A Tale of Two Sandwiches

It was the best of textures, it was the worst of textures, it was an hour of savory flavour, it was an hour of soggy blandness, it was an appetizing moment, it was an inedible moment, it was the colour of contrasts, it was the colour of conformity, it was the lunch of pleasure, it was the meal of dissatisfaction, we had freshness before us, we had french "fries" before us, we were dining amongst family, we were positioned aside strangers - in short, the food in so many ways reflected the atmosphere in which it was recieved, the intersection of politics and culinary prowess rendered transparent in these moments that we could only express our displeasure in the outlandlish language of hyperbole.

From the sign hanging outside that indicated a S.A.P Free (no smoking, alcohol, and profanilty) atmosphere, we should have known that the Jubilee Diner in Friendsville, Maryland was not for people like us. As soon as I entered, I knew that it was going to be a bad experience. For a brief moment, I considered turning up my nose and refusing to eat there, preferring some trail mix or a Zone bar from the next BP station. I should have stuck with that. Had this "diner" been a greasy spoon in I might have enjoyed the experience on the level of nostalgic Americana. But really I was creeped out by the Christian music and the fact that it was Fox news on the television in the corner. Sadly, the "diner's" attempts at creating a nostalgic feel involved little more than hanging record albums and images from 1950's television programs on the walls. This was not retro-aesthetics; this was Republican longing for a mythic past at its best. Perhaps I am exagerrating. However, had the food been any good, I am certain I could have forgiven the political inclinations of the "diner's" proprietors.

I ordered a hot turkey sandwich with home-made french fries and hushpuppies. I don't like hushpuppies, but the other options were cole slaw, applesauce, and cottage cheese. The sandwich was just horrible. I don't even know why I ate most of it. The gravy was bland, the turkey was dry and chewy, the french fries were soggy and tasted of generic cooking oil. The hushpuppies were pretty terrible as well. Andy's chicken fingers were terribly sad. Ruth and Bill's salads were covered with these home made french "fries." Enough said.

We were passing through Friendsville, Maryland on the way to Andy's cousin's graduation on Shepherdstown, West Virginia. On Saturday we met for lunch at The Blue Moon Cafe. Upon entering the establishment I immediately felt at ease. They advertised vegan breakfasts and had shelves of used books and trivial pursuit cards. These were "our kind" of folks, I felt assured. I ordered an iced coffee and a roast beef sandwich with feta, tomatoes, and lettuce on toasted ciabatta bread. As if the universe felt immeasurable guilt for the previous day's sandwich travesty, this place served the second best fucking roast beef sandwich I have ever had (the first being from Alon's). My only regret is that I forgot to ask for the peanut noodles on the side. Nevertheless, the bagged potato chips they served were far, FAR superior to the homemade french soggies from the Jubilee.

At the very least, the bad sandwich inspired me to add "hot turkey sandwiches" to my list of things to make when Andy and I are married and settled into our new apartment.