Sandwich Queen

Kate Fennessy
11 min readFeb 20, 2023

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I thought I’d share my recent entry to the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge, Sandwich Queen.

I’ve entered this competition three or four times before — I think I collided with a Facebook ad for it many years ago, and liked the sound of it.

The gist of the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge is that you are assigned a genre, a subject and a character, with a word limit of 2,500 for round one, and a week to submit your story. I’ve never made it to round two, but if you do, you get new assignments, and both the word limit and time to submit shortens as you progress.

In 2021, my feedback was roundly positive, the judge noting that my character was “very endearing” and “so fleshed out from the beginning”. “The story, as a whole,” they said, “was very much a ‘cozy mystery’ and I loved that you embraced that levity.” I loved reading that at the time.

However, they went on, “I’d encourage you to look at pacing and if there are any places that could be cut without sacrificing the story’s overall message/plot”.

Ah pacing. It’s never been something I’ve understood how to better manage, probably because I’ve never studied creative writing.

But this year, with the help of my boyfriend who has studied screen-writing, I took a different approach. I focused on the plot points first before diving in, and worked really hard for the first three days to nail that. It was terrifying! Usually I would rush through that part and dive into the writing, so it felt odd and unnerving to do it in reverse. But ultimately, the planning paid off, so that when I arrived at the writing, it was far easier and flowed from my fingertips.

My assigned genre was romance, the subject “borrowed time”, and the character, a food critic.

May I present, Sandwich Queen.

A sandwich from the inspiration for the shop, Stefanino Panino in Brunswick East

Chiara greets the matching designer overalls with an expectant smile. Scanning the hand-painted wooden board above her head, pink-tipped mullet mumbles something about gluten to double nose ring, who steps forward and orders two espressos.

“Ah, we only do filtered coffee here, sorry.”

They deliberate for a moment before exiting. Gone across the road no doubt.

She clocks the mountain of prawn cocktail mix; the mortadella would keep for a few more days. Crunching into a pickle, she switches off the jazz playlist. Mia’s eyes find Chiara’s through the glow of her screen.

“Another one?” Chiara asks. “Otherwise I’m done.”

“I’m good hun. It really was delicious though. It was. And if I have another coffee I — ” Mia collapses her laptop suddenly.

“What?”

“Nothing!” she chirps. “I don’t think you need to — ”

Chiara springs out from behind the counter.

“Show me.” The Food Play web banner blazes on the screen. “They’ve reviewed me? Finally!” Mia sinks a little. “I think we could… head back to yours, pour a wine and look at this from a few angles. I mean, it’s not all bad.”

“Not all bad? What do you mean?”

Chiara seizes the laptop.

Queenie Panini, Chiara Costello’s third operation in as many years was pregnant with promise; a homage to the Nonna-style food of her outer-suburban roots.

What a disappointment to discover a confusing menu of bastardised cross-cultural creations, desperate to hook sandwich-mad Millennials.

Chiara pales.

“Don’t read anymore!” Mia’s hands hide her face. “It’s too awful. I’m so sorry Chiara.”

“That prick! He’s supposed to be from the food industry. He must know how hard this is. How much business owners put on the line. What a… sell-out.” She drags the A-frame sign inside like roadkill.

“You know who this guy is yeah?”

Mia straightens up. “I think so. There’s a TikToker I follow who’s really good at hospitality insider stories. He revealed it a while ago. Let me have look.”

She thumbs at her phone furiously.

“Ok, I’ve got it. So there’s a few names that’ve been thrown around over the years, but apparently it’s one of these casino restaurant titans called Marty Simmons, who’s backed a bunch of places around here. Used to be a chef. He’s more of an investor these days and look — he’s quite handsome…”

“Mia! Who cares if he’s handsome. He’s a leech!”

Mia hands over his Instagram. Mediterranean eyes, a confident smile with sideburns and thick glasses. Vignettes of events and openings, high-end diners with collagen-pumped pouts. Razor clams; urchins drunk in vermouth. She opens up his Stories.

“Oo, oo, look! He’s launching something tonight! In Collingwood. We should go!”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know… confront him! Challenge him. Ask him what it will take to change his mind. Flirt with him!”

“Jesus Mia, look at me. I don’t sleep anymore, I’ve forgotten how to dress… All I do is sandwiches and spreadsheets.”

“I’ll figure it out. Give me a tick.” She flitters across the keys on her laptop. “Ok. The event’s sold out. But it’s being catered by The Catering Crew. Didn’t you used to work for them?”

“Yep, perfect. We just need to dress in black and white — that’s what they wear. How are you at running drinks?”

“Terrible.”

“Great. Let’s do this.”

