You all are very likely tired of reading my rants on this subject, but since it's at least as pervasive as seeing a 1911 on the cover of every man-jack gun magazine, I persist.
So---yesterday, my wife and daughter, both of whom are peaches and then some, called me from Panera's (you can already see where this is going) and ask me if I'd like a sandwich. Can you ever turn down a sandwich?
I can't.
I answer in the affirmative, enthusiastically. My aversion to mayonnaise is well-known to my family and friends, so when my daughter ordered the roast beef and cheddar, she queried the clerk as to the contents of the sandwich and was assured that the only additive was horseradish, which she knows I really like.
OK. This is where a more seasoned restaurant veteran might get suspicious, but since she's a trusting soul, she paid the fare and accepted the bag, obliviously unaware of the horror lurking within.
Well, the two arrived home and since I wasn't immediately hungry, the Panera's bag went into the fridge for later consumption of its noxious contents.
I imagine you can guess the rest. When I decided later to eat the sandwich, I of course disassembled it, just to be certain.
There it lay---a generous slather of "horseradish SAUCE"-- a euphemism for mayonnaise lightly flavored with a horseradish-suggestive substance.
My anguished howls were heard all the way upstairs, and my wife, the peach, rushed down, knowing damn well what she would find.
After the customary eye-roll, she began skillfully to re-build the offending sandwich, removing all traces of the pus-based condiment. She placed it on a dinner plate along side a hillock of kettle chips and kindly delivered it, along with a cold bottle of hard cider, to my office (another euphemism, for I do no work therein).
As she walked away, she said, very clearly, "If you open that sandwich to check out my work, I will shoot you in the brain!"
It was pretty tasty.
So---yesterday, my wife and daughter, both of whom are peaches and then some, called me from Panera's (you can already see where this is going) and ask me if I'd like a sandwich. Can you ever turn down a sandwich?
I can't.
I answer in the affirmative, enthusiastically. My aversion to mayonnaise is well-known to my family and friends, so when my daughter ordered the roast beef and cheddar, she queried the clerk as to the contents of the sandwich and was assured that the only additive was horseradish, which she knows I really like.
OK. This is where a more seasoned restaurant veteran might get suspicious, but since she's a trusting soul, she paid the fare and accepted the bag, obliviously unaware of the horror lurking within.
Well, the two arrived home and since I wasn't immediately hungry, the Panera's bag went into the fridge for later consumption of its noxious contents.
I imagine you can guess the rest. When I decided later to eat the sandwich, I of course disassembled it, just to be certain.
There it lay---a generous slather of "horseradish SAUCE"-- a euphemism for mayonnaise lightly flavored with a horseradish-suggestive substance.
My anguished howls were heard all the way upstairs, and my wife, the peach, rushed down, knowing damn well what she would find.
After the customary eye-roll, she began skillfully to re-build the offending sandwich, removing all traces of the pus-based condiment. She placed it on a dinner plate along side a hillock of kettle chips and kindly delivered it, along with a cold bottle of hard cider, to my office (another euphemism, for I do no work therein).
As she walked away, she said, very clearly, "If you open that sandwich to check out my work, I will shoot you in the brain!"
It was pretty tasty.
I was in a state of
