Derek had never been much of a sandwich guy. It wasn’t that he disliked them—he could appreciate a decent turkey and Swiss when the occasion called for it—but Jeff spoke about La Famiglia Delicatessen with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious experiences.

“They make the best sandwiches in the world,” Jeff had insisted, dragging Derek down a narrow side street. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had one.”

“It’s just a sandwich,” Derek had replied, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets.

Jeff stopped in his tracks. He turned, looking at Derek like he had just insulted his mother. “It is not just a sandwich.”

Derek sighed. He’d heard this before. Jeff had discovered La Famiglia a year ago and had been singing its praises ever since. He claimed the place wasn’t just a deli—it was a rite of passage. He had even gone so far as to tell Derek that, as his best friend, it was his duty to bring him here and guide him into the light. Now, standing outside a small brick storefront with a fogged-up window and an old wooden sign hanging above the door, Derek felt… underwhelmed.

“This is it?” he asked.

Jeff grinned, opening the door. “Trust me.”

A bell jingled overhead as they stepped inside. The scent hit Derek immediately—freshly baked bread, cured meats, sharp provolone, and a faint trace of balsamic vinegar. The space was small, with checkered tile floors and a long glass deli counter displaying neatly stacked meats and cheeses.

Behind the counter stood a single man. Stocky, arms crossed, with slicked-back dark hair and a thick mustache, he looked at them the moment they entered, his expression a strange mixture of curiosity and judgment. It was like he had been expecting them. Then, suddenly, his face lit up.

"Heyyy, Jeffy, ya son of a gun!" the man bellowed, throwing his hands up in a grand, theatrical motion.

Jeff grinned. "Tony! Been too long!".

"Too long!" Tony agreed, shaking his head. "Last time I seen you, you was wearin’ dat stupid shirt wit' da pineapples. I says to Gina, I says—‘Who dis kid think he is? A tropical accountant?’"

Derek frowned. "A… what?"

"Don’t worry about it," Jeff whispered.

Tony turned his attention to Derek, "And who’s dis guy?"

"Oh, this is Derek. First time here."

Tony’s entire body stilled. His eyebrows shot up, and he pressed both palms flat against the counter, staring at Derek like he'd just been told the Pope himself was visiting.

"A first-timer?" His voice carried a weight that made Derek feel strangely self-conscious. "Ayy! This is beautiful!"

Before Derek could respond, the kitchen door swung open, and another man stepped out. This one was taller, lankier, with a sharper nose and an even thicker mustache. His hands were already moving before he even assessed the situation, slicing through the air like he was mid-debate.

"What’s goin’ on out here? I hear excitement!"

"Tony!" the first Tony said, voice nearly trembling with joy. "We got a first-timer!"

The second Tony’s eyes widened. "No!"

"Yes!"

The second Tony stepped forward eagerly, clapping his hands together. "Oh-ho-ho! What a day this is!" He placed a firm hand on Derek’s shoulder, shaking his head as though he were looking at a newborn baby. "Do you even understand what’s about to happen to you?"

Derek did not.

The kitchen door swung open again.

A third Tony emerged.

This one was bigger, broader, bald, with a jaw like a granite slab. He was wiping his hands on a towel as he stepped forward but stopped when he saw the look on the other two Tonys’ faces. His thick eyebrows rose.

"No."

"Yes!" First and Second Tony said in unison.

The third Tony inhaled sharply, setting his towel down with careful reverence, then marched forward with purpose. He seized Derek’s other shoulder, gripping him as though he had just met a long-lost brother. His eyes glistened.

"A first-timer," he whispered. "In our deli."

First Tony was already nodding. "A new soul, Tony. Fresh. Uncorrupted."

Second Tony clasped his hands together. "A blank canvas, waitin’ to be painted."

Third Tony closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened them again, looking Derek straight in the eye. "Kid, you are about to eat the best sandwich of your life. Now what can we get started for ya."

Derek glanced at Jeff, who was grinning like an idiot. "I guess, uh… turkey?"

The deli fell deathly silent.

Then, they erupted.

"TURKEY?!"

First Tony staggered back like he'd been punched in the gut.

Second Tony let out a long, pained groan, clutching his chest.

Third Tony threw a towel over his shoulder and stormed away from the counter, pacing with his hands on his head.

First Tony looked to the ceiling, muttering something in rapid Italian before exhaling sharply. "This kid just said turkey."

"Turkey!" Second Tony repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "Like it’s nothin’! Like we some kinda—some kinda—"

"Airport deli!" Third Tony spat, whipping back around. "Like we one-a those gas station hoagie places!"

Derek felt himself shrinking. "I… I mean, it’s just—"

"Just turkey?" First Tony nearly collapsed against the counter. "Just turkey? Kid, I wouldn’t serve just turkey to my worst enemy!"

"He needs help," Second Tony whispered.

Third Tony clapped his hands together decisively. "No, no. We fix this. We fix this right now."

The other two nodded, the mood instantly shifting from devastation to determination.

"A’right," First Tony said, suddenly businesslike. "We’re makin’ him a Numba 7."

Second Tony grinned, shaking his head in awe. "Ohhhh, da Numba 7."

Third Tony nodded solemnly. "It’s the only way."

They sprang into action.

First Tony grabbed a fresh roll, slicing it open with a quick, confident motion. "Now, this? This is the base. If the bread ain't good, throw the whole sandwich out."

Second Tony was already at work, layering thin slices of soppressata, capicola, and mortadella onto the bread. "See that? That’s art. You don’t just slap the meat on there like an animal. You let it breathe."

Third Tony was already reaching for provolone, setting the slices down with careful precision. "Not too much. You don’t want the cheese fightin’ the meat. They gotta work together."

Derek stood frozen as they moved around him, their hands flying, a blur of efficiency and passion.

"Bit of arugula," First Tony murmured, tossing a few leaves on top. "For a little bite."

"Balsamic drizzle," Second Tony added, applying a thin line across the greens. "Elegance."

"And a little heat," Third Tony said, dropping on a few banana peppers. "Just enough to wake you up."

Seconds later, a sandwich was placed before Derek, wrapped neatly in paper.

Derek hesitated. "Uh… do I just—?"

"Eat," all three Tonys commanded at once.

Derek picked it up and carefully took a bite.

His eyes widened. The flavors hit all at once—salty, sweet, tangy, just enough crunch from the greens, the bread soft but sturdy enough to hold everything together. It was perfect.

Derek stared at the sandwich, then at them. "I… I think I get it now."

First Tony leaned in. "Now. What do ya taste?"

Derek swallowed. "Not turkey."

The Tonys cheered.

Derek took another bite, a slow realization settling over him.

He could never order a sandwich from anywhere else ever again.