**The elaborate sandwich filling maketh the man (Short List article by Danny Wallace)

I am standing on the high street as the drizzle soaks through my jacket on a dull grey Wednesday afternoon and I am staring - bewildered and alone - into the middle distance. I have just taken a bite of the finest sandwich I've ever tasted; perhaps, even the finest ever made.

"There was lettuce involved," I tell my friend Colin later, my wild eyes shining as I relive it. "And some kind of...sauce."

Colin looks amazed. Later, I am sure, his amazement will turn to jealousy. But for now, we are just two men talking about an incredible sandwich. I had been in the queue at Subway when it had happened. Usually, like millions of other dull, unimaginative men, I would order a Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sub. It is what I normally do. It is safe. Trusted. I know where I am with that, and it's usually just outside Subway with sauce down my top and a piece of tomato on my shoe. But not today, my friends. Oh no. Today was different.

I'd been in a hurry. I had a train to catch. Things to do. And the queue was slow. In front of me, a man in a leather jacket was taking his time. Not for him the simplicity of choosing a predesigned sandwich, no. He was going off-menu. Improvising a new and elaborate creation. He was a lunchtime maverick, operating outside the boundaries, like a law unto himself. He selected his ingredients, mixed and matched, chose the perfect bread and the right sauce. He added a little cheese, I think, and certainly a smattering of jalapenos. He asked for some salt and pepper, requested it not be toasted and made the server take out some of the lettuce because it was "just too much".

At first, I was annoyed: "Who is this clown? Who does he think he is, laughing in the face of sandwich convention? Why does he not simply order a Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sandwich like the rest of us?" But I maintained my dignified silence. Soon he would be finished and I would finally be able to order my drab and soulless lunch.

"Ah, hang on," I suddenly heard him say. "That's not what I asked for - I asked for the six-incher. Not the whole sub. I told you that."

There was a slight harrumph from the server, who muttered something about not being told to stop, and a sigh was passed down the queue as we realised our wait would be extended by a few more seconds. I looked at my watch. And I thought of my train. And I suddenly said, "Look, I'll have the other half. I don't mind. I just want to get out of here."

The man smiled and said, "Are you sure?" I nodded graciously but with eyes closed to indicate that this was an extraordinary gesture on my part. He left with his six-incher, I watched him head into M&S and then I paid for mine and hurried along the street towards the Tube. And it was there, on the high street, that I took my first bite.

"It was a taste sensation," I tell Colin. "Light without being frivolous. Substantial without being overbearing. It was a thing of such beauty that words cannot do it justice."

"Who was he?" asks Colin. "Who was this man?"

"Who knows?" I say. "But, oh, what taste he has! He probably drives a classic Jag and drinks freshly brewed coffee on his Eames chair while his supermodel girlfriend naps on the Chesterfield! He probably has a favourite red wine! I bet he uses moisturiser and summers in Italy!"

"Definitely!" says Colin, wide-eyed. "If his Subway sandwich is anything to go by!"

In that moment, I wanted to be that man. A plan formed in my head: I would hang around in Subway all day from now on and, when he eventually walked in, I'd follow him round constantly. Into out-of-the-way, cool little cafes that I'd never have found, or designer boutiques that I never knew existed. And I would buy exactly what he did. I would trail him in the supermarket, picking up pasta sauces I'd never tried because I always had Dolmio, or cocoa beans from the Andes I'd never tried because I always bought a Twix. I would be this man's copycat, and he my guru. It would work. It had to. Because that sandwich was bloody incredible.

"Imagine the museums I'll go to!" I say to Colin. "Imagine the people I'll meet! The things I'll see!"

"And you're sure this bloke won't mind you following him around all the time?"

"He'll never know! And if he does, I'm sure that we will become great friends. He will see in me a soul mate to mentor. We will be united by exquisite taste."

"We should go to Subway," says Colin, suddenly. "Maybe you can recreate that sandwich!" I laugh, and shake my head. Poor, simple Colin. If only life were that easy, I think. Alas, it is not.

For a few days, I think about the man in Subway. And then, one day, a week or so later, I spot him again, striding down the street with a Starbucks panini in his hand.

And my heart stops. He is wearing the worst trousers I have ever seen: bright red slacks with stupid pockets. The sort of trousers you'd buy in M&S on a dull and grey Wednesday afternoon after you've just been all picky in Subway. I am shattered.

Later that week, I return to Subway.
I wait quietly, and then say, "Chicken Teriyaki please."