The Maltese Ftira

Ah, Mr. Spade. Have a drink, won’t you? Sit down, sir, sit down.

By gad, what a character! You amuse me, sir. I don’t mind telling you that I enjoy being amused. Very clever sir, indeed very clever, that would be a funny way to spell falcon. Yes there was an incident with a falcon, but I no longer concern myself with such things, no, such frivolities are behind me now. I must tell you sir that I am after a far greater treasure from those fair isles of Malta, and one far more suited to my, heh, my proclivities you might say. I am speaking, sir, of a sandwich.

Are you an abstemious man? No? Better and better. I distrust a man who doesn’t like to indulge in the finer things in life; one wonders about his motivations, eh? Now, sir, we’ll make sandwiches, and I’ll tell you right out that I’m a man who likes eating sandwiches with a man who likes eating sandwiches.

Yes, it’s true, in parts of Malta they use the word ftira to describe some sort of pizza. I’m sure it’s a fine thing, they’re wonderful people you know, but simple, and too many words confuse them. The ftira I’m talking about refers rather to a type of wide round bread with a hole in the middle, and the sandwiches made with that bread. Pizza is a fine thing, yes, a fine thing, but I, sir, am a sandwich man.

Yes, as you say, that’s a lot of dough. Perhaps a bit too springy, eh, the holes are not maintaining their shape very well, but once they’re baked they’ll make a wonderful bread, quite attractive and delicious, with or without the signature hole in the middle.

There now, you see? Any man would be proud to have a sandwich made with such bread, but today you and I will be the recipients of this bounty. A bounty made all the more appetizing by the addition of this terribly expensive imported olive oil. Have you any conception of how much money a man must pay for such a thing?

Well, sir, if I told you, if I told you half, you’d call me a liar. Or an idiot. It is necessary though, quite necessary! We mustn’t go half-measures in this pursuit; I do not trust a man who would say otherwise. Another drink? Good, good.

As for the tomato paste, the canny inhabitants of Malta have the most marvelous product, yes, quite delicious, but they greedily keep it all to themselves. Sadly, we must make do with the finest I can acquire domestically.

We dare not skimp on the tuna though, I must say. I’ve acquired, at some expense, some high quality canned tuna imported from Malta’s neighbors to the north.

Now sir, let’s raid the larder, shall we? Here now, some sweet red onion, tomatoes, yellow and red, some delightful black olives, and we must not forget the capers.

Here they are, all finely diced, now you just mix those together with that tuna while I…

Ah no, you misunderstand me sir, this is merely a bread knife, I only meant to cut open this marvelous ftira bread so we could begin the assembly, if you understand me.

Think nothing of it! You are a character, if you don’t mind me saying so. Now attend closely, as we close in on our prize. The bread must be spread with tomato paste and liberally dosed, yes, positively inundated with some of this exquisite olive oil.

Now, sir, we add our tuna admixture and perhaps a garnish? This calls for the most delicate judgement, shall we say a leaf or two of an attractive red lettuce?

There, now. I’ll assemble our treasure. Voila!

It seems as though you might be a little sleepy though, eh? Oh, you are headstrong, don’t hurt yourself sir! I must say, now that I’ve seen my prize, now that I’ve cut it open and sampled it–how fruity the olive oil! How rich the tomato paste! How refreshing the tuna and vegetables! Well, I simply cannot bring myself to share. A man must look out for himself; I do not trust any man who says he does not.

Wilmer! Mr. Spade has become… indisposed. Kindly take care of him, that’s a good boy.

Jim Behymer

I like sandwiches.

I like a lot of other things too but sandwiches are pretty great