When I turned sixteen I wound up quitting school and getting my first full-time job. It happened to be at a Subway a few miles from my house. I got the job because several of my drop-out, stoner friends already worked there. Before I was ever employed there, I'd spent plenty of nights eating sandwiches, playing music too loud, and generally misbehaving in the back room. The place was different in the light of day. Squnity-eyed, and up too early, I arrived with an application one morning. After a short interview with the owner, Marty, I was hired. I could never have guessed how much this job would affect the rest of my life. Dropping out of school was huge, but if you knew me at sixteen, you would have agreed that it was inevitable. At the time, working at Subway seemed like an insignificant part of my life story. It's funny how things turn out.
It's important to mention that ours was a sort of renegade Subway. Marty used the Subway sign, bags, cups, napkins, and bread dough because he believed it drew more customers in, but he ran the place like a deli. We cut our own veggies, sliced our own meats, and played by our own rules. We knew the name of every customer in our lunch rush, and could get people in and out the door in minutes. It was the only Subway that I have ever seen with a line wrapped around the block. To put it simply, we kicked ass. Of course, the Subway regional office was never crazy about Marty's antics. Those jerks from corporate were always breathing down our necks.
Marty gets a lot of credit for getting me in touch with what eventually turned out to be a huge part of my life, food. It was Marty who taught me that mastering something, even if it is as simple as baking the perfect cookie, or slicing the perfect sub roll was worthwhile. He became one of my best friends, and one of my fiercest critics. Marty had no tolerance for wasted motion or half-assed efforts. If he made you a sandwich, you could bet your life that it would be perfect, though it would be one of hundreds he'd made that day.
In fact, it wouldn't be any exageration to say that Marty was obsessed with sandwiches. During slow times, we'd entertain ourselves by swing dancing down the aisles, trading stories, or just talking about food. He told me that a great sandwich had to be built thoughtfully. Every bite should be consistent in flavor and texture. Toppings should never be skimped on, because a sandwich should always look full, but not overflowing. If lettuce is the only topping someone wants, than pile it on. If they wanted the works, keep it even and tidy. "What's the point of a sandwich if you can't fit it in your mouth?", Marty used to say.
Marty also believed that the order the ingredients are placed on the bread is hugely important. Supposedly, the bottom of the sandwich is the first thing you taste, so you can control the whole experience by choosing where each ingredient goes. You also need to consider how ingredients interact. Lettuce, for example, can behave like a sponge, giving mayonaise extra presence. If the mayonaise is placed poorly, in between the meat and cheese for instance, it can be distastrous. Imagine taking a bite, only to have the contents slide out the other side.
I like to think of that little sandwich shop as if it were in a kung fu movie. Marty was my sandwich sensei, and I his lowly apprentice. There were so many pearls of wisdom he shared with me over the years. I could probably write an entire book of lessons from Marty. It's all I can do to keep from blurting them all out right now. Instead, I'll describe, for you, my perfect Subway Sandwich.
Start with a foot long roll, cut the old fashioned way. That means that the top is a free floating wedge, leaving a hollow part inside the sandwich. Next, add eight triangles of American Cheese, alternating the placement so none overlap. Instead, they should evenly cover the bottom of the bread. Slowly squirt of squiggly line of mayo over the cheese. Lettuce is next, add plenty, and spread it out evenly. Sprinkle some salt and pepper on the lettuce before adding tomato.
Don't be stingy when it comes to the tomatoes either. Pick out at least five of the prettiest slices, and lay them over the lettuce, pressing them down gently to compact the sandwich a little. Add just a few slices of red onion, then get ready to make my day with "extra" pickles. (By the way, if you charge me a fee for extra pickles I will lose all respect for you as a human being.) The pickles should be placed so that every bite is guaranteed at least one pickle. Spread them out like little poker chips. Don't just pile them on. Put the top back on the sandwich, and gently compress the contents. Cut the sandwich in half, then wrap it up in paper.
It actually makes me legitimately sad that I'll never get my hands on a perfect Veggie Delite ever again. I actually hate Subway now because I know that their sandwiches can never live up to my memories. Maybe if they let me get behind the counter and make it myself. Maybe. But even then, I doubt they watch the bread until it becomes the perfect brown, or cool the trays on the countertops so that they'll be perfectly crispy. Do they wait to cut the bread until it has reached room temperature, or do they smash the dough, compressing its delicate texture in their wanton hurry?
No, it will never be the same again. But, we do have new kinds sandwiches to look forward to. Here's to making them the best they can be. Wherever you are, Marty, here's to you.
Roasted fennel and shrimp sandwich with herbed cheese on toast.