Revenge is Six Inches and Best Served Fresh and Cold

Revenge is definitely sweet. Although in this particular story, I am not a victim, and my target is not the perpetrator.

My loyal readers would not be able to miss out the many posts I wrote during the chapter of my life where I worked as a Sandwich Artist at Subway. But if you are new (or ignorant) let me enlighten you, I’ve worked in Subway the fast food restaurant for two months. And two days ago was the first time I found myself on the opposite side of the counter.

I made the first mistake before I even knew I made it. I told the man my order before I chose my bread. How ironic. I’ve served so many customers who made the same mistake. By now I should have learnt not to make the same mistake now. Well, foolish me told my menu to the man anyway and then smiled confidently. Then he repeated the phrase that I have chanted like a mantra for two months: “Your Bread?” My smile faltered.
I wanted to tell him, “Can I have the biggest six inch there is?” but he looked very professional and how could I bring myself to stoop so low before him? Instead, I asked for a Parmesan six inch.

He confirmed my order once more and proceeded to dress the sandwich. At this point, I recognised a beeping noise in the background. I looked behind the man and my suspicions were confirmed, the speed oven toaster was the source of the noise. A bread has been put inside and the timer is up. The girl at salad bar was either deaf, or did not care. I grumbled to myself, thinking that I could definitely do a better job. If I have learnt anything from my two months working at subway, it’s that I have an invisible pair of arms. Behold, I’m Fred the human semi-octopus.

After several seconds of beeping, the man finally opened the oven door. But to my surprise, shock and distaste, he left the toasted bread inside and the door open. I would have taken the bread out and shut the oven door. The pre-heated air must not escape or else the oven would take a minute or so to reheat itself and in all fast food restaurants, time is of the essence.

After another period of time where time slowed and the seconds were palpably agonising (to me at least), the man alerted the girl beside him who nodded and took another couple of seconds to retrieve the toasted bread and shut the oven door. Poor poor oven.

I peered at the girl from the corner of my eyes and she did not seem cheerful. The man on the other hand seemed like he genuinely loved his job. I moved down the line and observed my own sandwich which, fortunately, did not go through the same process as the previous sandwich did.

Unfortunately, my sandwich now sat in the hands of a very grouchy girl. She held it as if it was dung that sat on the baking paper instead of my beloved sandwich. She looked down at it then up at me, and from her eyes, one could honestly believe that it really was dung that sat on the baking paper.
She did not open her mouth to chant the mantra “Vegetables?” so I took the initiative to tell her “All except jalapeños and pickles” instead.
She then began to stretch her claws to fetch the vegetables from their respective cambros. You could hear the lettuce screaming in terror as the witch ripped them away from their friends and family. I then requested for extra onions and olives, to which she did not acknowledge or nod to, but I did get my extra serving anyway. I would have liked a bit more courtesy with it though.
Then when it came to sauce, I did not get a vocal prompt, but instead she pointed her ‘dung-stare’ at me once more. She accompanied it with a casual wave of her hand.
I chose the Honey Mustard, Sweet Onion and Mayonnaise. She gave me a decent amount of each, par for the mayonnaise. It was a pathetic strip of white no longer than two inches in the middle of the six inch sandwich. It looked like the amount of toothpaste I squeeze on my toothbrush every morning. Disgruntled, I asked for more. AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT SHE DID?
That whore witch gave me another dung look and then she AUDIBLY SIGHED or harumph-ed, to be more exact. Then she gave my sandwich another strip of white that was still less than decent. In retrospect, I should have been furious but at the time, I was amused. I have a pseudo-sadistic tendency where I derive pleasure from annoying people. That huff of agitation from her genuinely made my day.

But honestly, is it that difficult to love your job? In my opinion, customers with special requests colour my job with variety. What would my subway experience be without the customers with horrible atrocious pronunciation? Imagine how dull it would be if everyone requested the exact same order and spoke the same way. This story goes out to the difficult customers, because they are underappreciated, misunderstood and wrongly and unjustly despised.

Revenge is Six Inches and Best Served Fresh and Cold

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