1758: His growing acceptance by opinion-makers wins him a commission by the Queen to fix “something special” for a luncheon with the Spanish ambassador. He works day and night, tearing up hundreds of blueprints, but finally-at 4:17 A.M., April 27, 1758-he creates a work consisting of several strips of ham enclosed, top and bottom, by two slices of rye bread. In a burst of inspiration, he garnishes the work with mustard. It is an immediate sensation, and he is commissioned to prepare all Saturday luncheons for the remainder of the year.

1760: He follows one success with another, creating “sandwiches,” as they are called In his honor, out of roast beef, chicken, tongue, and nearly every conceivable cold cut. Not content to repeat tried formulas, he seeks out new ideas and devises the combination sandwich, for which he receives the Order of the Garter.

1769: Living on a country estate, he is visited by the greatest men of his century; Haydn, Kant, Rousseau, and Ben Franklin stop at his home, some enjoying his remarkable creations at table, others ordering to go.

1778: Though aging physically he still strives for new forms and writes in his diary, “I work long into the cold nights and am toasting everything now in an effort to keep warm.” Later that year, his open hot roast-beef sandwich creates a scandal with its frankness.

1783: To celebrate his sixty-fifth birthday, he invents the hamburger and tours the great capitals of the world personally, making burgers at concert halls before large and appreciative audiences. In Germany, Goethe suggests serving them on buns-an idea that delights the Earl, and of the author of Faust he says, “This Goethe, he is some fellow.” The remark delights Goethe, although the following year they break intellectually over the concept of rare, medium, and well done.

1790: At a retrospective exhibition of his works in London, he is suddenly taken ill with chest pains and is thought to be dying, but recovers sufficiently to supervise the construction of a hero sandwich by a group of talented followers. Its unveiling in Italy causes a riot, and it remains misunderstood by all but a few critics.

1792: He develops a genu varum, which he fails to treat in time, and succumbs in his sleep. He is laid to rest in Westminster Abbey, and thousands mourn his passing.

At his funeral, the great German poet Holderlin sums up his achievements with undisguised reverence: “He freed mankind from the hot lunch. We owe him so much.”

Death Knocks

(The play takes place in the bedroom of the Nat Ackermans’ two-story house, somewhere in Kew Gardens. The carpeting is wall-to-wall. There is a big double bed and a large vanity. The room is elaborately furnished and curtained, and on the walls there are several paintings and a not really attractive barometer. Soft theme music as the curtain rises. Nat Ackerman, a bald, paunchy fifty-seven-year-old dress manufacturer is lying on the bed finishing off tomorrow’s Daily News. He wears a bathrobe and slippers, and reads by a bed light clipped to the white headboard of the bed. The time is near midnight. Suddenly we hear a noise, and Nat sits up and looks at the window.)

Nat: What the hell is that?

(Climbing awkwardly through the window is a sombre, caped figure. The intruder wears a black hood and skintight black clothes. The hood covers his head but not his face, which is middle-aged and stark white. He is something like Nat in appearance. He huffs audibly and then trips over the windowsill and falls into the room.)

Death (for it is no one else): Jesus Christ. I nearly broke my neck.

Nat (watching with bewilderment): Who are you?

Death: Death.

Nat: Who?

Death: Death. Listen-can I sit down? I nearly broke my neck. I’m shaking like a leaf.

Nat: Who are you?

Death: Death. You got a glass of water?

Nat: Death? What do you mean, Death?

Death: What is wrong with you? You see the black costume and the whitened face?

Nat: Yeah.

Death: Is it Halloween?

Nat: No.

Death: Then I’m Death. Now can I get a glass of water-or a Fresca?

Nat: If this is some joke -

Death: What kind of joke? You’re fifty-seven? Nat Ackerman? One eighteen Pacific Street? Unless I blew it -where’s that call sheet? (He jumbles through pocket, finally producing a card with an address on it. It seems to check.)

Nat: What do you want with me?

Death: What do I want? What do you think I want?

Nat: You must be kidding. I’m in perfect health.

Death (unimpressed): Uh-huh. (Looking around) This is a nice place. You do it yourself?

Nat: We had a decorator, but we worked with her.

Death (looking at picture on the wall): I love those kids with the big eyes.

Nat: I don’t want to go yet.

Death: You don’t want to go? Please don’t start in. As it is, I’m nauseous from the climb.

Nat: What climb?

Death: I climbed up the drainpipe. I was trying to make a dramatic entrance. I see the big windows and you’re awake reading. I figure it’s worth a shot. I’ll climb up and enter with a little-you know… (Snaps fingers)

Meanwhile, I get my heel caught on some vines, the drainpipe breaks, and I’m hanging by a thread. Then my cape begins to tear. Look, let’s just go. It’s been a rough night.

Nat: You broke my drainpipe?

Death: Broke. It didn’t break. It’s a little bent. Didn’t you hear anything? I slammed into the ground.

Nat: I was reading.

Death: You must have really been engrossed. (Lifting newspaper Nat was reading) “NAB COEDS IN POT ORGY.” Can I borrow this?

Nat: I’m not finished.

Death: Er-I don’t know how to put this to you, pal…

Nat: Why didn’t you just ring downstairs?

Death: I’m telling you, I could have, but how does it look? This way I get a little drama going. Something. Did you read Faust?

Nat: What?

Death: And what if you had company? You’re sitting there with important people. I’m Death-I should ring the bell and traipse right in the front? Where’s your thinking?

Nat: Listen, Mister, it’s very late.

Death: Yeah. Well, you want to go?

Nat: Go where?

Death: Death. It. The Thing. The Happy Hunting Grounds. (Looking at his own knee) Y’know, that’s a pretty bad cut. My first job, I’m liable to get gangrene yet.

Nat: Now, wait a minute. I need time. I’m not ready to go.

Death: I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I’d like to, but it’s the moment.

Nat: How can it be the moment? I just merged with Modiste Originals.

Death: What’s the difference, a couple of bucks more or less.

Nat: Sure, what do you care? You guys probably have all your expenses paid.

Death: You want to come along now?

Nat (studying him): I’m sorry, but I cannot believe you’re Death.

Death: Why? What’d you expect-Rock Hudson?

Nat: No, it’s not that.

Death: I’m sorry if I disappointed you.

Nat: Don’t get upset. I don’t know, I always thought you’d be… uh… taller.

Death: I’m five seven. It’s average for my weight.

Nat: You look a little like me.

Death: Who should I look like? I’m your death.

Nat: Give me some time. Another day.

Death: I can’t. What do you want me to say?

Nat: One more day. Twenty-four hours.

Death: What do you need it for? The radio said rain tomorrow.

Nat: Can’t we work out something?

Death: Like what?

Nat: You play chess?

Death: No, I don’t.

Nat: I once saw a picture of you playing chess.

Death: Couldn’t be me, because I don’t play chess. Gin rummy, maybe.

Nat: You play gin rummy?

Death: Do I play gin rummy? Is Paris a city?

Nat: You’re good, huh?