I'm a Subway fan. I'll admit it. Its not because the food is great (its mediocre), its not because the service is great (although I do have people who recognize me as a "regular" at the subway on campus, which is kinda nice), its not because the price is great (its not), and its not because I'm trying to lose weight (I am, but Subway definitely does not factor in). I like subway because my dad buys me subway cards, as a gift, and mails them to me.
Having a "trio" with a warm cookie, that was bought with a gift card from home makes me feel less alone, I guess. Cheesy, right? Also, who am I to argue with free food.
But that's not what I'm here to talk about. I'm here to talk about Subway "Sandwich Artist's" sometimes alarming art, the way we fall in line with it, and the uniqueness of Subway in Quebec.
First, Subway in Quebec. Their combo is a trio (though this isn't just a Subway thing). Their sandwich du jour selection (known to us simple folks as Subathaday) has a great deal more variety than what I am used to in Saskatchewan. In Saskatchewan, it ranges from Ham, to BMT, to roast beef, right up to (of course) tuna salad on a Friday. Here, bbq pork is thrown into the mix, as well as Wednesday's (todays) unique offering: fruits de mer.
Sidebar: fruits de mer : fruits of the sea (known to us simple folks as seafood)
pomme de terre: apple of the earth (known to us simple folks as 'potato')
* I am not certain why the French language has this propensity to add a touch of poetry to the names for such unpoetical things as crabs and potatoes, but what the hell, right?
Back to Subway, and the sandwich art.
So, I sidle up to the counter, and mutter "Subathaday, sizzinch . . .brown" in my (no doubt terrible) western accent. The girl slops some (raw? lightly cooked? preserved? I dunno) crab meat onto the bun and hastily asks "cheddar or swiss?"
"Swiss," I respond automatically, though honestly the notion of having dairy on a seafood sandwich is somehow stomach turning. She took me off guard! I answered by rote. To my horror, she passes off my sandwich to the guy running the toaster oven. I watch as the sandwich goes in, envisioning the cheese covered, unhappy, possibly rancid pile of fishmeat that will come out. The guy behind me happily orders extra cheese on his fruits de mer, and his goes in the toaster too.
My sandwich emerges, looking like something an Italian hacked up, and now I am at the veggie station. "Everything except the cucumbers and green peppers" I say, in a state of despair, knowing nothing can salvage my sandwich now.
"Ranch" comes my helpless reply. Ranch dressing is spurted on top of my (I swear it is moving) pile of crabmeat and melted cheese, the lid is put on the sandwich, and the sandwich is safely bound in its wrapper, and tucked away in a sandwich bag condom. Presumably so it cannot escape.
I obtain my cookies, my drink, and make my way out of the restaurant to find a sunny place to sit and eat. (Ironically, when I go to sit down, my sandwich really does make a run for it, almost spilling out of the bag). But when I eat it, its not so bad. In fact, it tastes pretty much like every other damn subway sandwich I have ever had.
Which brought me to contemplate the role of the sandwich artist. The sandwich artist, is very much like the artist who covers himself in paint and throws himself at a white wall. The pattern may be ugly, little thought or craft goes into it, and yet somehow, some customer somewhere is going to be satisfied.
Eat fresh, guys.