Nevertheless, as he entered the deli, a man behind the counter dressed in an aggressive turban and an overlarge mustache eyed him suspiciously. Edgar paused to catch the door from slamming behind him, and took in the scene. Tables and chairs, a glass counter displaying meets, and behind all that, a kitchen receding into the darkness. Edgar didn't want any trouble, so he removed his sunglasses, blinked in the sudden brightness, and placed his glasses in his outer pocket, being very careful not to reach into his jacket.

The man behind the counter continued to eye him suspiciously, with a nearly-imperceptible snarl curled on his lips. But Edgar had heard good things about this place from people he'd worked with before, or, to be precise, overheard good things. He walked towards the counter slowly, carefully, appearing to read the menu above, even though he already knew what he wanted.

The man behind the counter wiped a single line of sweat from his forehead, with his ring finger, his right hand, from left to right. Then he blinked twice and touched his chin. "Welcome to Falafel's Deli. How can I help you today." As an afterthought, he added "Sir."

Edgar smiled. He placed an index finger at the bridge of his nose, as if adjusting a pair of glasses there, but since there were no glasses, he ran the finger down to the tip of his nose, tapped it twice, then put his hand to his side. "I'm told the pastrami is divine."

The man behind the counter stared at Edgar, his eyes wide. Then his eyes became slits. "Yes it is. I recommend it on the rye."

Edgar nodded, and looked around him. They were the only two people in the establishment. "And is the rye fresh?"

The man behind the counter leaned forward. "I baked it just this morning."

Edgar leaned forward "Then I'll have the pastrami on rye."

The man leaned a little more forward, and said, almost in a whisper, "And would you like mustard on that?"

Edgar leaned more forward too, and in an actual whisper, said "Yes. Yes I would." Then he looked around again, then said "And Swiss cheese."

Suddenly the man behind the counter stood back, eyes wide again. "Swiss cheese?" He said, his lower lip trembling.

Edgar set his mouth in a firm line. "Yes. Swiss. Cheese."

The man behind the counter put his hand up to his aggressive turban, as if to adjust it, but it was sitting perfectly. He shouted "Swiss cheese!"

Edgar took a step back.

A boy ran in from the darkened recesses of the kitchen, holding a long tube. He all but hurled it at the man, then ran away again, shrieking laughter. The man placed the tube on the counter, whipped out an amazingly sharp knife, and began to slice the cheese.

Edgar smiled. "Is the cheese fresh as well?"

The man smiled sourly.

"Did you make it yourself this morning"

The man smiled sourly.

Edgar turned and found an empty seat amongst all the empty seats, against the wall, one eye on the man behind the counter, one eye on the door.

The man behind the counter sliced up the cheese and placed it on a tray, stuck a toothpick with a flag that said "Swiss" on it into the cheese, then placed all of it beneath the counter. He took two of the slices, which were enormous, as well as several folds of succulent pastrami. These he placed on a side counter. He grabbed a loaf of bread from a shelf, pulled it from a bag, and sliced two slices from it with surgical precision. He grabbed up a bottle of something yellow and potent-looking, squirted mustard on the bread. "Tomato!" he shouted.

"No!" Edgar shouted back.

"Lettuce!" the man behind the counter shouted.

"No thank you!" Edgar shouted.

"Onions, sir!"

"N-" Edgar began to shout, then stood up. He thought about it. His eyes were slits. His jaw was set. He glared at the man behind the counter. The man was frozen, his face a rictus. Not a muscle twitched. Not a hair on his powerful mustache moved. Finally, Edgar sat down again. "Yes, that would be nice. Thank you."

The behind the counter reached into a bin, pulled out some sliced onion, placed them on the bread. Placed the folds of pastrami on the bread. Placed the cheese on the bread. Place the other piece of bread on the bread. Placed all of it on a plate. Walked over towards the register without giving the sandwich a second glance.

Edgar stood up once more and also walked towards the register. With practiced nonchalance, he pulled his wallet from his rear pocket. He fingered some bills.

"Seven-fifty," said the man behind the counter.

"Seven-fifty?" Edgar Blonde replied.

"Yes. Sir," said the man behind the counter.

Edgar chuckled. "This better be a damned good sandwich."

They both laughed uproariously.