There is little loyalty on display once a ‘Free’ sign goes up. I’ve heard somebody say that before. Shoppers/consumers are only loyal in so far as their personal economies extend. There’s a massive ‘crossing of the dividing range’ taking place at the food court in the local mall. And no one appears worried if they are detected abandoning ship. For months I have watched the two Italian grannies, Elsa and Lenora, buy their take-away lunch buckets of crumbed chicken wings from ... let’s call the shop, ABC. The same with Alphonse and Lillian, who roll up promptly at a minute after 12 noon every day to order plastic containers of stir-fry noodles from the Chinese take-away, because for one hour between noon and 1pm, each container is discounted from Aus $5 (Dh16.37) to $3.

It’s all different today.

The chicken-wing vendors in ABC and the stir-fry-crazy chefs in the Chinese are as idle as sunbathers at Bondi beach. Except, if you look closely, you’ll see their features are set rigidly in the face of such betrayal. Jaws clench and unclench; eyes pretend to stare into space. It’s going to be one of those days when, for them, the dollar is not going to come hurrying in to the cash box.

This is because a brand new food shop is opening — a sandwich place, offering an array of breads and an exhaustive range of fillings. And for 24 hours, you can buy a massive sandwich roll — nearly a foot long — for a mere 50 cents.

To help with the promotion, the store, let’s call it Underground, has a mascot going around, handing out promotional leaflets. The person is dressed extremely creatively as a sandwich. A khaki-coloured shirt is cut in the shape of two slices of brown bread, back and front, while the headwear features all the filling that’s spilling out of the sandwich. The queue before Underground is long and becomes longer when the local boys’ school breaks for lunch.

“Aren’t you going to try one of our sandwiches, sir?” asks the mascot in an identifiably male voice, stopping at our table. My prankster friend Barney shakes a faux-principled head, explaining: “Look, it wouldn’t seem right because we don’t eat lunch at the food court, but when we do we get it from the Indian place and my wife knows the lady at the Indian shop very well as it happens. They get their vegetables from the same grocery ...”

A long-winded way of simply saying, “No thanks.”

But Barney is nothing if not shrewd, for the sandwich-mascot-man replies: “You don’t have to stand in a line, sir, I’ll get the guys inside to make two of our best and bring them out, one for you and one for you.” Meaning me.

“You sure?” asks Barney, doubtfully, as if to say, ‘Look we don’t want to put you to all this trouble.’

“Absolutely, absolutely,” says the mascot and leaves.

“There,” says Barney, when we are alone, “That’s how you employ diplomacy and tact to taste what’s in the other shop without any visible sign of going there yourself.”

When the sandwiches arrive, Barney says thanks and engages the man in conversation. It turns out he’s from India, too. His name is Prakash, he’s a chef and has a degree to prove it. “This mascot work couldn’t be paying anything at all,” Barney observes.

“It’s all free today, sir,” says the man, “It is all part of the fun. Tomorrow I’ll be doing something different.”

“And what’s that?” asks Barney.

“Oh, I’ll be back in the kitchen where you won’t see me, but I often see you, sir. You see I work at the Indian take-away, from where you sometimes get your parathas [a flat, thick Indian bread] and baingan bharta [a thick gravy made from eggplant]. Don’t worry I won’t tell my mum you’re having sandwiches today. It’s all in the family. This sandwich place, it’s going to be run by my sister-in-law.”

Barney looks like he’s either lost the ability to swallow or he’s swallowed an eggplant.

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.