Having just gotten over an episode of gluttony (i.e., Thanksgiving dinner), you wouldn’t think I would fall victim to a food craving, but once the thought entered my mind, Donatella Corolla (my car) seemed to drive to the Vienna Beef factory store automatically.

Chicago is famous for deep dish pizza and for Italian beef sandwiches.  But we also are home to Vienna Beef, makers of a wonderful all-beef hot dog (locals can wax on ad nauseam about the right mix of condiments) and corned beef.

Their factory store is only a couple miles from where I live and, If you get there before 2:00, you can get an incredible corned beef sandwich.

The juicy, deli meat comes piled high on old-world rye with a smear of yellow mustard along with a small cup of potato salad and a long piece of a kosher dill pickle. Just the way I like it.

One day last week, while running errands, I realized that it was almost 1:00 and, except for decaf chai, I hadn’t eaten anything.  Faster than a Google search, my mind zeroed in on three places en route to the Best Buy on Elston where I could stop for something to eat.

I think about corned beef around St. Paddy’s Day in March, for making mini-Reubens in April when I go smelt fishing with my friends, and for summer picnics. I don’t usually get a hankering for such a sandwich in December.  But I was jonesing for one really badly.

When I was eight or so, my dad used to take me and my sister Ronna to Maxwell Street (once a bustling shopping area for immigrant populations, now mostly taken over by various urban university campuses).  We’d go to a small deli there, for Vienna Beef corned beef and sliced tongue and other delicacies.

The man behind the counter always gave the kids a couple slices, a nosh, as he prepared our order and made small talk with my dad. I loved that, getting free samples.

Now, I could spout off different marketing theories why this is good for business. Back then, it felt very generous of the proprietor. It felt like we had a relationship even though we didn’t patronize the shop on a daily, or even weekly, basis.

Being a factory cafeteria and neighborhood lunch spot, there are no waitresses. You read your options on a small board, order at one end of the counter and pick up your lunch on a lightweight red plastic tray at the other end of the counter, then find a seat.

Regulars must have thought I was crazy as I whipped out my iPhone and started taking pictures. It’s not uncommon, while dining at an exclusive restaurant, to take snaps of plates cooked and composed by famous chefs. But taking a picture of corned beef on rye—this must have looked strange.

I remember the ad campaign Wendy’s ran in the mid-eighties.  An elderly lady complained about the value of sandwiches served at most fast-food chains, rhetorically asking “Where’s the beef?”

No mystery here.  The meat was not a hidden prize you looked for between slices of bread. It was the main attraction.

I smiled all the way through lunch and even later, while I cleaned up my table and threw away my trash.

Why did this little lunch stop make me so happy?

Of course, I appreciated how close the factory store was. I also loved how the excursion brought up wonderful memories of something I did with my father.

But there was also the thought of meat being piled high, of having more than enough of something I loved.

Performing mostly project work, I don’t have a steady income. While I have savings, as I will be paying off my dog’s recent surgery for a while, I am mindful to watch expenditures.

There is something about seeing (and consuming) a full plate of food that makes me feel that life is abundant; that there is more than enough of what I need.

There used to be a cartoonist I loved, B. Kliban, who put out the collection, “Never Eat Anything Bigger Than Your Head.”  The cautionary saying has been printed on many tee-shirts.

Well, of course, even trying to consume something so disproportionate would be pointless, maybe even dangerous, but I realize that I have often pushed myself close to this point. Although I don’t like feeling that I’m about to burst, sometimes I like feeling full.

Eating something almost, but not quite bigger than your head, is no small thing.