Dear Subway

An open letter to the Subway employee who constructed my sandwich tonight at the downtown Hillmomba Subway:

Dear Sandwich Engineer:

Thank you so much for slicing the bread in the middle of the loaf, and apportioning my ingredients just so. I was quite impressed. Usually, there is a large hunk of bottom loaf, and a paper-thin top bread lid that gets all juicy and slides off the sandwich with every bite. Likewise, the roasted chicken breast was placed evenly on the bread, and all the veggies were parceled out so that there was no mound of jalapenos, no single pickle slice longing for company. Yes. It was quite impressive. I bit into it with a song in my heart.

But that song was soon squelched by the tidal wave of spicy mustard that flooded onto my discerning palate. True, I did request spicy mustard, through my proxy, HH. I was not there to see the building of my sandwich, to see the little flourishes you added to make my dining experience unique. I suppose HH was distracted when you picked up that spicy mustard bottle, you with your forearms like Popeye's, except yours were built by squeezing the spicy mustard bottle rather than cans of spinach. Perhaps HH's inattention was due to his argument with the meater.

And to you, dear Meater, let me ask that you not use my husband's hard-headedness as fodder for your sandwichy paybacks. When HH said that he wanted the cheese from MY sandwich put onto HIS sandwich, and you asked, "So you want double cheese?" and HH said, "No. I'm not paying for double cheese. I want the cheese from THAT sandwich put on THIS sandwich, because she wants hers with no cheese, and I'm not letting it go to waste," perhaps, just perhaps, you could have continued making the sandwiches without letting on how exasperated you were with my dear, sweet life partner. Because your actions caused him to come home whining that, "You'd think I asked them to reinvent the samweeg." Because that's how he talks, my HH.

Don't mess with him, Subway Sandwich Team. He has a stupid chicken that eschews her custom-made coop and roosts on the water dish, and furthermore has the audacity to withhold eggs, thus refusing to redeem her bartering price of one-half a twelve pack of Busch, and who might even be some stranger-than-fiction form of a chicken tranny, what with having a big red comb, and picking a fight with the rooster. Be forewarned. HH is near the breaking point over this eggless ingrate. I wouldn't want him to snap in your establishment.

Your Loyal Customer,
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom