I Miss Miss Manners. . .

Several years ago, a friend with a fine palate told me about M&N Sandwich Shop. At the time, it was a hole in the wall just above a head shop near 27th and Randolph. My friend told me the guy who owns the place is a native New Yorker who whips up a mean sandwich.

That was enough for me to stop by.

And the cigarette dangling from the proprietor's face, its half-bent ashes hovering above the prosciutto and Swiss, was reason enough for me to act like I'd left my money in the car. Needless to say, I didn't return.

Until today, that is, lured there by a Groupon coupon from my sis and the appealing notion of eating something other than ham. (We'd gotten one of those snazzy spiral-cut honey hams for Christmas which, four days and fourteen meals ago, really was pretty terrific but had now lost a bit of its shine and was starting to clog me up a bit.)

A fire moved M&N catty corner from its original digs, into a building even more precarious than the first, where it shares the space with a pawn shop, a head shop and a vacuum business. We pulled into the tight back lot, and weaved our way around two crack heads and a half dozen Mormons, all of whom were exiting the unmarked back door.

This could either be a good sign or a bad one, I thought to myself.

Turned out to be the latter.

Underneath a simple sign listing our menu options was a disturbing series of jaundiced, laminated photos of sandwiches, each looking like they'd been made sometime in the 50s, and left to air dry ever since. A few customers sat at two of the tables. Mark and I settled (and I use the word correctly) on a couple of Philly steaks, wondering what had happened to the cold meats and cheeses of the restaurant's former self.

Already, the vibe was less than appealing. And then we set out to pay the tab. Mark presented the Groupon, which the guy grabbed with a mixture of disgust and dismay. Owing a few more bucks on the bill, Mark then presented our debit card.

Apparently, the sign that read "We take cash, checks and credit cards" was a misprint.

Whatever spittle wasn't stuck in his scraggly beard now made its way in our direction as the owner lambasted us for even showing up in his restaurant, taunting us that we must enjoy the idea of him not making a penny.

By the time he'd finished chewing our asses and moved on to busily microwaving our thin-sliced Italian meats, the remaining Mormons sitting at the table across from us looked downright flummoxed, uncertain which of us was in greater need of their prophetic pamphlets.

When we got home, and removed our sandwiches from their styrafoam containers, I half wondered what I'd find between the two slabs of bread. Eyes closed and molars gnashing crazily, I crammed a half of my sandwich into my gullet as quickly as I could.

Maybe he was just having a bad day. Maybe we were insensitive, gouging him with the deadly Groupon-and-debit-card combo. Maybe the sandwich was delicious. I'll never know, though, because the encounter had left too bad a taste in my mouth to enjoy it.