Like a Colleen Hoover book, I walked into the Wabash Subway thinking, surely it can’t be as bad as last time.
And, much like Verity, it somehow found a way to exceed my expectations in all the wrong directions.
Nothing quite prepares you for the culinary precision of:
“Uh dude… you want, uh, like… mustard on this?”
“Yes. Just a little.”
My guy then grabs the mustard bottle and gives the bottom of it a smack with the kind of strange familiarity that suggested this was not his first rodeo.
BOOM.
Half the sandwich is now legally classified as a mustard reservoir.
He looks at it.
He recognizes the mistake.
He processes the mistake.
Then, rather than adjusting his technique, he proceeds to do literally the exact same thing again.
More mustard.
At this point the sandwich has enough yellow on it to be visible from low Earth orbit.
He looks at me.
“Is that okay?”
Out of sheer mental exhaustion, I said, “Sure.”
Because sometimes in life you realize the fight is already over.
Then I ask for spinach.
He gives me lettuce.
Honestly? Close enough. They’re both leaves. At this point I’m just thankful he didn’t reach under the counter and hand me a pothos.
Subway is supposed to be one of the most streamlined dining experiences in America. You point at bread. You point at meat. You point at vegetables. Someone assembles it.
Yet the Wabash Subway manages to turn this incredibly simple process into something resembling the unnecessary plot twists and shock factors in a Colleen Hoover novel.
You don’t know why any of it is happening.
You didn’t ask for most of it.
And somehow there’s way more mustard than the story required.
2/5. Would not recommend.
About as enjoyable as The Last Letter by Rebecca Yarros, except this experience only cost me lunch instead of several hours of my life.