Clubhouse psychology

The sure bet for the unsure diner

A friend of ours visiting from Alberta insisted on taking us out to a fancy restaurant for dinner … I mean supper … not long ago. Which meant for me that the club sandwich would cost $30 rather than the general $12.95.

She imagined elegance. A lowly lit room, a candle on the table, white linen. A basket of warm buns. Oh. Excuse me. Rolls.

A waiter in a penguin suit. Violin music. Wine.

It was a nice gesture and much appreciated. But we ain’t suave. Swiss Chalet is as esoteric a dining experience as I can stand without hyperventilating. Put two forks before me and I’ll start failing Grade 8 all over again.

And the Chalet’s a chicken place so I know what I’m getting before I go in. A double leg dinner. With chips. Or if I’m on a diet, a quarter chicken white meat. With that comes the wing and I love gnawing on a slightly charred wing. It’s a taste explosion. Mostly though, it’s the double leg deal.

But in your average workaday diner? It’s the clubhouse sandwich every time.

If I were ever to submit myself to the drooling chops and ready pen of the nearest psychiatrist, that would be a good place for me to start as soon as I hit the couch:

“Tell me about yourself.” “I always get the club …”

… It was somewhere in early adolescence the first time I ever got a club sandwich. It was Jays restaurant in Glace Bay, the one previously on lower Commercial St. Came with fries … and gravy.

It was the first time I ever ordered anything besides fries. But more notably it was the first time I ever ordered anything with tomatoes.

It was the first time I ever spent money on tomatoes. A real step toward adulthood.

I like tomatoes, yes, but I only like them IN SOMETHING. Everybody raves about growing tomatoes in the summer; I grow tomatoes myself; but I can’t imagine eating a tomato, say, like an apple. Or as a wedge. Or as a slice. No thanks.

My tastebudinal sense of umami is either too complex, or more likely not complex enough.

But with a little mayo? On toast? With a bit of cheddar? Diced, canned, in a spaghetti sauce?

Died and went to heaven. Anyway.

You have to wonder. What does it say about a person who ALWAYS gets the club?

When I first became a reader, I read a book by Stephen King. And then I ventured out to buy another book. By Stephen King. And then another book. By Stephen King.

Because no other books ever written would be any good. So I read every Stephen King book there was and then started again.

I think these are the habits of a person who needs a home. A person who has found himself wandering, living here, living there … looking for home at last. And when that person finds that home … that’s it!!! Not moving from this spot. I don’t care.

Or. Maybe these are the habits of a skinflint. A cheapskate. What if I buy a Tom Clancy novel and don’t like it? What if I get the lasagna and I’m not satisfied, or the liver and onions and they burn the onions and dry out the liver and I will have paid all that money when I could’ve had the club?

Point is, it’s hard to ruin a club sandwich.

But it can be done. With processed, pressed turkey. Genuine imitation fowl. Giving birth to the vinyl snoot boot of club sandwiches. The Dollar Store Styrofoam plate bill-o’-fare.

C’mon. Real turkey + bacon, lettuce, tomato + Miracle Whip = Success. It’s simple, entrepreneurial mathematics. Give the customers what they want and they’ll beat your door down.

We went to Simeons. Kept it real.

Welcome to the … you know.