Hold The Mayo

Ya gots to love the Subway.


That’s right, I said it.


I would have to say my first encounter with the sandwich shop was upon my arrival in Houston 25 years ago.  Since then, it has been and continues to be one of the first choices in the plethora of choices I have when it comes to picking a fast food joint.


They make your sandwich right there in front of you and put all the right stuff on it.  In fact, I can’t think of one time that my order ever came out wrong at a Subway.  Who could say the same about any other joint where you insisted that they hold the damn pickles off of your burger?


As if I even I have to discuss the nutritional benefits of anything I get at Subway over any of the other joints, the only thing I can do is to admonish you not to go there.




There was nearly an incident tonight, ladies and gentlemen.


While in line observing (more like supervising) the construction of a sweet onion chicken teriyaki sandwich tonight, I noted two behaviors which generally could have served to cancel each other out.


The young lady putting veggies on my sandwich made it a point to only use her left hand, which was gloved.  The right one was balled up in a fist and held behind her back.  Initially I thought it was part of a contest, but no one else was doing the same.  Def Leppard was playing on the radio over head, so perhaps it was a tribute to Rick Allen.


That was wrong too.  Allen is missing his left arm, not his right.  Believe me, I’ve checked.


Once she was done assembling my vittles, she reached to a knife with her right hand.  It was ungloved.  Her hand was too.  Aaaahhhh, good one.  She didn’t want to contaminate my food.  She was now grabbing the knife in order to use it to smoosh down my sandwich fillings so she could close it up.


Completely unacceptable.


“Whoah, whoah, whoah, I yelled.”


“What?” she inquired.


Let’s flash back to a mere two minutes earlier.  It was at that point that Wifey had her sandwich assembled and had mayonnaise put on it.  Mayo is up there with pickles in my book.  Given that I was at Subway ordering what I wanted, I didn’t have to worry about it.


Or did I?


Once the young gentlemen finished Wifey’s sandwich he had used the knife for the obligatory smooshing, and then cut the sandwich.  He then put the knife down, complete with the contents of Wifey’s sandwich on the knife.  “Ick” is generally what I thought.  “Good thing I’m getting a six inch that doesn’t have to be cut up.”


Flash forward back to where we were before I flashed back.  My ability to yell out “Whoah, whoah, whoah” had better timing than yelling out “Whisky Tango Foxtrot”, and probably saved the help at Subway from having to remake my sandwich.


“Yeah you did good with the whole Rick Allen impersonation to avoid touching my sandwich, but I need you to wipe that knife off real well before you put unwanted mayo on my sandwich.  The alternative is that my order goes south on us and you break a 25 year streak of my getting correct orders from Subway.  Now do you want that on your semi-gloved hands?”


“Heavens to Betsy,” she exclaimed, “you’re right.  I’m so sorry.”


“That’s quite alright,” I responded, “tragedy has been averted and the day is saved.  Let’s make this a combo with these Sun Chips here.”



Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

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