Out comes a croissant crammed with guacamole and two kinds of cheeses that are not American. Manny sees me gawking. “What are you staring at?” “Nothing. I’ve just never seen a sandwich like that.” “Mmm,” Manny hums between bites. “You don’t know what you’re missing. Here. You want a taste?” he asks, breaking off a piece. “I made it myself.”