She really wanted a salmon sandwich.

Her mind was already conjuring up the image of a tender slab of soft, flaky salmon glistening between crisp leaves of green lettuce. Little blobs of white sauce oozed out from under the thick, chewy slices of bread and the flash of a red tomato slice highlighted the asymmetry of the sandwich.

She was salivating.

Cognizant that Seattle is well-known for its salmon, she confidently walked into a McDonald’s in the downtown district to satiate her craving. Without viewing the menu overhead, she stepped up to the counter.

“How can I help you?” the cashier asked.

“I’d like a salmon sandwich, please,” she said, smiling.

The cashier looked blankly at her. “Do you mean a filet o’ fish?”

“No, no,” she said. “I want a salmon sandwich.”

“We don’t serve salmon sandwiches here, ma’am,” the cashier explained, perplexed. This is McDonald’s.

A bit miffed that the cashier addressed her as “ma’am” (I’m not old enough to be a “ma’am”!), she commented, “But this is Seattle… and Seattle is known for its salmon. You do sell sandwiches here, right? You’ve got other kinds of sandwiches here—why not a salmon sandwich?”

The cashier pointed up at the menu overhead and, with annoyance, commented, “We do sell sandwiches here, but no salmon sandwiches. There are other sandwiches you can order.”

She looked at the cashier in disbelief. “I can’t get a salmon sandwich here? In Seattle? Wow. Okay.”

Saddened, she left the building.

Her craving for a salmon sandwich returned several hours later. She returned to the same McDonald’s, figuring that the cashier she had spoken to earlier had already left for the day. Her hunch was correct. She again approached the counter.

“What can I get for you?” the cashier asked.

“Can I get a salmon sandwich?” she asked.

The cashier cocked an eyebrow at her. “A salmon sandwich?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“We don’t sell salmon sandwiches here,” the cashier said. “We’ve got burgers and a filet o’ fish, but no salmon sandwiches.”

“But this is Seattle,” the woman protested, “and Seattle is known for its salmon. And McDonald’s sells sandwiches. Surely you must sell salmon sandwiches.”

“No, we don’t,” the cashier said. “This is McDonald’s. We sell burgers, fries, and the occasional salad. No salmon sandwiches.”

Irritated, the woman sighed, turned around, and left the building.

Undeterred, she visited other McDonald’s in Seattle. And at each restaurant, she was denied a salmon sandwich. It mattered not how she ordered one—she cajoled cashiers; she demanded to speak to supervisors; she offered to pay extra money—they all informed her that they simply did not sell salmon sandwiches.

“But this is Seattle!” she exclaimed. “This is what Seattle is known for! People come to Seattle to eat salmon! How on Earth is it possible that McDonald’s, which has served over a billion sandwiches, could not have a salmon sandwich in Seattle? This is totally absurd!”

They all sighed impatiently at her.

“No salmon sandwiches” was the refrain.

Devastated, she trod back outside.

She couldn’t walk any faster; Pike Place Market was crammed with people and many of them were ogling the beautiful bouquets of flowers for sale. People lazily pushed past each other just to move. The fishmongers wagged their gloved hands at passersby; buskers sang their hearts out with hopes that coins would collect in their open guitar cases; farmers stacked gigantic heads of garlic in neat geometric shapes underneath hot incandescent bulbs.

Her eyes were downcast, as were her spirits. Here she was, in Seattle, and she could not secure a salmon sandwich.

The crowd eventually pushed her past the Market Grill. Her eyes spied people sitting at the simple countertop. She smelled cooking fish.

Mmm….

She convinced herself that she was hallucinating. Her desire for a salmon sandwich was surely overwhelming her. She had done the best that she could to find one—she went to a common sandwich shop in Seattle and her efforts were clearly useless.

The crowd shuffled to a halt again. She sighed, frustrated.

“This is the best salmon sandwich I have ever had,” she overheard. She snapped her head to the left and saw the speaker. He was wiping his mouth with his left hand and holding a sandwich in his right.

And there it was: A tender slab of soft, flaky salmon glistening between crisp leaves of green lettuce. Little blobs of white sauce oozed out from under the thick, chewy slices of bread and the flash of a red tomato slice highlighted the asymmetry of the sandwich.

Salivating, her eyes darted up to the menu board hanging over the grill. She smiled broadly.

Pushing her way through the crowd, she made haste towards the simple counter and, leaning forward, breathlessly asked the cashier, “Can I get a salmon sandwich, please?”

“Sure,” the cashier replied. “Do you want your salmon blackened?”

Sometimes, we want things from people that they simply cannot provide… or hope for outcomes that are simply unrealistic. Hopefully, we eventually learn that we would do better to look elsewhere—a place or person that can actually fulfill our request—to increase the likelihood that we will get what we want.