Oh, OK, no, wait, I hear you, really, I do. You think you can't believe I'm doing this? I can't believe I'm doing this. No, really. Remember what I said four years, one week, and two days (or one thousand four hundred seventy days) ago?
Kath needed to get her oil changed so we sat in line at the Valvoline forever and when it was her turn, it took forever to change the oil and we were both hungry so she had me find something to eat. Where we were, it was a toss up between Firehouse Subs, which looks plastic as fuck on the website, and this other place called Heather's.
Yeah. I said that. And now here I was.
See, Kafe Nasty went down to Wood Lake Nature Preserve last weekend and I couldn't remember if I'd ever been there. I knew I hadn't been there this summer. Frankly, with all the flooding this summer and all the bike shenanigans (Shenanigans!), I've been sticking to some well-traveled routes, with the exception of adding Crystal Lake to the rotation. So it was that today, I decided to take a nice little ride straight down Nicollet to 66th, then head west for Wood Lake to see what the hubbub was about.
Along the way, I passed a Burger King (I am a slut for Burger King) (I don't care what your opinion on the subject is, just let me have mine) and a Popeye's (haven't had them in a long while) and then I saw the Firehouse Subs and immediately remember that I bagged on them one thousand four hundred seventy days ago for having food that looked like it was made by PlayMobil.
You know, PlayMobil, the toy that looks like what happens when you plant a Lego in the back corner of an Ikea store and then just let it grow.
PlayMobil, the only toy that promotes a Scandinavian model of fatherhood based on wearing cardigans and being allowed to cry.
PlayMobil, the toy that somehow doesn't jive with my other toys.
PlayMobil, I have never seen it sold in any store, ever, so how the hell did it wind up in my house?
PlayMobil, the toys the weird neighbors' kid had until they were fifteen years old instead of a Sega Genesis.
PlayMobil, I don't get - Is it - Are these supposed to be like little Lego guys? How come they don't...
PlayMobil, I can't believe they made a toy out of a train station security guard and he's helpful! Like he likes his job. Like he'd be on a BBC documentary talking about how he's been at this same job for twelve years and how the highlight of his day is helping people. And the unnerving part is that you know that this man exists in real life but not in the United States.
PlayMobil, wait. What?
Really. What?
But I figured since I would probably need to replenish my nutrients and because I had never actually had Firehouse Subs before, maybe I should just stop in on my return trip, see what it's about, no biggie. How much worse could it be than, say, Jersey Mike's? Let me just go bust out a lap around this nature preserve and then hit the - ugh - Firehouse Subs. So that's what I did.
I walked in there and there were four people working behind the counter plus the one guy in the back. I was one of four customers. On a Saturday afternoon. The two white guys in there looked at me funny, which was rich considering one of them had an unmaintained mohawk and was wearing a Rick & Morty t-shirt, meaning he probably also has a Deadpool t-shirt and calls women "m'lady". The reason I am in a sticky ass, filthy ass hoodie is because it's my workout hoodie. I am out getting exercise. I am purchasing this sandwich to get me through my return trip, you know, instead of just going back to my friend's house to play some jingoist ass videogame. Don't play the weird look game with me, alright? If it came down to a matter of who could pull talent at the bar tonight, the guy with a haircut that looks like somebody dumped overcooked whole-wheat angelhair on his head is going home alone. And his friend that looks like a wind-burnt double-stuffed Joey Slotnick is going to do the five knuckle shuffle under his sheet tonight, too.
Anyway, I found that Firehouse Subs - Remember how they're the whole point of this post? - offers subs in three sizes: Small (4"), Medium (8"), and Large (12"). Not the most innovative thing in the world but then... Who else is doing that?
Hold on, I have a few more:
PlayMobil, the "inside toys" for kids who play soccer.
PlayMobil, the toy for kids whose parents love them too much.
PlayMobil, the toy you have to ask your parents for permission to play with.
