Subway: Americas Favorite Domestic Dispute
I like a good sandwich. I even like the prospect of only paying five dollars for twelve inches of health conscious meat, cheese and bread. On paper, Subway and I are a dream match up. But here’s the kicker – none of the things on paper account for what happens when you actually go into a Subway.
For me, it’s like walking into a long-standing and particularly nasty domestic dispute. If you’ve ever been friends with the couple that always gets into raging arguments really early in the night, and then had to be with them the remainder of the night as they sent beams of hate to each other – well, you’ll know what its like to be at a Subway.
From what I’ve seen, all the employees hate each other. They argue openly. They constantly yell and harass each other about how they forgot stuff. Seriously, how do I, as a customer, respond as you complain about the “dumbass” who didn’t restock the meatballs last night?
I’ll go in there happy and feeling great about the day, a real the-future-is-mine kind of feeling. By the time I leave I’ve been made to feel bad because I wanted the bread with the herbs and cheese and been to exposed to so much distrust and dislike that my self-esteem is low enough for me to consider a job in the porn industry.
I think part of the problem is that all the stores are so small. Its like they decided to put their restaurants in a hallway. Is that part of the whole subway theme? They want their places to be small enough to fit in one? Come to think of it, maybe the whole feel-like-a-subway theme is why they didn’t kick out that bum who kept asking me for change as I waited for an employee to hate-fuck my sandwich.
And yes, I understand that there might be some positive Subway experiences out there (I’ve yet to have one) and I realize that I may just be finding all the wrong ones. But there have to be others out there who find that the super positive singing and dancing of the commercials creates a little cognitive dissonance with the parents-just-realized-that-divorce-is-the-only-answer vibe of the actual in-store experience.
Let me know if I’m wrong. I’m pretty sure I’m not.
Also, I realize I really rediscovered the old hyphenate-the-words thing, but I like it.
“All we have is Italian Bread”
“Oh, did you say No black olives or Lots of black olives”
“Mayo, Mustard or Hate-Fuck?”
Completely agree. I have gotten in this very argument over and over with rabid Subway-defenders.
In addition to your above points, I can’t get over how fast they try to rush you through their fucking sandwich gauntlet. Ok…let me say this…I know you hate your life and can’t fathom how you ended up making grown adults their own sandwiches. I get it. But give me more than 12 seconds to decide which of the 48 toppings available I would like. You have fucking shredded carrots as a choice, for crying out loud. And don’t give me 15 sauce options and get pissed when I take a moment to pick one.
I have gone home numerous times disappointed with my Subway creation and cursed at the employee who rushed me through the process..all so he/she could get back outside and finish puffing on the Newport Light they left burning on the curb. Fuck
Speaking of black olives and Subway, My sandwich-de-life at age 18 was a turkey with mustard and black olives. I know… I think I had a taste bud problem or something, but its beside the point.
I have been uncharged at least 8 times by Subway for asking if it wouldn’t be too much trouble to add a few extra olives to the 6 they sprinkled on my sandwich.
Thats my hard earned 60¢ homeboy.
I could add tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, onions, oil, vinegar, any number of sauces, even pickles for no charge… but those black olives are me overstepping my Subway boundaries.
One of the Surly can back me up on this, he’s an eye witness.
I frequent the same subway (it’s close to work) about 3 times a week… When I walk in and see the superior sandwhich-handler working the register and his freshly hired rookie handling the goods… how do I casually announce that I want the ‘other guy’ to make my sandwhich without offending the newby? It’s like getting a bad haircut… you see that they are royaly fucking you over, but you don’t say anything. You wait until you get in your car and scream like you’re confined to a sound-proof box.