A club sandwich is a simple thing. Simple ingredients, simply prepared. But so dastardly and destructive, it should come with a warning sign.
Though truth be told, a big, bold print warning wouldn't keep me from eating a club sandwich when the mood strikes.
Though truth be told, a big, bold print warning wouldn't keep me from eating a club sandwich when the mood strikes.
Even though I know what comes next. The Mouth Massacre.
Yes, much like my beloved patty melt (maybe I have a thing for food that hurts me, but more on that in another post), club sandwiches leave my mouth feeling like the Incredible Hulk's purple pants. Shredded.
I had a surprising good club sandwich this weekend. With a really surprisingly good order of onion rings to go along with it. Hm... I was going to write that despite the tastiness of that meal it wasn't worth the pain that's only recently subsided.
But I can't write that. Because recreating the meal in my mind just now has got my newly-healed mouth watering.
Screw it. Forget this whole post. Club sandwiches rule, bits of flesh dangling from the roof of my mouth be damned!
Yes, much like my beloved patty melt (maybe I have a thing for food that hurts me, but more on that in another post), club sandwiches leave my mouth feeling like the Incredible Hulk's purple pants. Shredded.
I had a surprising good club sandwich this weekend. With a really surprisingly good order of onion rings to go along with it. Hm... I was going to write that despite the tastiness of that meal it wasn't worth the pain that's only recently subsided.
But I can't write that. Because recreating the meal in my mind just now has got my newly-healed mouth watering.
Screw it. Forget this whole post. Club sandwiches rule, bits of flesh dangling from the roof of my mouth be damned!
It won't be the last time I suffer for food.
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