Deli men, like fate and the distant stars, cause me profound frustration. They are agents as beyond my control as any cosmic force, working indifferently, just a few feet away where I can’t get at them. The deli man does everything wrong. He shoves cold lumps of hard butter on toast, if he bothers to toast the bread at all. He slaps the greasy bacon down on umelted, waxy cheese. He takes a sandwich with a crisp roll and wraps it up in five layers of wax paper, foil, and plastic. (They love to wrap things up. Wrapping things up is the high point of the deli man’s routine.). How often I have seethed impotently at the deli case, glowering [...]...