The sign out by the curb showed up every once in awhile. Maybe once a week. Mostly on a weekend. “Stan’s Roast Beef Palace Open Today” in bright red and gold letters with a purple crown over “Stan’s”.

Finally, finally I saw the sign soon enough not to drive past the one way street. I found parking in front of a line of overflowing garbage cans. It wasn’t garbage day so why not? I walked past the reeking trash, down the cracked sidewalk that led to the side door with no window. “Stan’s” was hand painted at the top. A white paper sign, curled at the edges, with yellowed cellophane tape on the sides, stated – “Open from 10 AM to 5 PM”.

There was no telling what lie behind that door. The only hint that many people frequented the place was the brownish film of a hundred fingerprints around the knob. My sleeve wasn’t long enough to wrap around the oversized knob so it was my turn to add to the annointing.

I opened the door and stepped into Stan’s palace. Purple and gold striped wall paper closed in around me. A shelf with castle turrets displayed baskets of napkins, packets of ketchup and plastic forks and knives. The air was heavy with beefy steam and pungent onions with the warm undercurrent of baking bread.

The palace theme carried into the thickly painted wood chairs with poofy purple seat cushions. A man with his back to the door sat at one of the two small black iron tables. The sound of his lips smacking and jaws chewing and a satisfied “mmmm” made me look away. A plexiglass wall separated the cramped dining area with the kitchen. But the view was blocked by floor to ceiling  giant sized pictures of the ordering options.

There was the “Simple Page” sandwich, just roast beef and bread, no gravy, no onions, no fries. There was the “Princely” sandwich, half a roast beef sandwich, light on the gravy with American cheese in a blue paper dish. Alongside the “Princely” was the “Princess” sandwich, half a roast beef sandwich, light on the gravy with American cheese in a pink paper dish. At eye level, central to all the photos was the giant sized “Stan’s Favorite”of roast beef, grilled onions, double provolone cheese, smashed into a cut hero roll and doused with a ladle of brown gravy. I stared at it, mesmerized. It seemed to pulse. The Princely, Page, and Princess, started to twirl and spin around Stan’s Favorite. My heart started to beat in time with the pulsing photo. I heard myself whispering “Stan’s Favorite, Stan’s Favorite, Stan’s Favorite”. There was no escaping until someone said.

“Can I take your order ma’am?” His name tag said, “William”. Why did I expect it to be Stan?

“Stan’s Favorite,” I said just a little louder than a whisper. I’m not sure I meant to order that particular sandwich. The plan was to order a kid’s sized plate and test it out. I mean, the place didn’t sell me with the gritty feel of the floor under my feet. The tired looking placemats on the table with faded castles printed over them. At the register, I could see over William’s shoulder and glimpse the kitchen. A vat of bubbling something steamed on a stove. A cutting board with a hunk of meat seeping juices was being manhandled with a knife by a guy in whites that were anything but white. At least he had a cap on. Pans of mini loaves puffed and ready to bake perched at the edge of a counter. Did I need to see more? Where was their Board of Health certificate?

Why was I doing this again? Some sentimental thought that I should support small businesses in town had overtaken me. Or maybe it was the hope that springs eternal that the uglier the place, the better the food. How could I not find out if the world’s best roast beef sandwich wasn’t in my town? All I had to do was be willing to venture down a dark alley, through a sketchy door.

Eighteen dollars. That’s what it cost me for Stan’s Favorite with fries and a soda. I must have been crazy.

“It’ll be ten minutes,” William said.

I turned and considered if waiting outside was a good idea. The man at the table looked up.

“Oh, Hi,” he said as though I invited myself into his house. It was a small space. My standing there did seem as though maybe I was joining him.

“Take a seat. Do you come here often?”

A cliché question but he wasn’t saying a line. “No,” I answered. “My first time.”

“My first time too. I got the “King’s Ransom”. Double beef, double onions, double American cheese and fries smothered in gravy.”

“Nice,” I said still standing.

“No, really, please sit down.”

“I don’t want to disturb your eating. It’s kind of hard to eat that kind of sandwich in front of a stranger.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I’m not shy.”

Apparently. However I am shy or maybe it’s that I prefer to be selective about who I open myself up to. But I did have to wait and it was safer to sit inside than outside in the alley. I sat down.

“I’m Gary by the way.” He licked his fingers of gravy. “I’ve been living here for twenty years. How about you?”

“Nine.”

“Once I lived in the Bahamas.”

“Really?”

He told a story of how his father worked for a company that needed a manager for two years to oversee moving the company’s assets back to the States. They lived in a government leased house on top of a hill overlooking the beach. He described their life, his brothers and sisters, the ocean right at their feet.

“That’s an interesting story,” I said. “You could write a book.”

“Oh, I have written a book,” he laughed. “With my daughter. It started in third grade.” He went on to describe how he and his daughter wrote chapters in a continuing book based on the things that happened in their lives. When mice trashed the pantry, the story was about a family of mice that ate too much and became so fat they couldn’t run from the cat. When his daughter’s best friend moved away, the story was about a girl who had a flying carpet and could visit anyone she wanted. As he spoke, I saw a little girl curled up next to her father with a notepad and a pencil writing down what would be in the next tale. Her smiling face looking up at him as he says “yes, yes, that’s good!”

I didn’t notice the gravy dripping down his chin, or how he crumpled the same pile of napkins in his hand. How he chomped on fries and slurped down soda between bites. The story carried me away.

Was it my imagination that was so good or his openness to just pour out a piece of his life that created the magic?

I don’t know. But something I do know, it is a gift to meet a random person, share a little, cross paths. Sometimes you have to venture out of normal. You may head in one direction and arrive in another.

Get out there and listen to some stories.

I know you’re dying to know, was the sandwich worth it?

It was good, not eighteen dollars good, but Stan can hold his head up when he puts out the sign: “Open Today”.

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This story is part fiction. Names and details have been altered but the heart of it is entirely true.

May you have the pleasure of meeting someone new today! It could enrich your life. Have a great day. Clare