Chinese food again?

A common whine which escaped my lips during the weeks we were in China.  We ate deliciously; a surfeit ranging from common street skewers to the fanciest Cantonese joint in Beijing.  The Chinese style of ordering and corresponding prices could not have better suited me and my life partner.  Ed, of "for the table" fame, could order surplus dishes as fast as he could point to them on other people's tables.  And when the bill came, it almost never topped $5 US, so I didn't feel like we were letting precious travelling Yuan languish in oily plates of excess.

But there comes a time when the thought of another Schezuan peppercorn laden sizzler or bamboo steamer of perfect pork pillows looses appeal.  This time for me came in Shenyang, where the shopping street we near housed such an abundance of fast food restaurants that I forgot I was in China.  Had there been an Orange Julius in my sight line, I could have been in the food court at the Trumbull mall.  Every night, as we left the hotel for dinner, I would jokingly beg Ed to take me to Pizza Hut.  And every night he would grudgingly agree.  I would, of course, back down.  I didn't actually want the nasty Pizza Hut pizza but just, in those moments of weakness, really looovvveeeedddd the platonic idea of the Pizza Hut. 

What I actually did crave and continue to wake thinking of, though, are sandwiches.  From delis, or home made, or the chicken/mayo/hardroll bodega monstrosity that I've subjected many of you to.  A BLT or a PB&J, even, might cure the near-fetishist feelings I harbor. 

My kingdom for a ham & cheese, people.  No fooling.