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" Europe was for kids with trust funds. Midwesterners took the Amtrak to France Lite: Montreal. The Quebecois women treated me like a Fr\u00E8re Jacques-ass. Most nights ended at the counter at Bens (no apostrophe), a nicotine-tinged shrine to the local delicacy -- viande fum\u00E9e, pastrami with a five-minute penalty for high-sticking. My last morning, I ordered takeout and grabbed a souvenir matchbook. I saw her at Windsor Station. Tall and blond with a modeling portfolio under her arm, she stood across the platform and out of my league. Later, in the smoking car (this was a long time ago), she was tapping a Black Cat cigarette, fumbling for her lighter. I offered the matchbook. &amp;quot;Ah, Bens,&amp;quot; she said. I closed the deal with the sandwich in my duffel. She may have been lissome as a lily, but the girl chowed like a hockey goalie. I followed her all the way to New York City. I made it home to the Midwest, eventually. Bens is gone now, and so is she, but I found that matchbook the other day -- with one match missing. It couldn&amp;#039;t have lasted: She was a ten with everything, and I was a six, hold the pickle.  Related Stories:\u2022 The Sandwich Materials \u2022 The Sandwich Glossary \u2022 This Man Has Never Eaten a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich \u2022 The Sandwich Feud \u2022 The Noonie&amp;#039;s Girl \u2022 Egg-Sandwich Moments \u2022 The Bimbo Sandwich \u2022 The Grousewich \u2022 The Elliot Gould, Stage Delicatessen, New York \u2022 A Year Without Sandwiches "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/food-drink/a4219/one-night-sandwich-0308/>