The Sandwich that Caused a World War
Day 1,948, 18:16
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Published in South Africa 
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by
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by Dr. James McCrimmon
Excerpt taken from the "Moritz Schiller Diaries"
June 23rd, 1914. 11:32 AM. Tijana Schiller, wife of the café owner Moritz Schiller, was at a farm in rural modern day Bosnia, selecting choice eggs for her husband’s semifamous egg salad sandwiches. As her and the farmer were walking through the chicken coop, the farmer, an elderly English-born man by the name of McDonald, told Tijana about the poor egg crop they got from the hens the past week, “A few weeks ago the hens were laying like crazy, with an egg here, and an egg there. Here an egg, there an egg, everywhere eggs. Yet this week, nothing, only sickly Emesis over there laid anything. Trust me, you don’t want her eggs. If it keeps up like this, I may have to sell my farm!”
“Ahh, that would not be good, however Moritz would be very disappointed if I did not come back to Sarajevo without any eggs, I will take them in any case,” Tijana replied as she paid the farmer for the dozen eggs Emesis had laid as well as half a dozen of the eggs the other 20 chickens laid.
June 26th, 1914. 6:26 AM. “Tijana my dear, where are those eggs you got from Old McDonald a few days ago?” Moritz asked his wife as she descended from the stairs that leads the upper living quarters in the café. “They are over there, right next to the window where the sun shines in,” Tijana responded. Moritz then retrieved the eggs, noticed the high temperature, and terrible smell, and after nearly gagging on the smell, he boiled them and performed his secret recipe to making his egg salad sandwiches.
June 27th, 1914. 8:57 PM. “No one is buying my sandwiches today,” Moritz thought to himself, “They usually fly off the shelf, but not today, or yesterday. I wonder how I can get people to come in my café tomorrow, otherwise I’ll have to throw these sandwiches out, they are already half rotten. Hmm, maybe I should throw some out now? I guess I should probably give them one more day, you never know what tomorrow will bring.”
June 28th, 1914. 11:02 AM. The people that rushed inside Moritz’s Café to escape the overcrowded streets outside were mumbling to each other, “Do you think it’s true?” “Is he dead?” “I hear it was the Hungarians wanting to separate,” “No no no, this attack smells of Serbia,” “Could it be someone who wants the Austrian Throne for himself?” “I hear they caught the would be assassin, he tried to jump in the river, amateur.” “As if you know, Altair,”
They all became immediately quiet when the door burst open. In stepped a boy, no older than 20, he walked up and placed some change on the counter. “C’mon boy, you hardly have a Krone, there isn’t much I can give you for that,” Moritz laughed.
“Please, I’m not a boy sir, my name is Gavrilo, and I have had a long day already, isn’t there anything you can give me?” the boy, Gavrilo, pleaded.
“Hmm, well if you can cough up another Krone, I can give you this rather old leftover egg sandwich, it shouldn’t be too, too bad” Moritz, the evershrewd businessman bargained.
“I guess I’ll take it,” Moritz, after hearing Gavrilo’s reply, proceeded to take the sandwich with it still in the bag, and gave it Gavrilo, and before Gavrilo opened the oddly wet paper package, and undoubtedly begin to protest, he immediately pocketed the change, and pointed to a sign that stated quite clearly NO REFUNDS.
Nontheless Gavrilo complained when he pulled the sandwich out of the bag, for the sandwich was rather disgusting to say the least. The bread was a mouldy green-blue colour, the stench that was emitted from the yellow-green paste inbetween the bun smelt of sulphur and rotting carcasses. As Gavrilo watched with horror, a reddish-brown fluid dripped unto the floor, staining it for years to come.
“This is utterly disgusting, us Princips may have been born in poverty, but at least we don’t eat this, which I’m sure the rats would pass up,” Gavrilo said as he grew angry at Moritz.
“Do you see my sign. No refunds. Eat it, and stop complaining, or get out.”
Gavrilo, hungry, ever so very hungry, reluctantly took a bite, and immediately a change was apparent on Gavrilo’s face. “This…. Tastes…. Good?” he questioned his own tastebuds as he looked a second time at the sandwich, and then a fly landed in the small puddle that was made from the dripping sandwich. It tried to take off, and achieved flight. Yet only for a few seconds, as it flew up, and then almost immediately back down, as it shriveled up on the spot, and died.
As Moritz and the patrons watched, a shiver went up Gavrilo Princip’s spine, his face turned ashen, and looked as if he was about to vomit.
“Get out of my store, get to the river, relieve yourself there!”
Princip immediately went out the door, sandwich in hand, after a moment Moritz followed, and as he cleared the door, he saw a Gräf und Stift double phaeton, turn onto the street, stop, try to reverse and stalled. And then three gunshots, then chaos for four years.
