Summer Of Sandwich: Jaws & Curried Chicken Salad Wraps

You're gonna need a bigger tortilla!

Being a Long Islander means you hold within you certian truths. You say “on line” rather than “in line”. You have a soft spot for Keith Hernandez’s mustache circa 1986, even if you are not a sports fan. No matter how hard you have tried to talk like a normal person, you will end up saying “Oh my gawd, your dawg is so cute”, after two glasses of wine, and you have a personal attachment to the movie Jaws, because everyone on Long Island knows that Amity is in fact, Montauk. You see folks, before Montauk became overrun with finance bros smashing $175 lobster Cobb salads to the dome, it was a quirky, quaint little beach town where working class folks came to take a load off during the summer months.

For all of it’s many achievements, one of Jaws’ finest is how it captures the essence of an east coast summer. You can almost smell the salty air mixed with sunblock lathered skin slowly roasting under the hot sun, and hear local salty dogs telling dirty jokes through one side of their mouth, a chewed on cigar hanging out the other. You can taste the first bite of fresh corn and feel the butter melting down your chin. Turkey sandwiches made by a guy named Chris or John, washed down with big iced teas in styrofoam cups. Fireflies lighting up the sky while hotdogs burn on the grill and “Scenes From An Italian Restaurant” plays softly in the background for a third time. Fireworks. Mint chip. Trashy gossip magazines and Steven King novels with wrinkly, water logged pages. Scratchy motel sheets and mildewy furniture. Happiness. And then with a couple zags of a white fin and a few notes of John Williams’ epic score, the purity of summer— and maybe even life itself— is dragged under the surf.