Subway

I have to say that, generally speaking, I don’t like Subway that much. However, it would seem that all the people that I spend time with are really, really big fans, so I do occasionally have to give in and force myself to eat a meatball sub.
This Subway isn’t too bad, as Subways go. For one thing, it doesn’t have that horrible smell that other Subways have. Perhaps this is because it’s hidden underneath the smell of tarmac that haunts that area of the city centre at the moment, I don’t know, but it makes it a little bit more bearable.
This Subway always seems to be empty too. This tends to spark suspicion for me, as I wonder what everyone knows about this place that I don’t, but as someone who needs to be fed immediately when hunger strikes, my suspicions are outweighed by my joy at not having to queue.
Probably the better Subway in the city centre, purely based on the fact it’s not as busy as the others. And it’s one of the few fast food places who hire people with personalities, rather than zombies.

There isn’t much I can say about Subway. They’re all the same. Pretty much exactly the same. The only variable is the staff. So here’s my account of my visit to this Subway and the reason I’ll head to the one further down St Mary’s Street from now on:
I walked in on a rainy Thursday. It was empty inside. I ordered a Steak and Cheese sub. The man serving me responded by saying «Good choice sir! Now I’m going to ask you a series of questons. Choose your answers extremely carefully». I gave him my sincerest look of utter disdain and carried on, choosing the Hearty Italian choice of bread. «You don’t want that one! This one’s far better» he said, pointing to a slightly different option. When I relented and took his suggestion, he said he had to have a look in the kitchen to see if there was any left. There wasn’t. So, a couple of minutes wasted and back to my original choice then. Halfway into the sandwich making, he realised there was no steak left to go into my Steak and Cheese Sub. He then disappeared for another 2 minutes and returned, merciifully, with some steak. He then started to whistle as he threw the steak into the air and caught it in the bread, smiling. Thinking it would be too ridiculous to ask him to please not throw my steak, I remained very British, and said absolutely nothing. Whilst microwaving the sandwich, he turned to me, completely randomly and asked «What’s your favourite swear word then?» Several four letter words were already swimming around in there but I didn’t respond straight away. He then proceeded to tell me a couple of his favourites. I nodded along politely, paid him and got out of there pronto, never to return. Ever.