DUDE MAKING SANDWICHES down at the Roxie Food Center is supposed to be psychic. This important information was imparted to me by my friend Alice during a pickup soccer game, probably while blowing me over on her way to the goal. Alice has a knack for carrying on a conversation while playing. Whereas I consider myself fortunate to be able to breathe. Otherwise I pass out, precipitating a marked drop in skills.

"Psychic sandwich maker?" I asked. After the game. We were sitting in the dog shit at Potrero Rec, changing shoes.

"Yeah," said Alice. "Wanna go?"

I did, but I couldn't. I smelled like dog shit. But I liked the idea of a guy making you a sandwich and telling you what to do with your life. Or, in my case, about your life. I always kind of wanted to see a psychic. Stump 'em. I just can't see paying money for it. Paying money for sandwiches, on the other hand ... it's practically my job.

I went to work after the very next soccer game. Piled my stinky self and stuff into the back of Alice's car and away we went, me and her and Ama, whose amazing defensive game is offset by the sad fact she's allergic to wheat and has to eat bean salad every time she goes out for a sandwich.

I felt like a kid on the way to an amusement park for the first time – full of questions and energy, and stinky and stupid. Turns out the psychic sandwich maker doesn't tell your fortune or offer life advice so much as he guesses what kind of sandwich you want. Alice went there eight years ago with her brother and the guy got everybody's order right.

So, OK, so that's something. That's still pretty cool. I adjusted my expectations accordingly (one of my specialties): so I was not about to circumvent years and years of therapy, soul-searching, and gut-wrenching suspense. I wondered if he'd predict no mayonnaise.

Well, he wasn't there was what happened. The guy doesn't work Saturdays. "Sundays," they told us. "He'll be here tomorrow." Anyway, I enjoyed my sandwich, and Alice enjoyed hers, and Ama enjoyed her bean salad. This was a month ago or so. By the time I went back on a Sunday, I didn't believe in juju anymore. That's what last week's column was about, in case you missed it.

Apparently the psychic sandwich maker doesn't believe in juju anymore, either. I stood before him, looking at the menu board, blankly, wide open. And he stood there behind the counter, looking at me.

"What can I get you?" he said.

"Hmm." I pretended to be uncertain. Which I was. This was not a test. I didn't know what I wanted. I wanted him to tell me what I wanted, without mayonnaise.

I thought if I waited long enough, he would break down and read me. But he was a better waiter than me, and I broke down first. "Someone told me you could guess what I wanted," I said.

"How about pastrami and turkey with melted cheese?" he said, with a weary smile.

"Yeah, sure," I said. "Sounds good." In fact it sounded awesome. "No mayonnaise."

"No mayonnaise," he repeated. "Dutch crunch?"

"French. Sweet," I said. He picked out a medium and immediately started slathering it with mustard.

"Junior," I said. "No mustard. No mustard, no mayo. Sorry."

"No problem," he said, starting over. "Cheese?"

"Provolone."

It was not even noon yet, on a Sunday. I'd been working on my drinking problem Saturday night. Getting nowhere. No matter what I do, I can never drink more than one or two drinks before I get entirely bored and disillusioned and move on to something constructive, such as sleep. I don't know what's wrong with me. I know I wasn't hungover, but maybe the psychic sandwich maker was. And if so, more power to him.

Hey – he makes a mean sandwich. The junior, I knew from experience, is plenty big enough. And it's $4.50. Mediums are six-something, I think, and too big for me in my old age. The large is ridiculous.

Anyway, the pastrami and turkey with melted cheese was a great call. It was hot and gooey and delicious. But I should warn you, we're not talking about a restaurant here. The Roxie is a corner store with a sandwich counter. And it's small and colorfully cluttered, without anywhere to sit, or even stand and eat. So you're getting it to go.

Where to go: Cayuga park. Left on Geneva, right on Cayuga, all the way to the end, to this little secret wacky wonderland surrounded by squalor and freeways and shit. I won't say anything else about it, except: thanks, Alice, for showing me. Roxie Food Center. 1901 San Jose (at San Juan), S.F. (415) 587-2345. Mon.-Fri., 6:30 a.m.-9 p.m.; Sat., 8 a.m.-9 p.m.; Sun., 8 a.m.-8 p.m. Takeout only. American Express, MasterCard, Visa. Wheelchair accessible.

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Dan Leone is the author of Eat This, San Francisco (Sasquatch Books), a collection of Cheap Eats restaurant reviews, and The Meaning of Lunch (Mammoth Books).