How the lost art of communication ruined my sandwich

I’m not much of a bread eater. When I buy a loaf of bread it usually languishes on my counter until I eventually throw half of it either in the garbage or out for the birds. I’m more likely to order a chicken breast or a wrap than I am a sandwich, and when grilling brats outside I generally opt for them to go bunless.

That said, every now and then I do get a craving for a really good sandwich on fresh bread. Milio’s is a favorite spot because their sub bread – white and wheat (although I always go wheat)  – is just the right amount of fresh and chewy and yumminess. Every now and then I go to Jimmy John’s because I’ve always thought they were the same thing. My favorite sandwich at either place is the roasted turkey with avocado, cucumber, lettuce and tomato – at Milio’s I go inside and get it on a sub, but at Jimmy John’s I always end up with a regular sandwich on regular (although yummy) wheat bread.

Today was one of those sandwich-craving days and because of a scaredy cat dog who kept me up all night during the storms, I didn’t leave for work until almost lunchtime. Trying to be smart, I planned to go through the Jimmy John’s drive-thru but specifically ask for a sub.

Should have been easy, right? Here’s how the conversation went:

Me: I’d like a Number 4 please, but can I get that on a sub?

Worker: A sub? Sure, we can do that.

Me: I’d like it on a wheat one, if that’s possible?

Worker: Wheat? Sure. Is that all?

Me: That’s it.

In the two seconds it takes me to drive from the ordering tower to the window, I’m already thinking about how good that sub is going to be. It’s been a while since I’ve had one, and the bread craving is going wild.

I get to the window, I pay for my sub and I’m handed … a sandwich. The one you see in the photo.

Me: I asked for a sub.

Worker: That’s wheat.

Me: Right. I asked for a wheat sub. This is a sandwich.

Worker: But it’s wheat.

Me: But it’s a sandwich. I asked for a wheat sub.

Worker: We don’t have wheat subs.

I stare at him. I want to argue. I want to say how nice it would have been for him to have told me that when I asked if a wheat sub was possible. I want to throw my sandwich at his perplexed little face and ask for a sub.

Finally, I realize I’m staring and I mutter a small, “Whatever. Thanks,” and drive off, knowing the story he’s telling is about some crazy cranky old lady who doesn’t know the difference between a wheat sandwich and a sub.