Just Fix The Damn Sandwich

If you read the title of this post, then you know that I’m going to be writing about food. If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, then you know that when I talk about food, I also have to tell you guys about all of my food problems first to set the scene, so to speak. Skip to the story if you know the spiel, or continue reading if you either don’t know the spiel or want to hear it again, because it gives you a little comfort knowing that no matter how weird you are, you’ll never be as weird as the dork with the blog.

I’ve been given a lot of titles in my life — daughter, sister, wife, mother, foul-mouthed bitch. Picky eater is another one of my titles. Always have been, always will be, I imagine. I do try to eat different foods on occasion (such as my husband’s amazing looking salad from Viva Chicken that had kale, avocado, onions, and beans). Unfortunately, no matter how scrumptious the foods look or smell, I have a tough time getting past certain textures, so I’m forever the weirdo who orders chicken nuggets at Mexican restaurants and asks for “double cheeseburgers without cheese” at certain burger chains that refuse to let me order in a normal fashion.

Despite my pickiness, there are a few things that I do like that others consider weird. One of those is the pepperoni sub, something I fell in love with when I was pregnant with Little Man. And let me tell you, that pepperoni sub was the bane of my husband’s existence during that pregnancy. In addition to the tear fests and demands for bags of Sonic’s yummy ice, I would regularly send him out to Jersey Mike’s for a pepperoni sub.

I know what you’re thinking — “A pepperoni sub doesn’t sound so bad. What’s not to like about pizza subs?”

This is where I tell you that when I say pepperoni sub, I literally mean just pepperoni and bread. No cheese. No sauce. No veggies. Nothing but pepperoni on sub bread.

Whenever my husband would go out to buy me these subs, he’d always get looked at like a freak, because it is apparently unheard of in the sub world for people to order subs with one ingredient on them. (I get treated like a freak when I order subs with only turkey and a bit of mustard, but it’s nothing compared to the judgment that comes with pepperoni subs.) He’d explain that he was buying them for his pregnant wife, which would get him a little bit of understanding, but they still thought it was strange, even as far as pregnancy cravings go.

With many pregnant women, their crazy pregnancy cravings go away after their wombs are evacuated, but that wasn’t the case with me. Even though I rarely eat them now because I’ll get ferocious heartburn, I still very much enjoy pepperoni subs.

Earlier this week, I took my son to see the new Ant Man movie. After it was over, I popped into the Firehouse Subs place for a pepperoni sub, since it had been forever and a day since I had one. This did not go well, which you’ve probably gathered from the title of this post.

I placed the order for the pepperoni sub and got this reaction:

I explained. Pepperoni. Bread. That’s it.

I’ve never seen someone look so confused since roundabouts started becoming a thing in the south. The cashier quickly tapped out and called over who I assume was the manager to handle me. He asked what I wanted and I repeated “A pepperoni sub. Just pepperoni on a white sub roll.”

No. Pepperoni. Bread. That’s all.

(By the way — this isn’t the first time a manager has had to be called over to handle my order. Check out the time I ordered a whole chicken by accident.)

He rang it up as a turkey sub, adding a $2 charge for extra meat. Whaaat? I’m only getting one ingredient on this sandwich and I have to pay more? Eh, whatever. I just wanted my sub.

There was much giggling while my sub was being prepared. I was asked no less than eight times if I was certain that I only wanted pepperoni on my sub. Little Man disappeared at one point. I figured he was embarrassed by his mom, but after we left and I asked, he hadn’t noticed a thing. Before I was given my sub, one of the other workers made one last attempt at getting me to put something on my sandwich.

She sounded legitimately concerned for my well-being. I can only imagine what was going through her head. “Is she off her meds? Is she of sound mind to care for the child who is with her? Should I call child and adult protective services?”

I briefly considered telling her that I was allergic to cheese and all of the other things, but I know that’s a douchey move considering how many people with serious allergies and sensitivities don’t get taken seriously, so I didn’t. After I told her that I was certain, she asked, “Well, you don’t want the pickle…do you?”

It made perfect sense that she’d assume I wouldn’t want that pickle, but I did, in fact, want the pickle.

When my sandwich was finally handed over, I left. There was no way in hell I’d have stuck around to eat it in there. I opened it up in the car, and my son, who claimed he wasn’t remotely hungry when we went in the restaurant, commented that it smelled good and asked for a bite. Being the little genius he is, he immediately recognized what a good sandwich it was and asked for half of it, which I gave him.

The confusion and giggling and likelihood that they’ll plaster a photo of me next to the register saying, “Do not serve this woman” was worth it. The sandwich was damn good.

On a side note, I told my husband that I should’ve left, gone down to Subway, and brought back my sub (assuming they’d make it without a hassle) and have a Pretty Woman moment. Show off my wonderful sub and tell them they made a big mistake. Huge. 😉

Just so you guys know, bacon sandwiches are awesome, too. Just add a bunch of bacon to a sandwich and toast it in a bit of bacon grease, and you’ve got the second best sandwich in existence. 

What is the weirdest thing you’ve ever ordered in a restaurant?

Advertisements