Remember when Charley was in the hospital for eight days last month? Remember how I was particularly grateful for the presence of a 24-hour Subway?
Well… I was mostly grateful.
I had a total of three subs. The first two were made by women; the last one was made by a man. So I was 2/3 grateful for my subs.
Heading into Subway for the third time, my expectations were high as the first two cold cuts had been a success. However when I went back for my last one, there was a new face behind the counter. An indifferent face. A this-doesn’t-matter-to-me-so-it-couldn’t-possibly-matter-to-you face.
I’m a square piece. Everything matters to me.
Subway man looks at me, waiting for me to make the first move.
Me, “Mmmm… I’d like a 6″ cold cut combo on Italian herbs and cheese bread, toasted, with pepper jack cheese.”
Subway man cuts the foot long piece of bread into 5.5 inches and 6.5 inches, puts the bigger piece away and keeps the small one out for me.
Man. *sigh* I always get the short side.
Subway man dumps the meat into the bread.
Subway man grabs two cheese triangles and slaps them on, too.
The. Cheese. Is. Cock-eyed.
At most, my two, measly pepper jack triangles were only covering 2/3 of my five and a half inch sandwich.
*Dramatic music begins.*
My heart sank and I probably looked like I was holding my breath.
No! The cheese needs to be even! Spread it out! Spread it OUT! Can’t you see it?! Oh, dear Lord, he’s toasting it now. It’s getting melted into place and it’s all uneven. Wasted. Trip.
Once toasted and melted into its awful, cock-eyed position, I had to select my toppings. I almost didn’t see the point in that as I deemed the entire sub to be ruined.
Me, “Lettuce, tomatoes… more tomatoes, pickles… olives, cucumber, oil & vingar and pepper.”
Naturally all of the olives were bunched in the middle. There were two pickles slices manning one side of the bread while one pickle slice was single handedly responsible for the entire other half.
Wondering how I was going to possibly enjoy my sub while my crooked cheese was only covering 2/3 of the sandwich, I headed back to Charley’s room and recounted the horrors to my mom.
Considering how well she knows me, she sympathized quite well.
The three of us carried on our conversation and I began eating my disappointment (literally and figuratively).
A few minutes later (and a few minutes wiser), I finished my cold cut and mentally stopped dead in my tracks.
Me, looking at my mom with enlightened wonder, “You know… I couldn’t taste the difference!”
How liberating! When the cheese goes on crooked, I don’t have to panic anymore!
(By the way, did you know that for the rest of the month of December, Subway is selling 6″ meatball marinara subs and 6″ cold cut subs for just two bucks? The cold cut is one of my favorites, so this adds another element of wonder to an already wonderful Christmas season.)