Musicians pluck a double base and sway their brass instruments. The crowd, in their thirties mostly, competes in quirky spectacles, impossible lipstick and bespoke earrings. Chiara’s seen it all before. She binds her apron, clenches her fists and finds the depth of her pockets.

Marty Simmons is the gravitational centre of the room. He radiates just like his photographs online — cocksure and buoyant. The waitstaff circle him: each morsel is clinically examined from behind his lenses. Juggling a tower of glassware, Mia nods to a grey-haired hanger-on. “Drink sir?”

“A Kir Royale please”, he says quietly. “I think it’ll match well with the oysters.”

“Noted”, she smiles and slinks back into the crowd, scanning for Chiara.

“C’mon”, she tilts her head. “We’re going back in with Kir Royales and oysters.”

“What’s a Kir Royale?”

“No fucking idea. You get the oysters ready.”

Chiara slipstreams into the prep area. She smiles at a few of the Catering Crew staff she’s worked with in the past. No-one seems phased by her. Amongst the flurry of plating up and preparation, she spots a tower of iced oysters. If there’s one thing she knows how to do well, it’s old-school Oysters Kilpatrick. She stacks ingredients from the cool room and sets up her own little station: cascades of Worcestershire sauce and lime juice drench the little shell boats piled with bacon. She grills them in batches and arranges them on trays of discarded banana leaves.

Merging into the river of servers, Chiara collects Mia with her Kir Royales — fresh raspberries bobbing in the fizz.

Marty’s entourage parts. He locks onto Chiara and her banana leaf tray. A frown becomes a grimace, then a piercing, cackling laugh. The laughter ripples through the room. Phones are whipped out, snapping and filming her, closing in around her. Her eyes seek out Mia, who is gritting her teeth, standing there with her rejected cocktails…

“Who the hell butchered the Angasi oysters?” Marty booms.

He marches over, snatches an oyster from the tray, and thrusts it down his throat before firing it out of his mouth and into Mia’s Kir Royales. Mia looks down, contemplating the Jackson Pollock of bacon bits, champagne and oysters swimming in Marty’s saliva.

Mia’s car chugs to a halt. She hands Chiara back a carefully folded apron.

“It wasn’t your fault Mia. You were trying to help me. It’s ok, really. I just need to get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah, shit. I think we might have missed the mark slightly.”

“A fair bit”.

“Yep. By about a shit tonne.”

Mia squishes her mouth to one side. “At least he knows who you are now. You’re trending on Instagram.” Chiara’s eyes address the sky.

The hashtags #whobutchedtheoysters #baconandoysters and #1985stillalive have hundreds of posts and Stories from the slaughtering.

Chiara slumps on the couch. She scratches Slinky’s chin, who purrs and prances around the avalanche of kibble which spills onto the floor. She picks up her phone to check the hashtags again — there’s an email from the bank. Crap.

The loan’s not approved. She scans the words. She has two weeks to submit her updated bank statements to prove the viability of her business. No time at all. Unless she can swing it, she’s stuffed. She’s behind in rent as it is. Oysters, brownies and scraps of fried food churn in her gut.

Slinky pads onto her lap. Her kibble-breath sniffs gently at her tears, and then finally, she sleeps.

Mia fronts up to the shop with two packs of sushi.

“I thought we both might need a break from your sandwiches?” She hands a pack to Chiara. “I can’t stay today — I’ve gotta be on campus. But we can meet up later if you like? I’ll bring a cheap Aldi wine and we can hate-read more of Marty’s reviews?”

“Sounds great.”

Chiara serves a few more wax-tamed moustaches and left-leaning Mums.

She grabs her laptop from out the back. When she returns, a man is quietly absorbing the menu. He’s familiar — slim, with grey hair and stubble. He orders a lasagne sandwich, the signature item she’d mistakenly thought would be a cult-hit by now.

He extends his hand over the counter. “I’m Leon. I was at the ah — Oysters Kilpatrick event the other night.”

Chiara, softening to the sandwich order, clenches up.

“I’m Marty’s brother, actually. I’m really sorry if he was rude to you. Him spitting into the cocktail… I actually thought the oysters were –”

“Rude? You think your brother was rude to me by spitting out my oyster? He savaged my business, Leon.” His name drips in venom. “His review has taken away any chance I had to succeed here.” She didn’t expect the tears. They splash clumsily on the counter. “The bank is basically… I’m not gonna make it.” She smears her nose and grabs a napkin. “Anyway forget it. I’m sorry. It’s not really Marty’s fault. I know. It’s all this.” She waves her hand above her head at her menu board. “This stupid dream. Comfort food in a sandwich. It’s a joke. I’m a joke. I get it.”

Leon retreats from the counter.

“I should pay.”