So I go up to the counter and I order the small Italian sub and a small fountain drink because they have that Soda Stream machine or whatever it's called. You know, the job with the touch screen. I got the Sugar-Free Lime Fanta (which I'm still thinking about; cripes, that was delicious) and watched Head Of State on the TV in there and thought about how if I were working in a chain sub shop on a day as dead as today, I would be pissed.
And after the two virginal dopes got their sandwiches and the other guy got his Uber Eats or Door Dash order bagged up, I got my little sandwich, replete with pickle spear, and I refilled my Sugar-Free Lime Fanta and sat at the bench by the window, all alone in the shop save for staff, natch, and read the side of the cup, about how a portion of the proceeds here go to firefighters and such and I thought, "Oh, that's nice," before I took a bite of my sandwich and...
It was good.
Like actually good.
Not lose-your-nut good, just wasn't-expecting-it-to-actually-be-good good.
I look at the menu and it's listed as:
Genoa salami, pepperoni, honey ham, melted provolone, Italian dressing, and seasonings, served with lettuce, tomato, onion, mayo, and deli mustard with a dill pickle spear served on the side.
Kind of rote, really. I can tell you I couldn't taste the deli mustard. Maybe what I was tasting was an unbridled application of the seasonings. Maybe it was the sweetness of the honey ham. But there was something underneath the fat of the meat and cheese and the vinegar tang of the Italian dressing. A kind of sweetness, like a semi-sweetness. Something from the herbs, maybe there was marjoram in there. Marjoram does love a tomato. Some thyme, maybe. I couldn't put my finger on it. Maybe I was too shocked that this place - this fucking place that doesn't put even some banana peppers on their Italian sub, never mind things like Calabrian pepper aioli or whisper-thin-sliced mortadella with the pistachios in it, made a good Italian sub.
And, man, believe me, I am far more shocked than you will ever be that I'm saying I'd like to go back. Not in a rush but I could see myself going back. If I didn't get back to a Firehouse Subs until twenty twenty seven or eight, I would be OK with that. The kind of OK with it that I wouldn't ever even think about it. Like a coworker could bring up that they went to a Firehouse Subs and I would say, "Oh, yeah, I've been to one of those. It was actually pretty good," then completely forget about any intention I had of returning.
Can I tell you to give them your money? No, that would be silly. This wouldn't be supporting a local joint, a mom & pop joint, it's a fucking chain. But I can say that if you do give them your money, apparently some of it's going to buy firefighters gear or something. I don't know how that works. I wasn't aware firefighters were underfunded. I doubt that that's, you know - Look, all I'm telling you is what they told me. Yes. On the side of the cup. And they must be making oodles of money if they can pay five people to run an empty shop. Like the kind of empty that it looked like a PlayMobil set just kind of left alone on top of a dresser.
The pickle sucked, though. It was waxy on the outside, soft on the inside.
So much for season eight, huh?
OK, last few:
PlayMobil, for families who discipline by coming to a mutual understanding through round-table discussion.
PlayMobil, for kids who call their parents by their first names.
PlayMobil, what you play with when you're not bathing with your parents beyond the age of five and even that age is weird.
PlayMobil: Because all the kids in the neighborhood that got bikes for their birthdays look at you funny.
PlayMobil: What you get your kid so they name their child - your grandchild - something like Oscar or Bettina but they spell it all fucked up.
PlayMobil: It's just kind of weird when you find one, like you don't want to touch it. Like remember that time you found one. It was just laying there, on the sidewalk, and because it had a face, you identified with it but it was also alien to you so you abandoned it to just languish there on the sidewalk and sometimes you still think about it, haunted. But not haunted by the act of abandoning something that you identified with, haunted by the question of whose child did this figurine belong to and why couldn't they buy them Legos.
PlayMobil... So, it's a toy where people go to work, then go home, maybe run some errands here and there. Like, none of them have superpowers or... go on adventures... Or, you know, there's no cartoon tie-in. It's just... It just reflects day-to-day real life. There's nothing fantastic or impossible-made-possible. It's kind of the most bizarre toy ever made in that sense.
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