I had a hankering today for what back East they call grinders, which are essentially submarine sandwiches except they are toasted resulting in crispy, melty goodness. Though I’ve never had a Quizno’s Sub, as far as I understand it they are just grinders with fancy bread.

There just so happens to be a great grinder joint here in Chicago called Eastern Style Pizza, which advertises “East Coast recipes in Chicago.”

After much deliberation, I decided on the Monterey chicken grinder. Before reading the menu description of the sandwich below, please place your protective plastic drool covering on the keyboard now, so as to avoid any salivation-related malfunctions later:

Skinless grilled chicken breast, garlic sauce, sweet cooked peppers, tomato sauce, and melted mozzarella cheese … on large French bread baked till crispy and golden brown in our stone bottom oven.

The Monterey chicken grinder, along with my 32-ounce orange soda, totaled $8.37. I grabbed my Sun-Times and took a seat to wait for my indescribably delicious treat. Having already read the Trib, it didn’t take me more than a few minutes to finish the Sun-Times since it had nothing unique to offer.

I sipped my soda and stared out the window wistfully, anxiously glancing back toward the counter, hoping they’d call out my order soon. Finally, after 15 grueling minutes, the (probably Greek) counter man looked at me and said, “Monterey chicken! You’re up!”

(Incidentally, I know I’m in the right kind of place when I’m referred to by the name of the food I’ve ordered.)

I hopped up and grabbed my grinder, which came wrapped in deli paper on one of those red plastic trays, which was perfectly shaped to accommodate the grinder. I took two eager steps back toward my booth near the window when tragedy struck. It wasn’t as if I had my hands full. I wasn’t fumbling around with my wallet or a drink. I just fumbled the damn tray.

It came tumbling out of my hands and before I could even think to yell “Noooooooooooo!!!” slow-motion style a la Clint Eastwood in “In the Line of Fire” the whole gooey, sloppy, delicious concoction was on the floor, a totally unredeemable mess.

I picked it up and threw it away. I was too embarrassed to even ask if they might be willing to replace my order at no cost, and moreover I didn’t see the justice of such a request. I certainly didn’t want to wait another 15 minutes. The moment was gone. I grabbed my 32-ounce orange soda, left the Sun-Times, and headed for the truck.

The smell of those freshly sliced tomatoes still haunts me.