“Forget it. Please. Just — it’s on me. I’m sorry I ruined your brother’s event.”

“My brother’s event? It wasn’t his event. He was just an investor, there to support the new owners. They loved what you did with the oysters by the way. They thought it was real. Refreshing. So did I.”

“Right.” Chiara wipes the counter.

“Hey…” He hovers awkwardly between staying and leaving. “Do you mind if I — would I be able to get your number? I’d like to see you again, if you…”

“Look up the business on Instagram”, she snaps, and slams the till shut.

Mia snakes her way through the undercuts, tattoos and Doc Martins. She waves at Chiara and her Mum, who is helping out with the sudden surge of customers. Chiara has had to double her order from Baker Boyz to cater for the rushes recently. It’s madness. She’s barely had time to shower or sleep. Even the Uber Eats guys are having to queue up.

Sold out! — slapped across the A-frame out front, Mia helps Chiara to carry it back inside.

“Are you ready?”

“For what?”

“For this.” Mia pulls out a chilled bottle of Bollinger.

“That’s not from Aldi! What’s going on?”

This — is going on.” Mia pours the champagne into two coffee glasses, and pulls out her phone. She reads:

What do you call a food critic who has to eat his words? Ok bad pun, but the answer is me, dear reader.

I’m not beneath apologising, and I can happily admit, I made a mistake. I failed to recognise the joy of this purveyor, unafraid to be a little bit uncool. To relish in flavour, not fads. To be authentically delicious, and homely; even a bit ungainly.

Well, there’s a new food maven in town, and her name is Chiara Costello, Queenie Panini. Run, don’t walk before this inventive menu changes its stripes again.

Oh and for the record? The lasagne sandwich will reach cult status before you get a chance to sink your teeth into it.

Mia is beaming. “Haven’t you seen it yet?”

“No! I’ve been avoiding everything since oyster-gate. Bloody hell Mia!”

Feeling sheepish, Chiara checks her phone to see if there is a “Leon”-someone amongst her Instagram followers. There is. And he’s liked so many of her posts! She thumbs him a message thanking him for his help, and to ask if he’d give her Marty’s details.

I’d like to take out my favourite food critic to my favourite restaurant, she types. His avatar dots blink in response.

Oh, and where’s that?

A daggy Italian restaurant on the edge of the city where the waiters are all seventy-years plus. I’ll send you the link. Do you think he’ll come?

He’ll definitely come. He’s intrigued by you.

Really?? By me? Even after the Oysters Kilpatrick incident??

ESPECIALLY after the Oysters Kilpatrick incident.

He added a smiling emoji and Chiara laughs. The relief floods through her. How bizarre. Marty Simmons and her together at a table at Maria’s.

She laps her lips in maroon. Her hair falls into long, loose waves after being heaped high on her head all day.

The bank’s thrilled at her sudden spike in income. They’ve given her conditional approval of the loan and released her parents as guarantors. She’s working on a fresh menu, featuring a tuna mornay sub that will drive the food snobs wild.

Stepping into Maria’s is like an exhale. She takes up her usual spot, but asks Gino to set another place. She wonders how Marty will approach her, what he’ll say. Will she hug him hello? She has so many questions to ask him. Why the change of heart? What exactly did Leon tell him?

Then Leon appears. Confused, she staggers toward him.

“What happened? Has he gone off me again?” Chiara pants. Gino raises a fluffy grey eyebrow. “What a waste of my time.” She snatches her bag, marching off. “God, he’s such a shit, sending his brother. How gutless”. Diners murmur and stare. Leon touches her on the wrist. Gently. Kindly.

“Chiara, wait. Please.”

She turns to him.

“I’m the writer behind Food Play. Not Marty. He’s just a convenient ruse. My cover. And he plays up to it — he loves it. But it’s always been me. I wrote your first review, and the last one. I’m sorry for the hurt I caused you. I hope the last review’s had some positive –”

“You?” she blinks back at Leon, his kind blue-grey eyes. He nods slowly, a generous smile appearing on his face.

“When I saw you in full flight at the event, and when I saw you in your shop the other day — I guess… I melted a little bit. And I realised, I’d been a bit jaded by all the “coolness”. My brother. Being a food critic. All of it. You’ve changed the way I see food, and that is big for me.”

Chiara returns a warm smile.

“Can I give you a hug Leon? Is that weird?”

“Not weird at all.”

She drapes herself over him. He smells good.

“Shall we sit down? They have a cracking Carbonara here. Basic, totally uncool and my absolute favourite. With gooey garlic bread of course.”

He squeezes her hand.

“I would love to.”

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Kate Fennessy

Communications specialist, obsessive journaller; require routine and spontaneity in equal measure.