put out the fire

This story was written nearly two years ago, prior to the global COVID-19 pandemic.— JPiC

Mrs. Pincus and I just returned from a cruise that departed from Port Canaveral, Florida. We opted to drive to the Sunshine State from our suburban Philadelphia home. We covered the approximate 16-hour drive over the course of two days, leaving on a Thursday before the sun came up and taking the second leg at a more leisurely pace. We arrived at our destination — a somewhat seedy Best Western motel in Titusville that offered a shuttle and parking for the length of our trip — in the late afternoon on Friday. At the conclusion of our cruise, we hopped into our waiting car for the return trip. We got a late start, but pressed on through the south until Mrs Pincus had had it for the day. I secured a room at a Hampton Inn in Lumberton, North Carolina and we headed across the street to a shopping center to grab a quick take-out dinner to enjoy in our room.

Mrs. P had noticed a sign for "Firehouse Subs," a chain for which I had seen commercials but never had the opportunity to patronize. Actually, we are kind of partial to a few Philadelphia sandwich shops, regularly steering clear of the Subway chain after several "less-than-favorable" experiences over the years. Honestly, I don't even know if there are Firehouse Subs in our area. (A quick Google search shows me that the closest one to my house is 13.1 miles away..... pass.) Curiously, the commercials for Firehouse Subs stuck with me, as I found it unusual that they focused primarily on the fact that each purchase benefited community firefighters. There were numerous shots of firefighters in full gear, along with scenes of fire stations, fire fighting equipment and fire engines. There was little mention of the food or even if it was good.

Anxious to eat after a long drive, we decided to give Firehouse Subs a try. How bad could it be? Besides, it certainly wasn't going to be our last meal ever.

The brightly-light store was nearly deserted. One table was occupied by a burly man clad in the uniform of local law enforcement. He stared off into space as he shoved the final bit of a drippy sub into his maw. We turned our attention to the massive and way-too-confusing menu board that covered the entire wall behind the food prep area. The overly-wordy menu was dotted with impossibly delicious-looking subs, piled high with succulent meats and colorful vegetables glistening with fresh-washed goodness. Now, Mrs. Pincus and I don't eat meat. Actually, I never eat meat and Mrs P follows a strictly kosher diet, so when we eat outside of our home, we both eat as vegetarians. Firehouse Subs doesn't seem to accommodate the vegetarian diet, offering a single "Veggie" sub among its numerous animal-flesh options. We asked the young lady at the cash register about a custom sandwich containing just cheese and vegetables. She stared back at us, as though we had addressed her in an African Khoisan language that employs a series of "clicks." It took several attempts at an explanation until she simply stated that we could just order a meat sub without the meat. (For a second, I felt like Jack Nicholson ordering wheat toast in Five Easy Pieces.) Mrs. P specified that she did not want deli mustard, but would prefer cucumbers on her sandwich. I asked that my sandwich did not include tomatoes. The young lady seemed to understand our request and set off to begin preparing our order. We paid and our receipt was handed down the assembly line to another disinterested young lady who would be tasked with assembling our sandwiches. The unusually high counter prevented us from watching our order being made, making it impossible to see that deli mustard was liberally applied on the roll that would contain Mrs. Pincus' sub (without the requested cucumbers) and that my sandwich was topped with two thick slices of tomato.

During the way-too-long preparation process (the place was empty of customers), two more young ladies, dressed in Firehouse Subs uniforms, bounded through the front door, carrying a cardboard tray laden with an assortment of hot and cold drinks from the Starbucks next door. They squealed with delight as they distributed the various liquid concoctions to the other Firehouse Subs employees. The distribution was accompanied by a detailed play-by-play recap of the entire ordering process at Starbucks. Suddenly, the fulfilling of our sandwich order took a back seat as full attention was given to the frothy and condensation-covered cups from Starbucks, along with additional analyzation of each individual beverage order. Finally, our sandwiches were wrapped in Firehouse Subs branded paper and placed in Firehouse Subs branded hinged trays, then into a large Firehouse Subs branded bag with a wad of Firehouse Subs napkins.

Nothing at Firehouse Subs looks like this.

We returned to our hotel room. I emptied the bag and Mrs. P ripped the bag in two, creating improvised place mats. We each opened our trays and unwrapped our subs. In no way did they come close to resembling those beautiful photos on the  menu board. They were misshapen, sloppy, drippy assemblages, flattened by the too-small containers and fairly unappetizing. But, it was 9:30 and we had been stuck in the car all day. So we suffered. And I picked the tomatoes off my sub before I ate it.

Mrs. Pincus fired off an email to the folks at Firehouse Subs, recounting the dissatisfaction with our experience. Surprisingly, they responded pretty quickly with a very apologetic reply. They told us that the issue would be addressed at a staff meeting and subsequent training would be implemented. They reiterated that everything we experienced goes against company policy and they hoped the offer of a gift card would entice us to return for a second chance. My wife thanked them for the offer. She said we would be happy to give it another try, but a little closer to home. Lumberton, North Carolina is a little far to go for a disappointing sandwich.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

einstein on the beach

Did you ever see one of those guys? You know the type I mean. You don't know them, but you instantly dislike them. Well, I saw one on the beach on Sunday. 

