My wife and I came upon an urban food court in search of a good lunch sandwich, but it seemed as if we were too late. Most of the stalls and kiosks were either closed entirely or in the last stages of clean-up. Then, out of view, a loud voice shouted “fresh cold cut platters, ready to go”. Astonished, we looked at one another, recognizing the voice but hardly believing our ears.
A few steps forward, and our suspicions were confirmed: it was Bruce Springsteen, wearing a blood-splattered apron and proudly displaying a generous sampling of cold cuts laid out on aluminum trays. It wasn’t a doppelganger, mind you — it was The Boss, selling salami, prosciutto and provolone wrapped in cellophane. I bought everything he had.
A confession: I don’t care for Springsteen’s music, but we were both very hungry.