Subway

Don’t ask what I was doing eating at Subway. It was one of those moments of desperation. I just want to point out that the guy who made my sandwich went into the back and returned with a huge bag of spinach after I stated my preference for it as opposed to lettuce. He then generously smothered my sandwich with spinach instead of the strategically-​placed four leaves bullshit that some Subways do. He then slipped two free cookies into my bag when he rang me up. I think the reason he was so nice though was because a) the store was empty and b) it’s a neighborhood Subway as opposed to a Times Square Subway. That or he must really have a thing for hungover girls in sweats.

I’ve come here a few times and have to say this is the cheapest subway I’ve ever been to. I get subway every day for lunch and stumbled upon this one during the evening one night. They said they would charge me extra for green peppers, and the guy was extremely rude about it. Really? Lol. Won’t be going back here, ever.

Once, a friend who worked as a sanitation inspector in Northern California told me that the dirtiest restaurants are generally Subway branches. But enough about that, or there wouldn’t be time to bring up any of the other reasons why it is always a defeat to walk into any Subway in America…
Subway is one of the most insidious chains in the world; ubiquitous but sneaky, occupying a range of environs such as the fanciest parts of Midtown West to the slummiest depths of, well, the subway system. Subway is the place where no aroma of cooking wafts from the store because everything was magically prepped elsewhere and pre-​ordained to be squashed between two wilted lengths of that hideous hallmark bread of theirs.
The store’s logo always shows up right when you get that If-I-Don’t-Eat-A-Bunch-of-Shit-Right-Now-I-Will-Faint-On-The-Street feeling you get maybe once a year. So, even the most passionate haters of Subway have patronized the source of all their loathing. This is how they know the horrors. I am one of these people, so I will tell you exactly how it is here and everywhere else.
You were feeling kind of chubby after slacking off on exercise for a whole week. At work, your jeans pinched the whole time, and you sat funny like you were trying to hold in a fart, and rather than alleviating the tightness of your pants, it only served to wind your back up. You couldn’t wait to get out of work and hit the treadmill; you stared at the clock so hard the minutes started going backwards.
At the gym, you really let it rip. You did maybe an hour on the ‘mill, and another one hiking hills on the Precor. While powerwalking home to enjoy skipping dinner, you suddenly did a 180 and walked straight into the Subway, mainly thinking about half a bag of Doritos sitting in your kitchen from the Superbowl. Mustn’t let them go stale…
«Are you open…» you trail off as you see a man with a hood in the corner, getting it on with a limp sub. You stare up at the glossy photo menu as the two workers smirk at you because you are obviously going to buy a five dollar foot-​long of something. By the way, a five dollar foot-​long in New York City costs $ 5.44. Thanks, Manhattan, for taxing us for eating.
You get the Italian sub because it doesn’t look as dribbly as some or as dry as the others. Immediately they ask you what kind of bread you want. Shit, you forgot that you always forget the answer to this question. «D’uhh…» you say, and look down at a photo guide at eye level, pasted onto the glass covering all the little sandwich bits in their respective cartons, with some mixing between the disarrayed veggies. Oh, now you remember why you always forget what breads they have here; because there are only four alternatives and they all literally look the same; brown and shriveled. Somehow, you recall that honey oat is vaguely sweet, the cheese crusted roll is not really made of cheese, but that the others taste like socks. You go for the non-​cheese cheese bread.
They ask if you want it toasted. Obviously. In about two seconds of real time, they pull the still-​limp, now room temp bread from the «toaster,» and ask you what vegetables you want. You really try to pack it in, because you figure that the only thing to counteract your selection of a sandwich with three processed meats in it is to have a ton of veggies and tell yourself it’s what your body needs anyway.
You ask for lettuce, green peppers, pepperoncini, tomato, and spinach. He grabs just a pinch of each, then dusts them off his (gloved? ungloved? whoops, don’t remember) fingers onto the bed of bread like Ursula the Sea Witch making a potion to steal Ariel’s voice before permitting her to go on land. You resist the urge to beg him for more spinach, just because you want to hurry up and go sit alone in the semi-​darkness and house the twelve inches down your throat.
You pay, go home, sit down, and eat the whole damn thing. You take extra care to chew the veggies, expecting the fibrous resistance of food that actually contains nutrients. Instead, the myriad of fillings all kind of blend in together and manage to be dominated by the bland starch of the bread. Altogether, the combo tastes just like every branch smells, and wondering whether the food scents the shop or the shop scents the food is tantamount to pondering whether the chicken or the egg came first. In fact, these thoughts make you sick, but you divert both nausea and self-​hatred with the remaining shards of powdery Doritos because yes, you finished the whole bag — we’re talking the biggest bag they sell, not the medium bag which some people think is the largest one available for common retail.
Too weak to even turn on the TV, you sit there mouth breathing. Finally, you understand what truly morbidly obese people feel like (I’m not being facetious). You feel hopeless, helpless, but most of all just oddly relieved… until the next hit.

Your standard neighborhood Subway. Rarely is there a line. Limited seating. Nicely satisfies my occasional tuna sandwich craving.