I really do appreciate when someone down here tries to get it right. And to clarify, I'm talking about things like restaurants and business services and whatnot. Not things like character development or learning to make good decisions. Of course I'm happy when someone does that...goes without saying. It's kind of what I do here.
But living in a third world country away from your home culture has it's challenges and struggles somedays. So when there's a restaurant or business that clicks with you and reminds you of home...it's nice. I'm not advocating that Bolivia become North American or anything (heaven forbid)...but once in awhile it's nice to eat food that tastes like it looks like it should.
Which brings me to Subway. I love Subway. I mean...I really, really LOVE Subway. It's the first place I go when I hit the airport in Miami. When I lived in Saskatoon there was a Subway a block and a half from my house and the "Sandwich Artist" kid behind the counter knew my order. I'm sure I ate there a least twice a week (okay...maybe more).
So when Subway opened in Santa Cruz you can imagine my reaction. The gong of joy in my heart rang loud and true. I'm sure my mouth dropped open the day I saw that glorious sign and if I was a person who cried I would have cried huge, wet tears of happiness.
But sadly, as with many things in life and in Bolivia...it didn't last. I went a few times and eventually the pang of disappointment was too much and I stopped going. It just wasn't the same. It's been long enough now since I've gone that I've almost gotten over the slight pain I feel in my heart every time I drive past a Subway sign.
Which brings me to Monday night. I was at the airport dropping off a couple of my friends. One of them, Jeremy (who's just freshly arrived from the States and hasn't had time to become jaded yet) commented on the fresh, happy smell of baking bread coming from the airport's nearby Subway store. Maybe it was his naive excitement or maybe it was my age induced memory loss...but after my friends got on their plane, I meandered past Subway's little corner.
The thing is...it looks the same. I mean exactly the same. They even got rid of their McDonald style plastic tables and put in those lounge chairs and little short coffee tables that no one could possibly eat a sub at without being uncomfortably hunched over...just like in North America! "Look!" my heart said, "Surely it'll taste the same now! They have the same stupid tables and chairs!"
So I got in line.
I faltered momentarily when I saw the menu and prices and realized I was about to spend twice what a normal plate of food costs here. But then I watched as my favourite Parmesano Orégano bread came freshly out of the oven...and I caved to tempation and desire.
I made it past the meat and cheese selection fairly unscathed. I wasn't thrilled with the three little pieces of ham or the one slice of cheese that adorned each half of my sandwich. But I decided I could live with that.
Lettuce is lettuce. So whatever.
Then I asked for a few onions. I'm not a huge onion fan, so honestly... I was very clear on "a few!" The girl hesitated for a moment as if she couldn't understand why I would say that and then procceded to put as many sliced onions on the sandwich as there was lettuce on the thing. Seriously. When I later walked through the airport I'm sure people wondered at the the smell of onions wafting behind me...
Okay whatever, I can pick them off.
Then came green peppers. I really like green peppers. Always have. My "Sandwich Artist" kid (yea, I kind of enoy writing that) in Saskatoon would load up my sub so much that you could eat the thing without leaving great chunks of pepper behind.
So I winced slightly at the sad, two little pieces of green pepper she carefully laid side by side on each half of the sandwich. Which is weird 'cause it's not like green peppers are so much more rare and expensive than the stupid onions. But whatever.
The tomatoes looked kind of dicey so I skipped them and went straight to the olives. I also like pickles but I learned long ago that Bolivian pickles bear no resemblance to real pickles in any way whatsoever. Except maybe that they're green. But nothing else.
So yea...the olives. No lie, the girl counted out four pieces of olive for each half. And I'm not even talking about olive slices here. I'm talking about a slice of olive cut in half. So...a piece.
After carefully placing each of the four pieces of olive on the sandwich she hesitated and then carefully put on one more "piece" of olive on each half. Oh, the generosity of it all. Warms my heart it does.
I skipped the bacon. I could say that it's bad for my heart, but we all know I couldn't really care less about that. Reality is...a floppy, half-cooked slice of pork just doesn't really help improve my sub sandwich experience at all. I know, I KNOW...it's bacon! How can you ruin bacon? But as it turns out, you really can.
Then with a dribble (and I do mean dribble) of sweet onion sauce, I was on my way. I did break with form and tradition here and asked for another dribble of sauce. She grudginly complied. But her heart wasn't in it.
I wish I could convey what it's like to then eat the above described sandwich. It's kind of like eating the ghost of a memory. I'm not sure what that means exactly but wow, let's be honest...that's some impressive alliteration. It's like your mouth almost remembers and recognizes what you're eating...but just not quite...
Granted the bread is pretty good. No complaints there. If you squish the sandwich around in your mouth a bit and try your darndest to ignore the overpowering flavour of onions...you can almost catch the ham and cheese in there. The flavour of green pepper is a joke and the olives? A distant memory...
And so...once again...my heart has become jaded and cold. Thanks you Bolivian Subway. Fortunately, the lack of a good sub sandwich isn't going to exactly impact my life in any substancial way. And in three weeks I'll be passing through Miami and come hurricanes or floods or South Beach gangsta dudes with their Cadilac Escalades...I'm eating a freaking Subway Melt with pickles and olives and bacon.
Wow...this is a really long post about a sandwich. I should maybe have mentioned that at the begining...
But living in a third world country away from your home culture has it's challenges and struggles somedays. So when there's a restaurant or business that clicks with you and reminds you of home...it's nice. I'm not advocating that Bolivia become North American or anything (heaven forbid)...but once in awhile it's nice to eat food that tastes like it looks like it should.
