Subway Attack

If you have ever eaten at an American restaurant, you will know what I mean when I say that the portion sizes are humongous. If you have not - then you are definitely missing out. I do not mean McDonalds, but other American fare. If you go to say, Chili’s or TGIF, you will know what I mean. Last week we were at Pizza Uno with friends (who were sampling that pizza for the first time). On seeing the size of the pizzas, the talk obviously turned to American portion sizes. And like fishermen comparing the size of the largest fish they had ever caught, we started exchanging notes on the largest meals we had tucked into (probably with a bit of embellishment).

That got me to thinking about a gastronomic mishap I experienced recently, and my feelings of angst, frustration and anger at the sheer size of modern day sandwiches.



This was about a month before we went on vacation. That particular day I was scheduled for a meeting at one of our more distant facilities which has a good canteen. Hence that day, I did not carry my customary lunch. As it turned out, the meeting was adjourned early, and I drove back all the way to my office before I realised that I had no lunch. On most days my lunch sits behind my desk with me having scant urge to eat it, and quite often I struggle to finish it. But that day, just the fact that I did not have that option made me ravenous!



I asked one of our Staff for some options, and she gave me a Subway (never been my favorite) menu. Beggars can’t be choosers, and since I was "dying" of starvation I asked her to order the largest size, with everything thrown in. My inexperience with this sort of lunch and my cavalier statement was not obvious to me, as you will soon realise. My lunch was delivered to me a while later, and as the sugar levels in my body were rapidly dropping, I decided to wade into it while it was still hot.



I closed my office door and opened up the wrapper to start eating. As soon as I unwrapped it, I knew that I could have a potential disaster in (and on) my hands. It was huge, and loaded with every meat, sauce and vegetable known to mankind. Even before I could take my first bite, it had started to ooze, and the smell of hot chilies, onions and mustard started permeating my room. I am not the most coordinated diner, and quite often make a mess of eating even a small burger. This was Godzilla in comparison! Before the second bite was inching into my esophagus, my fingers were already stained red and yellow, and then to my utter horror, pieces of salad started to fly of their own volition, shaking out small droplets of the various sauces all around my desk.



It was as if the sandwich had turned into a writhing snake in my hand. I had no control over it and, hence by extension, my environment. Now ,in my office a closed door does not indicate to anyone that the occupant seeks privacy. Staff and colleagues very often, casually open the door and stand around while I eat, much to my chagrin. That day I was petrified of anyone coming in. I was surrounded by multihued chaos, and my desk looked like a visually challenged, paint-mad child had just had a field day on it.


In my nervousness, I was attempting to eat faster, trying to cut down the window of opportunity for someone to barge-in on this repast from hell. Every time I heard approaching footsteps, my heart sank and my bladder contracted. This was Murphy's Law, and someone was bound to walk in. I could only imagine the sight that the intruder would be confronted with - a senior company executive hunched over his desk, eating like a hunted animal. My face smeared with ketchup, crumpled tissues all around, wrist-deep in a mutilated sandwich!



What was uppermost on my mind however, was my shirt. It was (obviously) a pristine white shirt, and I was worried that I might drop something indelible on it. I kept looking down, but thankfully had been spared that particular misery. Halfway through my sandwich, I reached out to grab another tissue as the sauces were threatening to invade my shirt cuffs - when it happened! Two pieces of pickle, camouflaged in the dappled colors of Mustard and Thousand Island sauce, leapt off the sides and landed like two ninjas on to my shirt front. I "literally" saw this in slow motion, in 'bullet-time' like in the Matrix movies, and with both hands being occupied with holding my food, I was transfixed. They landed as softly as mosquitoes, but the devastation to follow could have been caused by a Nitrogen Bomb. One of my favorite shirts was being pillaged in front of my eyes, and all I could do was look down in horror, while my mouth robotically kept munching away.



NOW, all I could think about was the meeting later that afternoon, and wonder as to how I could attend with the mess I had on my shirt. Having always tried to project an elegant and well groomed figure, I knew my reputation would be in tatters as soon as I left the confines of my office. By this time I was weeping with frustration and anger, and the sandwich was only half eaten. My brain was telling me to throw the sandwich away, my stomach was telling me that it was quite full - but by this time all reason had vanished! I was clamping down hard on each bite, masticating and grinding each morsel, to take vengeance on this “thing” in my hand. I imagined myself to be a carnivore gloriously and sadistically killing its prey - whereas the stark reality was an imbecile compounding a mess of his own creation.



My shirt was ruined as I knew that no amount of washing or bleaching could possibly clear the remnants of this battle. In my fevered state, I was cursing every American fast food outlet, and their lack of cuisine which makes them compensate (that lack) with size. I was wishing high cholesterol and clogged arteries on huge swathes of absolutely innocent populations who frequent such establishments. I looked around my office as I swallowed the last bite and realised that quite a bit of my lunch was spread on and around my desk and floor. Tissues were strewn around like dead soldiers, having fought and lost a valiant battle against a superior foe.



And as I quietly slunk out of my office to the washroom, I knew that I had been well and truly beaten by this sub. I had never taken a fancy to this particular franchise, but that day I had an almost pathological hatred for it.

However two questions still remained to be answered!

The first was whether to get one of the office boys to scrub my office with some industrial cleaning equipment, (with the distinct possibility of becoming a subject of embarrassing gossip), or to do the job myself?

And the second was whether to courageously (or foolishly) attend the meeting wearing a mottled shirt, or to make an excuse and exit the office from the backdoor?