Every day someone would walk behind the counter of the neighborhood coffee shop where I worked. Behind the counter and into the kitchen. I would look up, exasperated, with a serrated knife in my hand.

But not this time. This time it was Mike, “Big Mike.” We’re talking about four years ago — he was in his late 30s and spent too much time fixing up motorcycles that never quite worked. He changed jobs as often as he smiled: all the time.

And he was smiling then, towering over me while I sliced cucumbers on a warm, windless afternoon. “What are you making for yourself?” he asked.
“How’d you know it was for me?”
“Because you’re taking your sweet time.” Another disarming, million-dollar smile. “I used to work as a chef’s assistant at an expensive hotel in Del Mar. The head chef, he always told new employees that they could make themselves whatever they wanted on their lunch breaks. Man, that restaurant had everything: fresh organic produce, dozens of fancy cheeses, caviar, all the gourmet shit.”

He went on, shifting into storytelling mode. I peeked around the wall to make sure no one was waiting.

“But this head chef, Dmitri, he always kept his eye on you. When you were finished making yourself that perfect meal, he’d come by and ask for a bite. He’d say, ‘You know, that’s the best thing that you’ve cooked here. Why don’t you cook like that for our guests?’ And he was right. A real artist — whether it’s food or literature or whatever — always creates as if it were for himself.”

By the time Big Mike finished his story, I had finished making my sandwich: Seeded multigrain bread toasted lightly, covered with a thick spread of homemade hummus, thinly sliced turkey, roasted red bell peppers, sharp white cheddar, and slivers of cucumber. I handed it to Big Mike, “Here you go, boss, on the house.” (I’m sure this was his plan from the beginning.)

From that day forward, whenever Mike ordered food, he’d ask for: “Whatever you made yourself last.” It was the least I could do, a token of gratitude for a life lesson.

As my career advanced, I spent less time writing and more time editing the work of others. The efficiency of carelessness was tempting. But then I thought of Big Mike and the conscientious creativity of a perfect sandwich.