I never felt like I fit in when I lived in Brooklyn, which is perhaps why I liked it there so much. As I’ve said, I’m contrarian by nature. I am also irrepressibly suburban, unwilling to forgo my khaki cargo shorts even in a sea of skinny jeans or baggy jeans,or jeans befitting whatever the trend in denim in either of the Brooklyn neighborhoods that housed me for most of my 20s.

I remember my first night back in the borough after a month-long study abroad grad-school program in China, the most unfamiliar, overwhelming and downright different place I had ever been. I went for a walk around Prospect Heights and came back to find the teenage kids who hung out on the stoop of my apartment building freestyling, their session ending with the inevitable refrain, “It’s Brooklyn!”

It was a too-perfect moment, something that would’ve seemed lame if it happened in a movie — especially timed the way it was — but I was groggy from travel and it felt perfect. I wanted to wrap my arms around the whole neighborhood. After a full day of airplanes, and after a month of strange food, strange air, strange places, I felt so rooted, so comfortable, so thoroughly home. It was a connection I never made with a place before, and one I didn’t even know I had the capacity for.

The sandwich: Egg salad with bacon, BKLYN Larder, Flatbush Ave. in Park Slope.

The construction: Egg salad, lettuce and bacon on white bread.

Important background info: I go back to Brooklyn from Westchester almost weekly; a lot of my friends are there and I play baseball in Red Hook on Saturdays. But when I find myself in my old neighborhoods, I often feel strangely put off. Who are these people? Look at how young they are! What are these places? BKLYN Larder? That sounds pretentious.

And sure, I know that I was myself a transplant, patronizing a bunch of new stores that probably seemed pretentious to someone who lived there before me. And I recognize that every lifelong Brooklynite I know maintains that the constant change, frequent turnover — the general fluidity to everything — is part of what feeds the bustle, the vivacity that made me so appreciate the borough in the first place.

But that’s the rational mind. The initial, visceral reaction doesn’t think it through that thoroughly, it just screams, “What the hell is going on here? What’s happening to this place I loved? It’s not how I left it!”

What it looks like:

How it tastes: Hmm… that’s a good sandwich right there. Simple, dignified, tasty.

The white bread is soft, hearty, thick-cut and obviously fresh. The egg salad tastes freshly made, too, and perfectly seasoned with pepper. I sense a hint of vinegar, maybe — either in the egg salad itself or
on the lettuce, that gives the whole thing some depth.

And that bacon. That’s some delicious bacon. Perfectly prepared, thick, crispy, flavorful, bacony bacon.

I need to re-think this. I judged this place before I came in, but that’s on me. This place is pleasant. It’s clean, they serve good sandwiches, the people are friendly. The showcases display an array of fine meats and cheese. This is a good place.

So it’s new. So it has sort of a silly name. Whatever.

And those young people outside? How old could they be, 24? That’s exactly how old Mike and I were when we moved here, isn’t it? Dammit, I have no right whatsoever to claim ownership of a place that’s been growing and changing and living for centuries, that I passed through for half a decade and happened to enjoy.

Straight up: Who the hell do I think I am? I am aging, and I moved, and those things kind of suck. But Brooklyn is here and going nowhere. I need to put aside my hangups and learn to just sit back and enjoy the sandwiches of this fine borough when I have the opportunity to do so.

What it’s worth: This thing was pretty pricey for an egg-salad sandwich, even if it was a classy one, especially considering that it wasn’t very big. Cost about $7, if I recall correctly, and across the street at familiar Bergen Bagels you could probably get it for half that. But what price amazing bacon?

How it rates: All the elements of this sandwich were excellent, but it was probably limited by its size and scope — how high could an egg-salad sandwich possibly rate, even if it’s got delicious bacon? It was an egg-salad sandwich maximizing its ability, but still an egg-salad sandwich. I’m thinking an undersized shortstop making the most of his potential — the Orlando Cabrera of sandwiches. 68 out of 100.