June 23rd, 1914. 11:32 AM. Tijana Schiller, wife of the café owner Moritz Schiller, was at a farm in rural modern day Bosnia, selecting choice eggs for her husband’s semifamous egg salad sandwiches. As her and the farmer were walking through the chicken coop, the farmer, an elderly English-born man by the name of McDonald, told Tijana about the poor egg crop they got from the hens the past week, “A few weeks ago the hens were laying like crazy, with an egg here, and an egg there. Here an egg, there an egg, everywhere eggs. Yet this week, nothing, only sickly Emesis over there laid anything. Trust me, you don’t want her eggs. If it keeps up like this, I may have to sell my farm!”
“Ahh, that would not be good, however Moritz would be very disappointed if I did not come back to Sarajevo without any eggs, I will take them in any case,” Tijana replied as she paid the farmer for the dozen eggs Emesis had laid as well as half a dozen of the eggs the other 20 chickens laid.
June 26th, 1914. 6:26 AM. “Tijana my dear, where are those eggs you got from Old McDonald a few days ago?” Moritz asked his wife as she descended from the stairs that leads the upper living quarters in the café. “They are over there, right next to the window where the sun shines in,” Tijana responded. Moritz then retrieved the eggs, noticed the high temperature, and terrible smell, and after nearly gagging on the smell, he boiled them and performed his secret recipe to making his egg salad sandwiches.
June 27th, 1914. 8:57 PM. “No one is buying my sandwiches today,” Moritz thought to himself, “They usually fly off the shelf, but not today, or yesterday. I wonder how I can get people to come in my café tomorrow, otherwise I’ll have to throw these sandwiches out, they are already half rotten. Hmm, maybe I should throw some out now? I guess I should probably give them one more day, you never know what tomorrow will bring.”
June 28th, 1914. 11:02 AM. The people that rushed inside Moritz’s Café to escape the overcrowded streets outside were mumbling to each other, “Do you think it’s true?” “Is he dead?” “I hear it was the Hungarians wanting to separate,” “No no no, this attack smells of Serbia,” “Could it be someone who wants the Austrian Throne for himself?” “I hear they caught the would be assassin, he tried to jump in the river, amateur.” “As if you know, Altair,”
They all became immediately quiet when the door burst open. In stepped a boy, no older than 20, he walked up and placed some change on the counter. “C’mon boy, you hardly have a Krone, there isn’t much I can give you for that,” Moritz laughed.
“Please, I’m not a boy sir, my name is Gavrilo, and I have had a long day already, isn’t there anything you can give me?” the boy, Gavrilo, pleaded.
“Hmm, well if you can cough up another Krone, I can give you this rather old leftover egg sandwich, it shouldn’t be too, too bad” Moritz, the evershrewd businessman bargained.
“I guess I’ll take it,” Moritz, after hearing Gavrilo’s reply, proceeded to take the sandwich with it still in the bag, and gave it Gavrilo, and before Gavrilo opened the oddly wet paper package, and undoubtedly begin to protest, he immediately pocketed the change, and pointed to a sign that stated quite clearly NO REFUNDS.
Nontheless Gavrilo complained when he pulled the sandwich out of the bag, for the sandwich was rather disgusting to say the least. The bread was a mouldy green-blue colour, the stench that was emitted from the yellow-green paste inbetween the bun smelt of sulphur and rotting carcasses. As Gavrilo watched with horror, a reddish-brown fluid dripped unto the floor, staining it for years to come.
“This is utterly disgusting, us Princips may have been born in poverty, but at least we don’t eat this, which I’m sure the rats would pass up,” Gavrilo said as he grew angry at Moritz.
“Do you see my sign. No refunds. Eat it, and stop complaining, or get out.”
Gavrilo, hungry, ever so very hungry, reluctantly took a bite, and immediately a change was apparent on Gavrilo’s face. “This…. Tastes…. Good?” he questioned his own tastebuds as he looked a second time at the sandwich, and then a fly landed in the small puddle that was made from the dripping sandwich. It tried to take off, and achieved flight. Yet only for a few seconds, as it flew up, and then almost immediately back down, as it shriveled up on the spot, and died.
As Moritz and the patrons watched, a shiver went up Gavrilo Princip’s spine, his face turned ashen, and looked as if he was about to vomit.
“Get out of my store, get to the river, relieve yourself there!”
Princip immediately went out the door, sandwich in hand, after a moment Moritz followed, and as he cleared the door, he saw a Gräf und Stift double phaeton, turn onto the street, stop, try to reverse and stalled. And then three gunshots, then chaos for four years.
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