Saturday. February 19, 2005. I had traveled to the ol' hometown to see Andy and Courtney and Mom and Holly and Cara and the other Courtney, as--let's face it--I didn't have anything better to do, what being unemployed and whatnot. After spending the entire afternoon on Saturday trapped in that lower-class consumer hell that is WalMart, waiting for the under-educated proles that work in their "Tire and Lube Center" to mount four over-priced Dunlop radials on Minotaur and his woman's Ford Focus, I was ready for some tastiness. You see, my stomach was growling and my blood sugar was diving and my colon was ready to do some more of the ol' digestin'.

Minotaur, his wife and I were at my mother's abode, trying to finagle a free meal out of her when she finally caved, declaring that she was in the the mood for a Philly cheese steak, not unlike those that she remembered from her youth, growing up in the Jewish ghetto of Philadelphia's west side. (That last part is made up, but I can do that--it's called poetic license. Or something like that). So mother decided that we'd visit the local Jersey Mike's franchise, in Tyler's Foley's Plaza (which was originally called "Sanger-Harris Plaza", but didn't change its name until about three years after Sanger-Harris was taken over by Foley's).

So we loaded up in my mother's Durango, which purred along real horrorshow to the restaurant. We were hoping that it would still be open, as a cheese steak or meatball sub would be just the thing to sate our ravenous appetites. As we pulled into the parking lot, I glanced at the chronometer on the dash, nestled between the speedometer, the odometer and the tachometer, not too far from the thermometer, as saw its green digits forming "8:40". Good, twenty minutes before Jersey Mike's closed for the evening, plenty of time to walk across the parking lot (thankfully, my grandmother is no longer with us, as she could've easily made the walk last seventeen or eighteen years. Well, not literally, but long enough to make me want to just pick her up and carry her. Or leave her for the vultures.)

We walked into the overly-bright interior of the restaurant, greeted by a group of the lowest of the low--emo kids. My arch nemesises. Or nemesi. Or whatever the plural of nemesis is. What are you doing here? I asked myself. Why aren't you at Starbucks? They apparently weren't telepathic, for I received no answer.

After they'd received their orders, we stepped up the counter. Behind said counter were two teen workers--punk kids, if you were to ask me in about 15 years. They asked us what we wanted. As we'd been perusing the menu while awaiting the emo kids to finish their transactions, I was ready for a tasty meatball sub because, hey, what can I say? I love the balls. My mother had already decided, if you'll remember way back to the beginning of this essay, that she wanted a Philly cheese steak, smothered in grilled onions, peppers and provolone cheese. Minotaur and Courtney wanted to split a giant Jersey Mike's Original, which consisted of cheese, ham, proscuittini, cappacuolo, salami and pepperoni--possibly the most non-kosher object ever conceived of by mortal man.

Mother ordered first, "I'll have the Philly Cheese Steak."
"We don't have any," replied the surly, pimply-faced teen behind the counter.
"You don't have any?" repeated my mother, with a hint of her patented sarcastic incedulity.
"Already turned off the grill," said the other be-pimpled teen, taller and thinner than the shorter and fatter one.
"You don't close for another 17 minutes," I interjected.
"So?" was about all the shorter, fatter one could say.
"Well, it seems a little inane to have quit preparing food before you're closed."
Both food-preparers--"Sandwich Artists" is what Subway would call them, but they were far from artisans--seemed nonplussed and ready to move on.
"So," I said, "I suppose that this means that you also do not have meatball subs either, am I correct?"
"Nope."
Bastards.

Mother and I prodded Andy and Courtney to order their sandwich while we regrouped and attempted to decide what we'd order.

While their non-kosher meal was prepared, we elected that we'd also get the same. I watched as theirs was prepared, from the meat to the salt and pepper to the dime bag's worth of oregano sprinkled on top.

"we'll have the same," I said once their meal was prepared.

