A couple of weeks ago I went to a place I vowed never to go back to….My first experience there was horrific… A nightmare that left me emotional scarred for life…I still can’t eat a chicken sandwich without having a flashback…….
Many moons ago we were doing a bit of shopping and my wife said, “Shall we go to Subway? It’s nice.” Now I was hungry, y’know when you could eat a scabby horse (sorry to the vegans out there but I was famished) and I thought, yeah, why not. I’ve seen the adverts. Mouth watering sarnies to chomp on. So I walk up and peruse the menu, which I couldn’t make head nor tail of. Suddenly I’m at the counter and a fairly unhappy face greeted me. “Yes can I help?”the young man asked. Apparently his correct title is a Sandwich Artist. I smiled, one of us had to. “Yeah can I have a chicken salad sandwich please.” He gazed at me, his clear blue plastic gloves crinkling slightly. “What bread?” I must have looked a bit lost. “Eh?” I said. He pointed behind to the board. “Italian herb and cheese, Malted rye, Grain wheat bread, White bread-” I cut in fast. “Yes! White please!” I was starting to sweat, as I had a few people behind me. My wife had done this before but I was in at the deep end. I turned to her for a bit of support but she was as hungry as me, and faster. “Six inch or foot long?” the bored looking young man asked. I’m thinking, what the hell is he asking? My wife nudged me. “How big do you want it?” she asked. My mind was boggling and somebody behind me coughed to get a move on. “Eh…six inch….” was all I could say as the kid sliced the bread quickly. “Chicken yeah?” he questioned as someone tutted behind me. A bead of sweat ran down my forehead. Man this was going to be hard work.
“Salad?” That bit was easy. “Yes please.” He pointed to the trays of different colours. Lettuce, onion, grated carrots. You name it they had it. Even pickled gherkins, which, let’s face it, are bloody awful. The lights were shining on me like I was being interrogated by the gestapo. So I told him what I wanted and by this time my wife had passed me with the other Sandwich Artist, who was far more cheerful than mine. The young man then asked, “Cheese?” I looked around. Was he talking to me? Cheese in a chicken sarnie? The world’s gone mad. “Cheese?” I shot back. By this time more people were gathering behind me, I could feel their eyes burrowing into the back of my head and I’m sweating like a wild pig on heat. “Er…what you got?” He didn’t even look at the board, just recited in a monotone fashion. “Swiss. Peppercorn.Feta. American Chedder-” I cut in once more. “Yes Chedder!” I screamed, making the rest of the customers jump. He just nodded and added it to my ever growing feast. “Sauce…” The coughing man was louder this time, and a tut for good measure. My head was spinning. “Light mayo… regular mayo ..ranch sauces… chipotle sauce..” he said, reeling them off. Sauce? No thank you. “No I don’t need any sauce thanks.” The people behind me gasped, even the bored young man came to life. “No sauce?” he questioned, looking amazed. My subway was being judged behind me. I could feel sweat running down my armpits, my heart was bouncing and my breathing was ragged. “Chipotle…?” I said carefully. The kid nodded and added it. What the hell is a chipotle? I was clueless. At first I thought chipolata but can’t be that. Shit get me out of here! “Toasted?” I was scanning the place. Looking for secret cameras or Ant and Dec to jump out from behind the counter, laughing, telling me it’s all a joke. All I wanted was a sandwich. “No!” I said firmly. Thank God for that. By this time my wife had sat down and another person had passed me. “You can get a drink and a snack it’s part of the deal,” he said, looking like he’d had enough. I certainly had. I finally took my grub to the table and sat down, sighing. I bit into the food and the bread was a bit rubbery, I should, after all, have had it toasted. I was traumatized and my wife thought it was humourous. “Never again! Never ever coming here again!”
So a couple of weeks ago we were out and about with our daughter. We were all peckish so she said, “let’s go here.” Before I knew it I was in the bloody shop. I looked at the huge sign next to me. This would be easy this time though. “Meatball Marinara. That’ll do me,” says I, sitting down. No way was I going through the horror show again. My daughter kindly went for me and as she started to order she turned and asked, “What bread do you want?”