ON MY RANCH there are three apple trees, a peach tree (which, legend has it, last year bore a peach), and a cherry tree. My landlordladyperson and acre mates all assure me that we will not eat any cherries, however, as the birdies (being less discerning about ripeness than us'ns) will beat us to the whole tree's worth.

They underestimate me on three counts: (1) my legendary capacity for idleness, or vigilance, as I like to call it, (2) my throwing arm, and (3) my own preference for not-quite-ripe fruit. I like my cherries, like I like my meat, to err on the side of bellyache. My mom still hasn't forgiven me for eating every single pear our pear tree produced between 1968 and 1982 before they were ripe. In fact, none of my 10 siblings even realizes, to this day, that we ever had a pear tree.

I'm sitting here right now on a log, beautiful March morning, beautiful Sonoma County, looking up at the sunlit cherry blossom bud shoot thingies, and my mouth is watering. My eyes are watering, at the thought of the tartness of it all. Oh, I will eat my cherries, acre mates, landlordladyperson.

Excuse me a second, dear reader.

Bull's-eye! Didn't like the way that fucking tweety-ass motherfucker was looking at one of my budding little buddies. Same way I am. Crawdad always says she can see me salivating, something about the way my mouth or jaw moves or quivers. While I cook. While I look at a menu. Even talking about or writing about, or singing about, food. This is why, unlike most rock stars, who spit when they sing, I drool.

Speaking of which, I did write that song about butter. But instead of inflicting you with the infectiousness of it, yet, let me sing in praise of Vietnamese sandwiches. I was killing time in town on Saturday, between soccer and a show, and I stopped off to see my great old pal Earl Butter. Speaking of butter.

"Butter, what are you in the mood for?" I said.

"Pork," he said.

A man who speaks my language. I Sprinted him out to the Sunset, to Banhwich, a nice little Vietnamese sandwich hole-in-the-wall with no baffroom and just a couple of counter stools in the window. No atmosphere, except for really bad old soft rock radio and whatever Taraval between 21st and 22nd has to offer, visually.

My lights were on. You could see it from the window and it was the damnedest thing, 'cause I hadn't ever put them on; it was midafternoon. I sprinted the block to the Sprint and turned them off but they stayed on. They wouldn't shut off, like bad dreams and soft rock radio. I kept trying and checking and trying and checking, Earl Butter still sitting in the window down the block, laughing and cheering and jeering and just generally eating without me. Until in the end I had to pop the hood and disconnect the battery.

Fun car! Two huge spring rolls, the raw kind, with three huge shrimps in each ($2.50). Inspired by which Earl Butter pulled from his ass an old Mr. Rogers quote which not only made my day but has continued to make my days every day ever since. Wanna hear it?

"I'm eating a Chinese egg roll," said the king of cardigan sweaters, holding one up and smiling that way he smiled. "But when I eat it," he explained, "I'm still Mr. Rogers."

This changes everything. I'm not even sure I've fully absorbed all the nuances of the statement, yet, but already it changes everything, as surely as "I think, therefore I am" and "Hey, look, everybody, the earth is round." Mr. Rogers, enjoying an egg roll, remains Mr. Rogers ... I could write a book.

Or eat an egg roll. And be Mr. Rogers.

The sandwiches, BBQ pork ($2.75) for Butter, and meatball ($2.50) for me, were big, meat-packed, and freakin' ridiculously delicious. Instead of mayonnaise, they put butter on them. I'm serious. Anyway, that's what the sandwichmakerperson chick said. Or something like that. Butter! (Margarine?) I'm serious, but I think maybe she was joking. The important thing is, no mayo on the meatball. Otherwise, all the usual suspects: jalapeño, carrots, cilantro.

Check this place out. But be careful with that spring roll. And now, if you'll excuse me – beautiful day, beautiful day – it's time to take off this sweater and change shoes.

Banhwich. 1105 Taraval (at 22nd Ave.), S.F. (415) 665-2233. Mon. and Wed.-Fri., 8 a.m.-6 p.m.; Sat.-Sun., 8 a.m.-5 p.m. Takeout available. No alcohol. Credit cards not accepted. 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).