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