Page 49 of Tito

“Why?”

“Because,” I said. “The Reuben wasn’t invented in New York.”

“Why didn’t you correct him?”

“I used to correct people all the time,” I admitted. “It makes me seem pretentious. I’m trying to keep my mouth shut.”

He chuckled. “I have the same problem.”

“With what?”

“Correcting people.”

“Oh really?”

He nodded. “Keeping my mouth shut isn’t easy, either.”

“Do you know where the Reuben was invented?” I asked.

“I do.”

I took a drink of water and studied him. His mouth was twisted into a smirk.

“I don’t believe you,” I said.

“What’s it worth if I give the right answer.” he asked.

“A third date,” I responded.

“Arnold Reuben had a sandwich shop on East 54th Street in New York City.” He rested his forearms on the edge of the table, leaned forward, and locked eyes with me. “He claims to have invented the sandwich in 1941. Coleslaw, ham, turkey, and mustard were his ingredients. Definitely not a Reuben. But, in Omaha, Nebraska, in 1934, the menu at the Blackstone Hotel included a Reuben on the menu. A cook named Bernard allegedly made the first sandwich for a poker player named Reuben. Its ingredients? Pastrami, rye bread, Russian dressing, sauerkraut, and swiss cheese. Therefore, Bernard Schimmel was the inventor of the much-loved sandwich, and he assembled the first one in the coffeeshop of the Blackstone Hotel in Omaha, Nebraska.”

He was right. My jaw hit my lap.

I stared at him in disbelief. What biker knew the truth about the Reuben sandwich? Other than me and the granddaughter of the inventor, what person knew the truth about the Reuben? Until that moment, I thought the only living creature who had a mind stockpiled with a mountain of useless information was me.

Apparently, I was wrong.

“Wow. I’ll uhhm,” I stammered. “I’ll let you pick the restaurant on the third date.”

He leaned away from the table and looked me over. His mouth curled into a grin. “Looking forward to it.”

His smile wasn’t smug. It was almost apologetic. I wondered if for some weird reason he knew about Reuben sandwiches and not much of anything else. The odds of that were staggering but it was a possibility, nonetheless.

“Are you a sandwich aficionado?” I asked.

“Not so much, no.”

I was perplexed. “How did you know that?”

“I don’t know,” he said dismissively. “Probably just read it somewhere.”

I desperately wanted him to be the holy grail. A badass biker on the outside, and a nerd’s nerd on the inside. A man who could fight his way out of a barroom brawl, drive home covered in the blood of others, and then watch Jeopardy! after he took a shower.

I slipped my hand under the table and crossed my fingers. “When was the Sistine Chapel built?”

He reached for his water. After taking a drink, he let out a light sigh. “1479.”

My heart raced. “Who painted the ceiling, and when?”