he’s running out of breath, and lifts his chin a little to prove his point.  I imagine him floating away with his balloon-sized head and let out a high-pitched giggle.  He pursed his lips and dared to scoff at me.  A small crowd of co-workers have now circled around us, chuckling as they listen to Leon go on and on. Leon, however, is oblivious to his audience, his focus solely on me. “And I use two decadent cheeses to make my grilled cheese sandwiches extra special, Brie and Gruyere. I also add the slightest bit of celery salt, and a pinch of minced fresh garlic . Well, there I go, giving away all my secrets. Well, anyhow, when cooked just right in my le Creuset skillet grill pan, it is just sublime. I can tell you right now, you would die for my grilled cheese sandwich, hot cheese or not. It is NOT a pile of goo.  It is the perfect blend of sensations on your taste buds and brightens up an otherwise humdrum day. Unfortunately for you, though, you will have to take my word, because I won’t be making one for you.” He gives me a condescending look, his eyes piercing mine. I get the feeling that he thinks I’m not worthy of his time even though he just wasted about twenty minutes of mine trying to convince me that I wouldn’t turn down the grilled cheese sandwiches that HE makes. “You just have to take my word for it,” he repeats, “because mine are truly the absolute best in the entire world, the entire universe.  No one can compare.” If you can picture it, Leon points his nose further up into the air, and suddenly leaves. My co-workers and I gawk at him as he slinks away. I rolled my eyes, shrugged my shoulders and sauntered over to the water cooler. I then let out a big sigh and asked my workmates – “So, what’s on the menu for everyone’s lunch today?”