Guess where I’m eating?

See the tricked-out bomb above? The one layered with prosciutto, melty housemade mozzarella, arugula and oven-dried tomatoes, all stacked between slices of grilled bread brushed with olive oil and paved with a green olive pistou? That sandwich — that sandwich — is full-blown deliciousness, and whenever I eat at the restaurant where it’s served (not often enough), I seriously want to snatch it off the plate and sneak off into some remote corner where it’s just me and the wall, to which I would say, “Wall, if you see anyone walking in my direction who looks as though they might want a piece of this ingeniousness, tell them that I’m a complete mess of insanity, and that if they try to swindle my sandwich, I’ll make sure they promptly lose all their fingers.”

And that wouldn’t be good, because you need those fingers to answer the question: Where am I eating?