Which brings me to Subway. I love Subway. I mean...I really, really LOVE Subway. It's the first place I go when I hit the airport in Miami. When I lived in Saskatoon there was a Subway a block and a half from my house and the "Sandwich Artist" kid behind the counter knew my order. I'm sure I ate there a least twice a week (okay...maybe more).
So when Subway opened in Santa Cruz you can imagine my reaction. The gong of joy in my heart rang loud and true. I'm sure my mouth dropped open the day I saw that glorious sign and if I was a person who cried I would have cried huge, wet tears of happiness.
But sadly, as with many things in life and in Bolivia...it didn't last. I went a few times and eventually the pang of disappointment was too much and I stopped going. It just wasn't the same. It's been long enough now since I've gone that I've almost gotten over the slight pain I feel in my heart every time I drive past a Subway sign.
Which brings me to Monday night. I was at the airport dropping off a couple of my friends. One of them, Jeremy (who's just freshly arrived from the States and hasn't had time to become jaded yet) commented on the fresh, happy smell of baking bread coming from the airport's nearby Subway store. Maybe it was his naive excitement or maybe it was my age induced memory loss...but after my friends got on their plane, I meandered past Subway's little corner.
The thing is...it looks the same. I mean exactly the same. They even got rid of their McDonald style plastic tables and put in those lounge chairs and little short coffee tables that no one could possibly eat a sub at without being uncomfortably hunched over...just like in North America! "Look!" my heart said, "Surely it'll taste the same now! They have the same stupid tables and chairs!"
So I got in line.
I faltered momentarily when I saw the menu and prices and realized I was about to spend twice what a normal plate of food costs here. But then I watched as my favourite Parmesano Orégano bread came freshly out of the oven...and I caved to tempation and desire.
I made it past the meat and cheese selection fairly unscathed. I wasn't thrilled with the three little pieces of ham or the one slice of cheese that adorned each half of my sandwich. But I decided I could live with that.
Lettuce is lettuce. So whatever.
Then I asked for a few onions. I'm not a huge onion fan, so honestly... I was very clear on "a few!" The girl hesitated for a moment as if she couldn't understand why I would say that and then procceded to put as many sliced onions on the sandwich as there was lettuce on the thing. Seriously. When I later walked through the airport I'm sure people wondered at the the smell of onions wafting behind me...
Okay whatever, I can pick them off.
Then came green peppers. I really like green peppers. Always have. My "Sandwich Artist" kid (yea, I kind of enoy writing that) in Saskatoon would load up my sub so much that you could eat the thing without leaving great chunks of pepper behind.
So I winced slightly at the sad, two little pieces of green pepper she carefully laid side by side on each half of the sandwich. Which is weird 'cause it's not like green peppers are so much more rare and expensive than the stupid onions. But whatever.
The tomatoes looked kind of dicey so I skipped them and went straight to the olives. I also like pickles but I learned long ago that Bolivian pickles bear no resemblance to real pickles in any way whatsoever. Except maybe that they're green. But nothing else.
So yea...the olives. No lie, the girl counted out four pieces of olive for each half. And I'm not even talking about olive slices here. I'm talking about a slice of olive cut in half. So...a piece.
After carefully placing each of the four pieces of olive on the sandwich she hesitated and then carefully put on one more "piece" of olive on each half. Oh, the generosity of it all. Warms my heart it does.
I skipped the bacon. I could say that it's bad for my heart, but we all know I couldn't really care less about that. Reality is...a floppy, half-cooked slice of pork just doesn't really help improve my sub sandwich experience at all. I know, I KNOW...it's bacon! How can you ruin bacon? But as it turns out, you really can.
Then with a dribble (and I do mean dribble) of sweet onion sauce, I was on my way. I did break with form and tradition here and asked for another dribble of sauce. She grudginly complied. But her heart wasn't in it.
I wish I could convey what it's like to then eat the above described sandwich. It's kind of like eating the ghost of a memory. I'm not sure what that means exactly but wow, let's be honest...that's some impressive alliteration. It's like your mouth almost remembers and recognizes what you're eating...but just not quite...
Granted the bread is pretty good. No complaints there. If you squish the sandwich around in your mouth a bit and try your darndest to ignore the overpowering flavour of onions...you can almost catch the ham and cheese in there. The flavour of green pepper is a joke and the olives? A distant memory...
And so...once again...my heart has become jaded and cold. Thanks you Bolivian Subway. Fortunately, the lack of a good sub sandwich isn't going to exactly impact my life in any substancial way. And in three weeks I'll be passing through Miami and come hurricanes or floods or South Beach gangsta dudes with their Cadilac Escalades...I'm eating a freaking Subway Melt with pickles and olives and bacon.
Wow...this is a really long post about a sandwich. I should maybe have mentioned that at the begining...
6 comments:
About every three months I'd buy a can of diet coke... praying that somehow my memory was completely failing me and that it wasn't near as bad as I remembered. It was always worse. I gave up! I feel your pain ...
A well written and entertaining post--you are too funny!
Funniest, most well written post to date! I actually felt bad for you. LOL Subway is on me when you come to town.
So, I assume that next time you're in Canada, we should go to Subway?
Also, "eating the ghost of a memory" is probably my favourite line in the history of your blog.
I know right? I was proud of that line... =)
See you soon!
Whenever you're in town, the Subway at Mac's downtown is the best. If you go in the evening, you may be fortunate enough to get Ernesto to make your sandwich. He will fill it full so that you have to squeeze it to get it in your mouth. :)
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