The Publix Deli Man Who Remembers Everyone's Order

Julio Mesa has been standing behind the deli case at the Publix on Bird Road since the first Clinton administration, and in that time he has committed to memory the sandwich preferences of what he estimates to be roughly nine hundred and forty regulars. He does not write anything down. 'It's the face,' he says, sliding a quarter-pound of turkey onto the scale without being asked. 'The face tells me the bread.'

The line at Julio's counter moves faster than any other in the store, which is a small miracle in a supermarket that also sells lottery tickets, key limes, and, on Wednesdays, live stone crabs. Regulars arrive with the confidence of people going to see a physician they trust. They stand in front of the case, say hello, and are handed a paper-wrapped parcel that contains, precisely, what they wanted.

There is a woman named Doris who comes in on Fridays and orders nothing, because Julio already has it ready. There is a retired firefighter named Marco who eats the same sandwich his father ate. There is a nine-year-old who was, until recently, five, and whose ham order has grown by a slice a year. Julio remembers all of it. Asked how, he shrugs. 'It's not a trick,' he says. 'It's just paying attention. That's the whole job.'