I was terribly hungry and would have to get something to tide me over. Across the street I noticed a place that advertised Philly cheesesteak sandwiches and decided that would be the quickest place to get a meal before the event.

It was small, bare, undecorated with pale walls and a few vinyl tables. A TV set hung over the room, the sound turned down as an anchorman moved his mouth. I ordered a Philly cheesesteak sandwich and sat down to wait, regretting I’d brought nothing to read. All I could find was a mustard-stained SF Weekly stashed behind the table, and I gingerly spread this out and glanced over it.

And waited. And waited. And waited. I could see three men behind the counter moving about, doing things I couldn’t make out over stoves and sinks. In another tiny adjoining room, I noticed a family, a couple with three children, plainly waiting for a meal. Occasionally one of the men behind the counter would place a plate of something to one side, and I would endure torments wondering if it were mine.

Time ticked past. I glanced over my shoulder at the movie house where people milled about the sidewalk talking in groups. It might be awkward if arrived late, given that Michael was hosting the onstage interview. Finally I saw one of the counter men pick up a paper plate and saunter towards my table. He set the plate down before me. Chicken breast on a roll. I called him back and he took it away to carry it to the family in the other room.

At last, it came, one of the most succulent, delicious Philly cheesesteak sandwiches I’d ever eaten . Was this because I was ravenous, or because they had been spending all that time industriously, meticulously, thoughtfully constructing the best Philly cheesesteak sandwich ever?