disco pete

you walk into a sandwich shop. since it’s argentina they serve hamburguesas, milanesa, and lomito completos. as for dimensions this shop is about half the size of your average Subway horrorshow and it’s packed to the gills with hungry patrons. grab a number. get in line. the music starts and it’s loud, like club volume. a string of house music takes over the audio scene and pete, the sole soul behind the counter making sandwiches, well he’s getting into it. hard.

let me describe this man. he’s wearing the most hideous hawaiian shit you’ve ever seen, even worse than the one your uncle cranks out at summer barbeques, and his long curly hair bounces to the beat. his feet shuffle back and forth and from time to time he bites his upper lip, reminscent of every white male in my graduating class. the next track begins, and it’s a real barn-burner. loud. pete’s just flying around back there, Crocs steppin’ this way and that, nose crinkled up, hips pumping madly, all the while applying chimichurri and cuatro queso to a fresh steak sandwich. i’m not gonna lie, it gets you incredibly motivated. you feel more inspired than when watching a musical interlude. so now you’re dancing too, you didn’t even realize that you had started but boy does it feel good. time seems to have stopped altogether, you can’t tell if you’ve been waiting to order for five seconds or seven hours. then, at the speed anything happens, your senses decide it’s time to ruthlessly kick back in, making it incredibly clear that half the establishment is looking your way with grins spread across their envious mugs. colour rushes to your cheeks and slowly you stop groovin’. the line slowly thins out in front of you and when it’s time you tell pete that you’d like a lomito completo. a complete steak sandwich. he makes it, as described, and it’s the best food you’ve ever tasted. since then you’ve gone back to Disco Pete’s three times, and each time you find yourself asking, why can’t all dining experiences be this enjoyable?