Before I start telling y’all this story I need to make a disclaimer and it needs to be done fast. This post is by no means intended as a slam piece. My original intent was to sit down with the chef who created this concoction and get into his head as to why and how he decided to do what he did. Ideally the discussion would then open up some insights into Finnish society as a whole. Because that’s how my brain works, I hear or read something I need to investigate then go down a rabbit hole of mazes and adventures in which each turn supplies me with a story. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. So I decided to have fun with it, and turn it into a piece or narrative (non-)fiction, alluding to a writer who becomes the cliche of all cliches when certain themes around Finland are brought up,

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The Po’boy as anyone who’s ever eaten one will know, is essentially a working man’s lunch slapped between two slices of Louisiana French bread, named after the very people who could barely afford it. Like denims (and so many other things) it came to be a cherished specialty in many parts of the world. Like denims too, it became something bigger. In accordance with the latest food trends, this poor sandwich too received the foodie treatment and was elevated to something that were it to be served up back when it was invented, the governor of Louisiana could easily shell out for but not a working man eager to fill his stomach with the one meal he could empty his pockets for on the day. 

And so it arrived on my plate on a rather sunny afternoon with your humble narrator of this story sitting in a much cherished place, eager to dig in (also because I really do miss French bread), when what came out on a plate had no bearing on anything I had ever seen in association with its name. Now I’m all for a good adaptation, whether it’s music or food or anything else in between (or aside). Ever since I complained about Bono’s and The Corr’s cover of Summer Wine to a musician friend of mine for it being too removed from the original, and my friend set me right by telling me “but that’s what a cover should be, making it your own,” I took it to heart and looked at things from that angle, especially covers. But this was no Bono and the Corrs cover of Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra’s Summer Wine, this was essentially Summer Wind, something that maybe sounded similar to the untrained ear, but had no bearing in any way, shape or form on the original. Or as someone close to my heart – who would never utter a bad word against someone unless they absolutely had to – put it, “Jesus no! This is a toast. A toast with meat and some greens.” 

The Po’boy did not arrive between two slices of Louisiana French bread or a Finnish interpretation of a baguette. It arrived as part of a compilation that meshed some pork (-that-wasn’t-quite-spam) with A Lot Of Mayo on a leaf of lettuce with two slices of tomatoes over three slices of toast tastefully exhibited as some Leaning Tower of Pisa concoction on a plate. Except for the artsy arrangement it reminded me of the time a childhood friend in Germany said there would be burgers at her party, which turned out to be meat patties that couldn’t quite decide whether they were meat balls or patties on one slice of toast with a leaf of lettuce.  

I felt I needed to right the wrongs here, or at the very least get to the bottom of this situation.  I knew one of the cooks in the kitchen in that he most likely wouldn’t remember my name but knew what I looked like and we had bantered. I had once greeted him with the words, “eh, it was a solid effort. Better luck next time,” as he came out of the kitchen, even though the food had been decent, which garnered the sought after laugh. So I was hoping for a repeat. As luck would have it my friend was working behind the bar. My kitchen acquaintance however was not present. 

This put a wrench in my plans, as the joke could now not move forward with the intended punch, or for that matter, any punch. But I was willing to try. Because nothing is worse than a joke that couldn’t be executed with its proper intent.*

A new idea was thus born. In it I would send an email to the kitchen staff and ask them for a few minutes of their time to discuss the idea behind the day’s main feature on the lunch menu. It was an email written from the heart, in which I laid bare my soul on a platter as cerulean blue as the plate on which my sandwich had been presented, speaking of my desire to use the article to change my somber outlook on the place we all called home, although some of us more than others. 

As this was a slow day, I counted on one of the cooks coming out to tell my friend of this really strange email they had just received. At which point I would swivel around in my chair, look the the cook in the eye and say, “about that . . . ” as I extended my hand to introduce myself. I knew at least one person in this establishment who would have howled at the joke (and would have gotten back at me later).

Alas, it was not to be. The email lay unclaimed, unopened. They did not, as it transpired, see any need to reply as their needs had been met and therefore their jobs had been done. They had produced the food they were told to a public (largely) unfamiliar with the concept, and had once again maintained the reputation of the place they were working at.

*There are of course many things that are far worse, but this is a lighthearted post that is being written with my tongue very firmly in my cheek. 

There really isn’t any other song to go with this post. It has been one of my all time favorite songs from the very first time I heard it, and so far I have loved every single cover that I heard. To be perfectly fair, I have deliberately avoided the few covers I know will evoke instant dislike mainly because of the performers (some songs really don’t sound good in German). I have yet to learn to separate the artist from their work, but in all honesty, given how my instincts have kept me from horrible people and situations, I for now at least I’m not exactly willing to give up on that. Meaning, if anything in my gut tells me that you are not a good person, I do not want to even go near your work on a level in which I give, but am fine with analytical deep dives into that individual’s work.