Monte Cristo sandwich

He doesn't have those hangups that I have.

Yeah, I'm not a club man, but I've done the dance with the Monte Cristo before.

Oh, yes.

I like a nice little Monte Cristo.

So it's not a bad option.

Reuben.

The hearth, where you burn wood of aromatic quality on silver dogs, tiled round about with Bible pictures, the seats deep and easy, a single Titian in a gold frame, a white bust or so upon a bracket, a rack for the journals of the week, a table for the books of the year, and close in a corner the three shelves full of eternal books that never weary.

Shakespeare, Molière, Montaigne, Lamb, Sterne, de Musset's comedies, the one volume open at Carmacene and the other at Fantasio, the Arabian Nights and kindred stories in Weber's solemn volumes, Borrow's Bible and Spain, the Pilgrim's Progress, Guy Mannering and Rob Roy, Monte Cristo and the Vicomte de Bragelonne, immortal Boswell, soul among biographers, Chaucer, Herrick, and the State Trials.

The bedrooms are large, airy, with almost no furniture, floors of varnished wood, and at the bedhead, in case of insomnia, one shelf of books of a particular and dippable order, such as Pepys, the Paston Letters, Birch's Letters from the Highlands, or the Newgate Calendar.

End of The Ideal House by Robert Louis Stevenson.

Mm-hmm.

There's also National Monte Cristo Day.

A delightful sandwich.

I am so fat right now because all I can think about now is a chili con queso and a Monte Cristo.

Both.

Could I somehow combine the two of them? There is, what's the little breakfast place? There's like three or four of them.

Oh, yeah.

Dynamite.

No, I'm kidding.

Um, it's National Monte Cristo Day, Joaquin.

That's a really good sandwich.

You ever had a Monte Cristo?

No, but I know the count.

That's such a great movie.