The taller, thinner youth began his preparation, applying layers of meat the bread, before asking us what vegetables we'd like.
"Do you want it Jersey Mike's style?" he asked.
Not being familiar enough with Mike to really know his style, I asked "What?"
The worker vaguely pointed to a sign on the far wall as he rolled his eyes, apparently frustrated that we didn't know Mike's style, "It's lettuce, tomato, pickles, onions, salt and pepper and oil and vinegar."

Mother and I looked at each other to discuss what we wanted, but had only barely engaged each other in debate when the taller, thinner restaurant fuck said, "Look."

We, of course, looked.

He pointed out each bin in the counter, "This is lettuce, these are tomatoes, these are onions, these are pickles, this is salt and pepper and these are oil and vinegar," he said in a voice one might use to a child when showing them something they'd never seen before. Unfortunately for this fuck, my mother and I are both adults and are somewhat familiar with basic vegetables. Though, personally, I do have some trouble discerning bok choi and cabbage after it's been boiled.

"I think we know our vegetables," my mother said, perturbed to say the least, "Who's the manager here?"

"I am," said the fatter, shorter one.

"You let him talk to customers that way?" asked my mother, indicating the taller, thinner one.

The shorter, fatter fuck just kind of laughed.

We elected to have everything on our sandwich as described by Mike's style, which saved us from mustard and/or mayonaise and a dime bag's worth of oregano.

I could tell my mother was pissed off, as I could feel the heat of rage pouring off of her. Or maybe that was just a menopausal hot flash.

After preparing our sandwich, we were ready to pay for our food and get the hell outta Jersey Mike's.

"Any drinks with that?" asked the shorter, fatter one.

"I'll have a Pepsi," I said.

"Tea for me," said my mother.

"Oh, hey, we're out of tea," said the fuck.

"You're out of tea?" asked my mother.

"Yeah, the day shift never brewed any."

"And that somehow prevented the night shift from brewing any?" I asked, "I'm no expert, but I wouldn't think it'd be all that hard to pop in a tea bag and press BREW. I mean, if I can do that easily in the comfort of my own home, I can't imagine that it'd be all that much more difficult to do in the environs of a 'professional' restaurant."

"They didn't make any," was all the shorter, fatter fuck could say.

"Fine," replied mother, "nothing for me."

He rang us up and my mother threw the money on the table, ready to flee that horrible, horrible place.

We left. Safe at last.

And that was, without a doubt the worst restaurant experience I've ever had. If I wanted to be insulted, I'd have gone to Dick's Last Resort. But normally, I don't pay to be insulted or treated rudely.

So, it's become a mission in my life to ensure that no one I know ever sets foot into a Jersey Mike's again. I wouldn't wish that on my enemies. And I harbor deep, resentful grudges against them. It was a horrible, horrible experience that would never, ever want to repeat.

In fact, I'd almost rather eat at Arby's.

Update

I went to the Jersey Mike's website and submitted a complaint based on this blog. For those of you interested, here's the text of the complaint:

This was my first visit to your establishment and will more than likely be my last. I have never been treated so rudely by a restaurant staff in my life. First off, the staff was incredulous that I might want a hot sub, even though "the grill's been off for a while now". How was I to know that? And, more importantly, why was the grill off so long before closing time? Then the sandwich preparer sarcastically showed me what vegetable was what, as if I didn't know what "lettuce" and "tomatoes" were. When I asked for iced tea, I was informed that "The day shift never made any". Is that an excuse for the night shift not to make any? How hard can it be to load in a tea bag and press "Brew"? I'm no expert at tea preparation, but if I can do it that easily in the comfort of my own home, it can't be all that difficult to do in the context of a "professionally-run" restaurant. I'm afraid that my first visit to Jersey Mike's will be my last, as I have no desire to be treated like I was last night ever again, especially if I am paying for it. And I certainly can't see myself ever recommending that any friends, or enemies for that matter, visit your establishment, as I would wish said treatment upon anyone. In fact, I will make it a mission to go out of my way to ensure that anyone I know never darkens the threshold of Jersey Mike's again.