Loss of a Titan

There are a few things I take seriously in life. A few. One of them, for a while, was Boston Market.

THAT was a hell of a place to eat. Home-cookin'. Ham, Turkey, chicken, but, hell, everyone does chicken. Fixin's! Mashed Topatoes (I know it's "potatoes." Fuck you, I'm an author, I type what I want), stuffing, macaroni and cheese, sweet potatoes ("topatoes" doesn't work here), lots of veggies, lovely cornbread. And the carver sandwiches. Those things were SO good.

The King Club sandwich. I remember it like I remember my first Big Mac, like I remember my first drive, like I remember my first kiss. All things I liked, except I regret my first kiss. :P

It was ham, turkey, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and a delicious sauce on white or wheat bread. Mother fuckin' good, yo. This was, ahhh... over 10 years ago. 1995.

Fast forward to today. I got a sandwich that was sad. It was "toasted", and by that, they mean they just burned the bread. They don't have ham anymore. They. Just. Don't. Make. It. No choice of bread. No tomato. Comes with a side.

I like sides. Got the stuffing. I love stuffing. What I got? It wasn't stuffing. It was putrid and cold and just like a huddled mass, afraid of the real world outside the steam-heated pan.

In the end, I was out nearly $7 for a sad, pathetic descendant of the once great King Club.

The sandwich was sad. And, through that sandwich, I became sad.