Subway Virgins

Subway is now such a presence in everyday life that it seems silly to me when people are confused at one. There is a very specific order to every order: Bread type, meat, cheese, to toast or not to toast, toppings and dressings.

However, when I’m using my laptop at the store from time to time, I am reminded that for some, this is their first visit. This is especially interesting when the people act as if they have never had a sandwich made for them in their life.

Example: As I sit here typing this, there are four senior citizens ordering sandwiches. At first, I didn’t think anything was going to come of this, as they seemed quite upset that they couldn’t get a seafood salad sandwich at Subway.

Two of the group persevered though, and decided they would get a foot-long ham sandwich and a foot-long roast beef. From there, things got interesting, as each new decision seemed to bewilder them more and more. One complained that there was too much veggies on his sandwich, which for me is the only reason to go to Subway – If you actually want a decent amount of meat on your sandwich, go buy some deli meat from the store.

Before this day, I wouldn’t have thought that a sandwich purchase was a life and death decision, but for some, it clearly holds great significance. A wrong decision is one that will bring forth the Wrath of God (capital letters).

The whole experience reminded me of my days at Dunkin’ Donuts, when the elderly were also a wonderful (read: not at all wonderful) demographic. Some truly were excellent individuals, and they were more likely to ask how my day was going, and actually seem sincere about it.

However, more were just miserable people, or barely functioning. You know, like the lady who just rolled by the drivethru window with her hand out her car window, because she couldn’t operate the car and the window at the same time. The correct coffee was also a life or death decision, and if it was screwed up, it was of course an error on the server, as opposed to the 75-year-old who wants to haggle with you about the times when coffee only cost 50 cents, and about how the servers would sling it at you with a smile while they also white walled your car tires.

How The Sausage Is Made: Vanilla Bean coolattas

The elimination of one of my favorite drinks, the Vanilla Bean coolatta at Dunkin' Donuts, has made me sad this week. I'm not sure how many stores they have discontinued the flavor at, but I know it affects at least the two Westerly stores and one in Charlestown, for you Rhode Island folk. They still have it at the mini-Dunkin' Donuts next to Kingston Auto in Kingston, so apparently not every owner has decided to give it the ax.

For those of you not in the know, once upon a time – like four years ago – I worked at Dunkin' Donuts, and I worked there when I was 17 and a junior in high school as well. As such, I have fond memories of the Vanilla Bean coolatta, even if it led to constant confusion amongst customers. (“I want a French vanilla coolatta!” “Uhhh do you mean a French vanilla coffee coolatta or a Vanilla Bean fruit coolatta?”)

The actual process of making a coolatta is... weird. By that, I mean making the mix for the machine. Basically, it starts with a six-gallon bucket. You dump two cartons of the fruit coolatta mix into it, and then add about three to four gallons of water. This would normally create a pretty heavy bucket, with the water nearly at the brim, which I would desperately try not to spill as I hauled it over to the coolatta machine. (The process is the same for coffee coolatta mix, except worse, since that mix comes out dark brown and immediately stains your clothing if you spill it.)

If the machine is completely empty, then you have to wait at least an hour for it to turn the water and mix into slush. Ideally, you try to do it a bit before it goes completely out. It does have to get completely cleaned out every two weeks though, which is highly annoying, since there is no real way to make coolattas in the meantime.

As far as the Vanilla Bean goes, it is a tasty, vanilla ice cream-like drink. However, do yourself a favor, as Adam Carolla would say – If they still have it in your area, ask them to make you a medium coolatta, half Vanilla Bean and half Strawberry. The combination is simply divvvinnneeeee.

The picture is from this site. Apparently they have discontinued the Vanilla Bean coolatta in the past - For shame!

Storytime with Amanda Meyer: Seasonal shifts in the great coffee battle

So this fine Saturday, I want to talk about coffee. Specifically, I want to talk about my inability to start brewing my own and further inability to stop spending far too much money daily on my caffeine fix.

I’m a sucker for advertising. I define Corporate America’s targeted demographic. And yet, if Dunkin’ beat Starbucks, why does The Bux continue to beat my wallet on a daily basis? I’ll tell you why in four short words: pumpkin spice soy lattes. Okay Dunks, you win my vote on iced coffee, but fall is in the air. I know, I know, summer just ended, but if you don’t believe me, look at the foliage freaks screwing up traffic on 95N starting at the 128 Split all the way up to New Hampshire.

