Last evening on the subway, a poorly dressed, bleary-eyed man with scruffy face hair boarded the car I was in, as the doors were closing. He immediately began with his pitch that he needed help. He mentioned something about a child, housing, a place to sleep but none of it was particularly easy to follow. When he reached the part about asking for help, it could be money or food, I waited to see what the pitch was. He was clear about that, it could be food or money, anything would be appreciated. So I reached down into my bag, pulled out the plastic bag that contained the neat container holding a liverwurst sandwich with all the trimmings. As he approached, I held up the handled bag to him and said, ‘It’s a sandwich’. He took it gratefully and graciously. What he didn’t know was the trip that sandwich had made. It had been driven in a 2015 Maserati from a swank County Club in Westchester, where it had been made by the Club Chef. It deserved a no more worthy recipient.