Omair’s List: Entry #4

My soggy tomato

Going out for lunch is always fraught with danger. No parking spaces, apathetic waiters, long queues, uncomfortable seats, pretentious bastards for company… some days, it’s just not worth it.

Too late to do anything about it now though. I was already there, so I figured I might as well get on with this sick twisted circus of civility.

This particular eatery, it seemed, had a unique quirk. A sign over the counter read ‘Self- Service.’ A disturbingly cheerful employee welcomed me with undue enthusiasm. His name tag proudly read “Sandwich Artist”. Given how his ‘art’ didn’t extend beyond putting already prepared fillings into large chunks of bread, I was skeptical of his creative talents.

I marvel at the marketing genius who can get customers to make their own sandwich, charge them an arm and a leg for it, and still make them think that it’s a good idea. Never mind that all the fillings taste the same and it still feels like you’re munching on flavored cardboard.

“If it’s an international chain, it must be good” goes the logic of my fellow diners.

I swallowed my indignation with small doses of cola, and turned my attention to the crowd. There was something about this lunch… something out-of-place. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Halfway through my sandwich, realization hit me in the face like a sack of ugly bricks. My sandwich tasted funny for a reason.
The tomatoes were soggy.

The only thing I hate more than bad veggies is being served bad veggies in a self-indulgent pitiful disgrace of a restaurant. For an establishment that screams ‘freshness’ from the rooftops, this was simply unforgivable. I was sorely tempted to show the friendly ‘sandwich artist’ some art of my own… by using my fist for a paintbrush and his face for a canvas.

Now to some, this may be seen as an irrational and extreme reaction to a vegetable. One could argue that an imperfect sandwich doesn’t warrant brutal violence.
Perhaps, you’d be right.

You, me, the tomato, aren’t we all unwilling ingredients in this flawed sandwich of life? The odd soggy slice of tomato couldn’t care less about retribution. It is what it is. Moved by my own unexpected epiphany, I decided to let retribution slide.
For now.

Oblivious to the bloody fate he just barely escaped, the friendly employee was busy serving his customers with his characteristic unbridled joy.

Be warned, Mr. Sandwich Artist. I may be turning a blind eye to your crimes today, but there are only so many soggy tomatoes I’ll be willing to overlook. If you mess up my sandwich again, all the salad in the world won’t save you.

Watch your back.
You’re on my list.