Look, he’s a nice guy situated on the best plot in town running a business with his daughter operating one of the permanent currencies of modern life — coffee… which was decent, certainly nothing special… and he went to the effort of pronouncing macchiato in an Italian accent (4 stars service) — but the toastie was such a lacklustre event, it was so bland, that I found myself sitting at one of God’s finest beaches, looking the clear, blue ocean square in the eye, and on that warm sultry morning I found myself becoming incensed. How? I looked down at the toastie after the second bite. How is this actually without taste? The ALDI loaf of Turkish bread was a screaming red flag, sure, but what was this ham? What was this cheese? It was like eating a picture of a ham and cheese toastie printed onto cardboard; except even that may have tickled a greater psychosensoriel reaction. I began to wonder if the napkin was a part of the meal. I grudgingly took another bite and debated if I should have topped this $12 robbery with the additional $1 condiment that it already so desperately lacked. The waves had turned to mush in front of me. A cloud had rolled in. I took my last bite of the first half. It was all bread. Not even butter, or an oil. Or cheese. Or ham. Just that airy, stale, packet-bread texture and the odd sesame seed. I was defeated. I hadn’t hoped for much, but I was utterly defeated. I started fantasising about some of the $12 toasties found in competing cafes, like High Life. I started dreaming about the old hand-made servo sandwiches. Even the humble Bunnings snag was on my mind. It just felt criminal. On the corner of goddam Watego’s with enough tourists on their way to the lighthouse to fuel the trap. I dropped the second half in front of an Ibis. It looked happy.