Late on Saturday, Mrs. P remarked that, if it was nice weather on Sunday, she'd like to take a drive to Atlantic City and sit on the beach for a few hours. I reluctantly agreed, as I hate the beach but I love my wife. So, Sunday morning arrived and the sun was shining. We gathered a couple of towels, a couple of chairs and a couple of snacks and pointed our car towards the familiar Jersey shore.

We found a parking spot two blocks from the beach in a 3-hour limit zone. I gathered our belongings, flinging the folded chairs and small cooler on my back like a Bedouin's camel. We selected a sandy patch of beach (ha ha) and parked ourselves for the afternoon.

That's when he arrived.

About eight or so feet away from our little encampment was a small group of senior citizens engaging in a similar exercise in sun-worshiping. I watched as he swaggered up to the group — puffed chest boasting a chunky piece of twisted gold right out of 1974, swim trunks slung low on his hips, arms bowed out from his sides as though he was stalking down the center of an Old West street about to draw his six-shooter and gun down Black Bart. And, of course, he had a smirk upon his tanned face.

"HEY!," he screamed in a volume too loud for his proximity to the old folks, but loud enough to let everyone relaxing nearby know that he had arrived and was about to honor us with some profound words. He grinned, continuing his opening statement, "It's the guy that makes the Phillies win every time you see him!" (At this point, it should be noted that the Philadelphia Phillies currently hold the worst record in Major League Baseball. While they have played surprisingly well over the last dozen or so games, overall their performance this season has been embarrassingly horrendous. Philadelphia fans, however, possess notoriously short memories and attention spans. They view a brief and uncharacteristic winning streak as the "major turnaround" we've been waiting for, entirely forgetting everything that preceded this victorious run. Then, when the team falls back into their losing ways, these same fans return to scratching their collective heads in disbelief.... Now, where was I....?) After attributing the Phillies' recent good luck solely to himself, he went off on an inane monologue in which he repeatedly professed his love for boiled peanuts. "I love 'em, I love 'em. I love 'em.," he reiterated over and over again. He made his point, meticulously describing the Southern delicacy as being "delicious and soft like peas," then fell back into the "I love 'em" catchphrase. He loudly extolled the virtues of boiled peanuts for — no exaggeration — five minutes. I didn't know this guy, but — boy! — did I hate him!

I had enough. I turned to my wife and offered to get us lunch at a nearby falafel* shop that had recently opened in a location that has been unable to sustain a thriving business for nearly thirty years. Mrs. P happily agreed and I had my escape from that yammering moron,

I entered the falafel joint. I hadn't yet allowed my left leg to cross the threshold when a cheerful fellow behind the counter yelled "Welcome" in my direction. I smiled. "Here's a menu," he announced and jammed a colorful folded paper menu at me. I opened it up and, despite already knowing what I wished to order, I politely scanned the many offerings.

"Two falafel sandwiches, please.," I requested A longtime favorite of my wife, it is only recently that I began to eat falafel, so it was odd hearing my own voice place that order, know one of those was for me. 

"Can I get your name?," the friendly fellow inquired.

"Josh." I replied and he scribbled it at the top of the guest check, under which he wrote my order. I handed over my credit card and the fellow swiped it in the terminal and told me I looked familiar. Then he glanced as the receipt printed out, looking back at me to give me the once-over.

"Pincus," he said as he examined the receipt, "Any relation to Michael Pincus?"

"Nope." I answered with a smile that I hoped would end the conversation. I was still curious as to why he needed my name. Aside from several employees, I was the only customer in the place. Another guy was busily assembling my order, hand-forming the chickpea mixture into balls and dropping them into the deep fryer. The friendly fellow came around to my side of the counter making half-hearted attempts at cleaning the tabletops.

My sandwiches were taking an awfully long time to prepare. 

"Where did you say you were from?," the friendly fellow said, re-initiating his line of questioning.

"I didn't," I responded, "But, I'm from Philadelphia."

"Oh!," he said, dragging the word out to several syllables, "Where abouts?"

"Elkins Park, just outside of the city.," I clarified.

"Oh!," he repeated his multi-syllabic exclamation, "I was just there! Do you know Frank Schwartz?"

"I do not.," I smiled a little less, hoping this one would end the conversation.

Suddenly, the counter guy passed a white paper bag stuffed with my sandwiches over to the friendly fellow. "Here's you order!," he reported. I took the bag, thanked him and left.

I joined my wife on the beach. I unpacked the bag. The pitas were still warm from the insulating aluminum foil wrapping. As we ate, I offered comment about the falafel place. 

"Boy, what a dirty little shop.," I began, "Good falafel, though." I bit off another mouthful of sandwich.

By this time, the "boiled peanut" guy was gone. We enjoyed our sandwiches without further distraction.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Falafel, for the uninformed or non-Israeli, are deep-fried balls or patties made from ground chickpeas. The sandwich is traditionally served in warmed pita bread with lettuce, cucumber, tomato, hummus (for that extra kick of chickpeas) and tahini sauce (made from ground sesame seeds, for when you've had enough of chickpeas).