If you have never had a real Cuban sandwich, you have missed one of the great pleasures of life.  I am not talking about a Cuban sandwich from a sandwich shop that offers four-dozen different kinds of sandwiches.  I am talking about a genuine Cuban sandwich made with Cuban bread, pulled pork, ham, Swiss cheese, mustard, pickles, sometimes salami, and if you are in a really good sandwich place, mayonnaise.  

For those of you not sophisticated enough to know the background, the Cuban sandwich originated in Tampa.  Miami claims the Cuban sandwich originated there, but this is a lie.  There were Cubans in Tampa in the late 1800s, before Miami even existed.  They came to make cigars.  Tampa was “Cigar City.”  There were large brick factories where workers rolled out cigars and little shops where expensive cigars were rolled.  The Cuban sandwich was the perfect lunch for a busy factory worker. 

Cuban bread may look like French or Italian loaf, but it is deliciously different.  The dough has a generous helping of lard (yes, there is still such a thing as lard) and is stretched out.  A moist palm frond is laid on top, creating a shallow trough.  The crust is crispy, the inside moist and flakey.  Most fake Cuban sandwiches are made with French bread, which is like trying to paint the Sistine Chapel with a water-color set from Dollar General. 

A real Cuban sandwich is pressed, like a panini.  This causes the cheese to melt, the meat to heat, and the bread to bond.  The sandwich is best eaten warm. 

The best Cuban sandwich I ever had was in Ybor City, Tampa.  Ybor City is the Cuban/Italian section of Tampa.  There was a hole-in-the-wall café on Seventh Street that my step-father knew about called “The Sliver Ring.”  The men who worked there spoke little English but knew how to ask, “Half or Whole?” Whole.  Always whole.  We stopped there whenever we were in Tampa and get a sandwich, chips, and a six-ounce bottle of ice-cold Coke.   

The second-best Cuban sandwich I ever had was from La Segunda Bakery in Tampa.  Operated by the same family for four generations, they bake Cuban bread for many of the restaurants in Tampa and serve great Cuban sandwiches.   

On a recent visit to Florida, we took my son, daughter-in-law, and the most amazing grandson in the world to the Tampa Airport for their trip back to North Carolina.  Then it was time for us to head home.  Normally I ask my wife where she would like to eat, but this time I did not give her the choice.  “Let’s get a Cuban sandwich from La Segunda.”  She loves me and humors my eccentricities.  La Segunda is not a fancy place; there is a door, a line, and a counter.  The lady running the register did not have English as her first language, and we had a little trouble communicating my order: “A large hot Cuban, a small hot Cuban, chips, and two drinks.”  I wanted to order a guava circle (which will turn you into a diabetic), but I held back.  One Cuban sandwich would be more than enough to fill me up. 

I got my bag, and we got on the road.  Somehow, there was a mix-up.  They gave us not two but three Cuban sandwiches.  An extra Cuban sandwich was a blessing from God, a sign of grace.   

We were in a line of cars about to get on the interstate.  On my side, there was a man, kind of rough looking, walking down the line of cars.  He held a cardboard sign that read: “Homeless, Hungry.” 

I never know quite what to do when I see folks like this.  I know some are genuinely needy.  I know some are trying to scam you.  I never know if the money I give goes for food or for booze.  My confusion troubles me because Jesus said whenever I see someone hungry and I feed them, I am feeding him.  I pray about this for God’s guidance about what to do. 

I shared my discomfort with my wife.  She was thoughtful, then as the man passed my window, she said, “Give him the extra Cuban sandwich.”   

Give him my special blessing?  Give him the Cuban sandwich, made with genuine Cuban bread, that I planned to take back to South Carolina and savor?  Really? 

I would like to tell you I rolled down my window and called the man back to give him the Cuban sandwich.  But in my seconds of indecision, the light turned green, traffic began to move, and I had to move with it.  My opportunity to give was gone.  Now the Cuban sandwich sits in my refrigerator, slowly drying up.  I feel like it is not mine to eat; it is a reminder of my greed.  I who already had a Cuban sandwich wanted to hoard a Cuban sandwich I did not pay for, which I did not need, and which could have met a need. 

The lesson of this story is simple: Say “yes” to giving before the opportunity comes.  Who knows, you might end up feeding Jesus a good Cuban sandwich.