Editors note – In yesterday’s tweet / Facebook post, this site’s author specifically admonished our widespread audience not to read the accompanying blog because it sucked. To the three people who read it anyway coupled with those who pulled it into their RSS feeds, I hope you’re happy. For what it’s worth, today’s blog has promise, but who knows where it will go.
“I don’t get art. I have to have it explained to me, and even then I don’t understand it.” George Costanza said something like that once on an episode of Seinfeld. He pretty much nailed my understanding of art too.
Vittles tonight almost went horribly array. Juniorette has a concert tonight and there’s just not enough time to brown the meat, add the water, the noodles, and the sauce packet before we have to be in the high school auditorium.
As such, the debate ensued. Members of the organization argued for a few moments about the merits of deceased chickens prepared by a Cajun sailor, a southern colonel, or in a house of God. In the end, an argument was suggested by the primary participant of the TharpSter PounDown (aka: the ill fated attempts of a certain blogger to lose weight by watching what he eats, how much he eats, and how much exercise he gets). “Can we get something other than a box of all that is fried? I’ve been a good boy today and that stuff will just send it to hell.” For the record, the proof that I was a good boy is the picture of mixed fruit posted on today’s blog. As you will appreciate it more after reading this entire piece, no other pictures of food will be posted today.
“How about if we ‘Eat Fresh’?”
Strangely, we agreed to get submarine sandwiches.
Fast forward about 20 minutes and Junior and I are calling off our orders at our favorite place in which to get subs.
It’s really quite interesting about the place we went. They make your sandwich to order right in front of you. I’ve never had an incorrect order as a result.
Many years ago before the advent of “Eat Fresh”, one of their advertising campaigns sported the fact that their employees were “Sandwich Artists”. Quite fitting if you ask me, but deep down I could really argue the validity of the moniker.
Is everyone with me here? I was eating something fresh as prepared by a sandwich artist.
One other thing I learned about my regular sub shop that I hadn’t noticed before is that going in around 5pm tends to catch the sandwich artists at their peak of efficiency. They have 3 people manning the assembly line politely demanding to know what you want in your five, five, five dollar footlong.
In my case it was a 6″ roasted chicken with pepper jack cheese (toasted) when my dinner made it’s way to the young lady charged with applying roughage. “Hi, what veggies would you like on your roasted chicken?”
“Let’s start with spinach and lettuce….” I responded and then paused so as not to hit her with all my veggies at once. With that, the young sandwich artist called upon her years and years of training and study while on a work-study program somewhere most likely in the sandwich islands, grabbed a handful of spinach in her left hand, a handful of shredded lettuce in her right and threw it right onto the sandwich.
“What else?”
“Huh?” She had caught me off guard with the marvel of it all. “Oh. Tomato and onion…..” Nothing really different there from any other sandwich I had gotten there before.
“Anything else?”
“Ranch dressing.” After all, we are in Texas. Backing your truck into parking spots and applying ranch dressing to everything is not only observance of the law, it’s a sheer display of respect for the lone star state.
Granted, the application of ranch dressing didn’t seem to present itself as very respectful. Unless, of course, a farting noise created by the dressing bottle as it’s violently squeezed over your toasted and roasted chicken sandwich with pepper jack cheese, spinach, lettuce, tomatoes, and onion. If that’s the case, then that’s okay.
The next step was designed to mess with my obsessive compulsive disorder. That’s that little tick in my skull that makes me check my alarm 5 or 6 times every night before turning in; just to make sure it’s going to go off on time. That’s the little idiosyncrasy that makes me position things just so on the bathroom counter in the mornings when I’m getting ready for the day. That’s the little mental demand I feel when my submarine sandwich absolutely has to be oriented on that first piece of paper in a manner that’s parallel with the paper. The mere fact that the sandwich was turned at about 37 degrees on the paper in the past has been known to make veins within Cabeza del TharpSter to come dangerously close to a hull breach.
Yeah, I don’t know why so just chalk it up to hardwiring and leave me to my vices.
From there, the sandwich was thrown (not really, more like plopped) on the outer paper and wrapped with the expediency of a sandwich artist in a hurry.
It was delicious.
A little sloppy, but delicious none the less.