So other than the foliage and back to school, fall in Boston means that it’s a lot windier than I’d ever like it to be, and thus, my lattes double as a way to keep warm. Starbucks re-introduced the pumpkin spice flavor this week and I am already hooked. In my humble opinion, it’s absolutely perfect. The soy milk makes it extra thick and the nutmeg on top is like the icing on a cake.

“But Amanda! You live in Boston? Wouldn’t it be much more fun to hang out at some tiny hole in the wall cafe drinking fresh brewed coffee that isn’t mass produced?” Well, in a word, yes. But to elaborate, that takes time, time I don’t have as one of this city’s many impatient “Massholes,” and I like I said, their advertising is good. Basically what I am telling you is that getting out of bed early to brew coffee is less appealing to me than standing in a line, having an anxiety attack about being late to work, and spending no less than $5.21 (venti soy flavored latte with MA 6.25 percent sales tax) on enough espresso to get me through the day.

Call me crazy, but that’s just how I roll. And for the record, when I do have a lazy Saturday morning with nothing to do but homework or reading, I absolutely love scouting out “real” coffee shops and spending some nice time there with my iPod and my books. But in the great rush to work Monday through Friday, that is the last thing on my mind.

The life and death and life of a small bird

Hey Snuffy, it's storytime! Let me tell you about the time some kid hit me on the way to work..."

One day I hit a bird with my car, but it lived. (That would be a one-sentence summation of a story that I'm about to make about a thousand words longer, so if you want the short version, there it is. If you want the long version, well, keep going.)

Back in high school and again during a college summer, I worked at Dunkin' Donuts, which was a mixed bag. I hated working around coffee so much - the stores are so small and the brewing almost constant, meaning the scent eventually burrows under your skin and into your nose for days at a time. I also gained a ridiculous amount of weight because of the "free" donuts and bagels ("free" because we just took them).

But the plus side was a surprisingly decent wage - minimum wage plus tips meant I would make around $150 to $450 in a week - and some good people working there. In case you forgot, this entry was originally about a miraculous bird, and I'm steering the conversation right back there with my talk of good people at Dunkin' Donuts.

One such good person was my neighbor Bethany, who also went to high school with me. She's a year or two younger, and outside of a random art class, I don't think our paths ever crossed in high school. But our parents were friendly at the time, and she started working at Dunkins, so she would often bum a ride to there and to school with me in the mornings.

At this point in time, my Car Coolness Cuotient (see what I did there?) was impossibly low. I mean, I loved my car, because it only had 37,000 miles or so on it, but absolutely no one else should have, and for good reason. It was a 1986 Plymouth / Chrysler Reliant [left]. Yes, that's right, I don't even know the make, because it would switch depending on what mechanic was looking at it. Worse, it was tan, and it had plenty of dents in it. It only had a couple redeeming qualities - bench seats in the back and front, a CD player that I installed that kind of worked before the button got jammed, and it almost never broke down. It also had a cool nickname - The Relizzy.

However, because I was slightly older than some of my other friends, we did do some riding around in it, and it meant Bethany would get a ride into work with me. As we were passing by the bus company on Switch Road, I was doing my usual 55 to 65 m.p.h. in a 35 m.p.h. zone, because as usual, it was going to be a razor thin margin between "late" and "too late" to work. ("Late" is within five minutes, "too late" is more than five.)

If I recall correctly, I didn't even see the bird - Bethany screeched out and told me to stop, because she was convinced that I hit a bird. She finally guilted me into it, saying that it could be dying on the side of the road. I am a sucker for cute animals. (Fuck cows, they're delicious.)

Anyway, I turned around and drove back to roughly where it happened, and pulled aside so that Bethany could look for the thing. I was shocked when she came back with it in her hands. It was like a bizarre spoof of the Monty Python Flying Circus parrot sketch, as Bethany said it was still alive, but barely breathing; I think it was a sparrow or something else small, since it fit in her hands, and she is a small person.

As previously mentioned, we were late for work and possibly now too late, so I had to speed off with the bird in my car, as Bethany held it. We get about five minutes down the road, on Main Street in Hope Valley by the bank and post office, when Bethany yelps and I just see a blur streak across my face. I yelped, and I believe I almost hit a car on the other side of the road, before the thoughts connected in my head - Hey, that fucking thing just flew out the window!

So, that is my story about a bird. p.s. I think the bird may have shit on my car or on Bethany's hands, but I can't remember for sure.