Tag Archives: sandwiches

AMTRAK NORTHEAST #186 DINING CAR

By THE ACTRESS

Yutzi’s son Robbie invited me to weekend with his theater troupe in Boston.  Let me tell you those kids could learn a thing or two about acting from someone of my talent and ability.  But do they ever ask?  Of course not.  Did I ever tell you about my time with James Dean? Well, I won’t because I’m a lady.

But I must say, I was so very excited for a real New England clambake. Finally, cultivated people, fresh brewed iced tea, and Nantucket at nightfall. But no, Robbie, that scalawag, spirited me away to a lobster pound in Seabrook, NH and instead of an acting troupe, my companions were none other than his outré father Yutzi and his crony, Wolf.

As we walked to the train station, Robbie assured me the food was top notch at Brown’s Lobster Pound. Lobster Pound?  Was this one of those Jewish delis? I thought only the gentiles were allowed to vacation in New England? But it gets worse. The lobster pound is one mile away from a nuclear power plant. “Not to worry,” said Robbie, while I gagged on the thought of air redolent of low tide and low people, “if there is a meltdown we can take solace in the fact that our last meal was spent with splendid company.” I listened then slapped him across the face.

We finally reached the station. Could someone please tell me when the grand train stations of my youth were remade into public urinals? I forced Robbie to carry me across the puddles of ill-repute. He gingerly put me down in front of the coach class car. Coach? I was horrified and screamed at Robbie –  You mean to tell me that we are not traveling first class! I was appalled. That brute had booked us in steerage.  I was forced to sit amongst the commoners in poly-blend suits, ripped jeans and some ghastly, shapeless footwear that Robbie said was all the rage: UGG Boots.  These vagrants looked like homeless Eskimos.

Meanwhile, Wolf and Yutzi’s perfume of Ivory soap, Old Spice, and stale jokes brought on a sudden bout of nausea.  I begged Robbie to escort me to the dining car. With one hand in Robbie’s and the other clutching my purse to my chest  in case one of these cretins decided to push me into the bathroom and give me a Frank Sinatra,  I told Robbie, who is really a sissy-boy, to light a fire under his tight trousers and get a move on.

Once we reached the dining car I was forced to rest from the physical and mental exhaustion of the one car walk. I ordered Robbie to fetch me a packet of saltines, but he returned with a hot dog.  A hot dog? What am I, six years old? Is this a baseball contest? I surveyed the menu in dismay. Did the stock market crash again? Where was the champagne? Where were the waiters? My choices were limited to deli sandwiches, chips, soda, and coffee.  I waved away the menu, took the hot dog to use as a weapon and proceeded back to my seat while Robbie stayed to flirt with the help.

Oh, wait. I was supposed to review the lobster pound. That will just have to wait until next week.

Amtrak Northeast Regional, Penn Station, 393 7th Ave., New York, NY

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NO. 7 SUB

by WOLF 

Now as you know, I like me a good sub.  Meaty, with bread your fingers can sink into, enough to fill a hand.  Bag of chips, a pickle, and I’m eating right.  So, I was excited that my first assignment was No. 7 Sub, in that hotel on Broadway that used to be a flop house.

My excitement, friends, would be short-lived.  I looked at the menu, and the first thing I see is “shrimp sausage” with something called “shitso peppers”, onions and grape jelly.  Who’s the hairdresser eating this bullcrap?

Then I saw one with cauliflower, raisins, potato chips and French dressing.  Hey, is this a sandwich or a shopping list?

And what on God’s green earth is “peach munchim”?  “Pico de lettuce”?  And are you really going to put wax bean salad IN my sandwich?  Did you buy every ingredient on the menu with food stamps?

Oh, and pickles are TWO DOLLARS!  Back in my day, you’d get the pickle for free!  You could just reach into the barrel and grab one!  I thought I was seeing things

In the meantime, the hostess, boy, was she a sweet thing, blonde, pretty smile, just the right amount of curves.  Ba-boom!  Anyway, she pointed out that a long line of riff-raff had now formed behind me, ready for their snooty hoagies.

I panicked!  I told her I wanted to get the Meyer Chicken sandwich, mainly because “chicken” was the only thing I could see on the menu that actually belongs in a sandwich.

The place is about the size of a broom closet, and there’s no place to sit, but I finally get my order.  First off: you’d think for a $9 sandwich made by two fat Mexicans, it’d be a lot bigger.  Is chicken going extinct or something?

But I don’t care, I’m hungry and I’m going to enjoy my Meyer Chicken sandwich.  Now, I’m not sure who Meyer is, but by the taste of it, I’m guessing he’s a relative of Oscar Meyer.  WHAT IS THIS HORSESHIT?

I take a bite and the first thing I get my chompers on is a cold piece of bone.  Not that I would mind giving a warm bone to the hostess.

However, what little edible meat there was was hiding underneath some leafy green that looked like it could’ve used a long sponge bath.  The toasted bread gave me a case of raw mouth you usually need to go to the Philippines for.  And whatever the sauce was made my sandwich taste like one of Yutzi’s loafers.

In summation, I had three bites, then left in disgust and gave the rest to a bum.

They ought to call this place “#2 Sub”!  Know what I mean!

No. 7 Sub, 1188 Broadway, New York, NY

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