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Day 1: 05:00
Mon nom? Henri. I have just been baked in ze heart of Paris, ze finest French bread you will ever meet. My crust golden, my insides fluffy. I have been created for a purpose: to be made into ze pièce de résistance of French sandwiches – ze Croque Monsieur.
07:39
My journey has begun and I am on my way to be filled with splendid gruyère cheese, smoked ham and Dijon mustard. Boutique sandwicheries of Paris, here I come!
11:05
I arrive at my destination and am immediately taken aback by ze stench of petrol fumes and rumble of engines. In ze kitchen, harsh fluorescent lights blind my eyes as the cold sting of tomato slaps my tender underbelly – surely zis cannot be right?!
12:09
I am shoved onto ze cold shelf of ze fridge, suffocated by a cellophane film. Everything looks magnified and disorientated as I desperately try to analyse my surroundings. A neon light reading ‘FUELS 4 U’ flashes above ze cashier and I realise I am a million miles away from my Parisian home, in some grimy service station. I turn and on catching my reflection, my fears are confirmed and my heart sinks. Je suis a BLT.
16:31
As ze day goes on, rush hour passes. I’m still here. Ze tomato inside me is gradually making my beautiful crusts soggy and ever less appealing.
18:40
I am so unaware of ze time and day. My once beautiful exterior has been destroyed by ze impact of passer buyers, frivolously grabbing me then slamming me back onto ze cold shelf in preference for a sausage wrapped in pastry. I am not a meal deal!
Day 2: 06:00
As ze night staff prepare to leave their shift, one last duty is yet to be carried out. The piercing orange polo shirt embodied ‘FUELS 4 U’ in olive green approaches me with the red gun. Is he going to put me out of my misery? A loud crunch, and in a nanosecond, slapped upon me, the reduction sticker. That was painful.
08:49
Ze hot bacon rolls are mocking me. They say, “Oh ha ha ha, no one wants your cold flappy bacon!” They are right.
11:02
Everyone knows ze elevenses are for beautiful pastries not withered old sandwiches. I try to plump myself up a bit as one final push. It’s no good. Ze lettuce inside me has turned. Ze mayonnaise has congealed.
14:27
I have been avoided throughout ze lunchtime rush yet again. Will I be here forever?
14:30
I am a solitary sandwich.
16:31
I find myself in a plastic reduction crate, pressed up against one side with only a few small holes to peer through. There is a faint hum of old egg and a loose strand of cress pokes into my face. Must zis torment go on much longer?
17:20
My Parisian dream is well and truly over. I only had one small dream, ze dream of a French sandwich. Ze dream to be an exquisite Croque Monsieur and grace the window display of a prestigious sandwicherie. My life is worthless. I’m not even worth ze 50 pence I have now been reduced to.
19:00
I feel my tender sides drying up and wonder why I was never chosen. Does the prawn mayonnaise understand ‘ow much he has hurt me with his persistent taunts? He’s not so perfect himself, everyone knows there will always be a fishy husk inside!
22:03
Greeted once again by the nauseating orange of ze ‘FUELS 4 U’ uniform, I am carried to ze rusty jaws of ze dumpster out back. Tipped from ze crate, down I fall, down, down into ze depths of ‘FUELS 4 U’ waste. Goodbye cruel world.
22:15
It turns out, I am not as alone as I have been led to believe. In ze dumpster I have met many unwanted sandwiches including Florence, my BLT other. She, like me, was brought here from France, sliced from ze same loaf as I! I have found my dough mate, and no longer does ze world seem so bleak a place. Zis is where I belong, c’est la vie!
(Orginally published in IP1zine, August 2012).
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