:: Lunch lady ::

Recently, my company reshuffled some of its operations, which meant we got a few employees in our office. 

One of them, a woman in her mid-40s, we all know, as she worked out of our office a few years ago. She's a great person – very bubbly, funny, and we all like her, and are happy to have her here. Trouble is, turns out she's a "lunch talker." And I don't mean that in a "she talks to you when you're both sitting in the lunchroom" kind of way, which of course, is perfectly normal.

No, she is a "lunch talker" because she just simply cannot walk past a person eating something without commenting on it. I guess that actually makes her a "lunch commenter" or a "lunch observer" but whatever. You get the point. 

"Mmmm... that looks good."

"Salad, eh? 

"Is it lunch already?

Aside from answering 'Yes' to all three of those queries, what else can you really say? It's just a case of someone wanting to make conversation for the sake of it, or because they just love the sound of their own voice, or both. 

And it's even more of a pain in the ass for me because at least three out of five weekdays, the desk at which I sit is directly in her path. I could probably avoid it if I chose to go hide in the lunch room, but don't even get me started on the conversations I'd be subjected in there*.

(*How bad is the lunchroom? If I have to do any prep-work or microwaving of my lunch – anything that will keep me in there longer than the two seconds it takes to grab it from the fridge and go – I wait until every last soul is out of there. That's how serious I am about avoiding this inane, uninteresting conversations. And if that means I have to wait until 2:30 to eat my lunch, so be it.)

So yeah, I'm in a bit of a pickle here. I'm gonna have to start eating lunch in my car.

Doors locked.

:: Candy Salad ::

When I was a kid, I had what I thought at the time was a culinary creation for the ages. In retrospect, it was a pretty disgusting idea – a total Fat Guy move – but it's the kind of thing you'd expect from a pudgy 11-year-old.

My idea – which came to me while eating dinner at my grandparents' old house in South Surrey – was for a Candy Salad. What you'd do, see, is replace lettuce with chips, and all the veggies, croutons and other things you'd normally find in salad would be replaced by various delicious treats - gummy bears, chocolate chunks, Smarties, Ju-jubes, etc... And what would replace the dressing?

Well chocolate and caramel sauce, of course.

See? I told you it was a total Fat Guy move. Regardless, this was my brilliant idea. I never actually made the Candy Salad – there's probably no way in hell any parent would allow such a thing to be made, but still, I always remembered my brilliant (at the time) idea.

And I was reminded of it again this week when Christene was telling me about a surprise wedding shower that somebody threw for somebody else at her office the other day.

A lot of people brought food and goodies for the event, including one woman who channelled her inner-child and brought, you guessed it, a candy salad. (She called it a chocolate salad, but it's the same general idea)

It had the following things: chocolate almonds, chocolate raisins, Aero minis, Reece's pieces and "any other chocolate I could find."

I mean, there's no Doritos or caramel sauce, but still, she stole my fucking idea.

If I could go back in time, my pudgy 11-year-old self would totally copyright that shit.

:: The Pizza Rules ::

There are countless number of things I take issue with – seriously, try and keep track – and one that has largely flown under the radar is about pizza. Now, it may not shock you that a man of my, uh, carriage has opinions on pizza (maybe it only shocks you that it's taken so long for such opinions to bubble over) but be that as it may, what I really have a problem with is "pizza" with non-traditional toppings.

I put that last pizza in quotations because a pizza with feta cheese, lettuce, shrimp, or some god-awful white sauce instead of regular tomato-based pizza sauce is not real pizza. I'm sorry, but it just isn't. (Noted exception: BP's perogy pizza)

This little rant came to fruition last night when Christene and I headed down to the Cloverdale BP for dinner. We hemmed and hawed over a pizza – I wanted one with about 54 kinds of meat on it; Christene was less enthusiastic – until decided on a compromise: a pizza which had a couple kinds of traditional meats (pepperoni, ham) as well as a couple veggies. It also had shrimp.

Needless to say, this pizza was not good. Not so much because of the shrimp, but because of an utter lack of cheese, which meant all the toppings fell off the pizza when you tried to lift it out of the pan. But the shrimp didn't help. It just felt... out of place.

So while our subpar dinner was not the direct result of the shrimp, it caused me to consider all the pizza offerings which we had to choose from on the menu. Among them – the items listed above, plus one with pulled pork, another with peanut sauce and sesame seeds, and other strange concoctions that I cannot remember right now.

Whatever happened to pepperoni, bacon, mushrooms, green peppers and cheese? I mean, is that what we've come to here – we're so bored with traditional food that we have to put pulled pork and fucking shellfish on pizza to make it new and interesting? Listen, I like pulled pork. Like shrimp and feta cheese, too. But not in a pizza. When I order a pizza, I want it to look like a fucking pizza. And more importantly, taste like a pizza. With plenty of cheese.

Stick with what works, pizza chefs. You're fucking up a good thing (Again, the perogy pizza notwithstanding. That shit's delicious.)

In conclusion: Less this, more this.

:: Country-fried America ::

This past weekend, Christene and I went to Seattle, for no reason other than we wanted something to do, and thought Seattle would be fun. We had a grand ol' time – walked around the downtown core a ton; ate a bunch of seafood; went on a historic walking tour of underground Seattle; fought off the advances of some gross homeless bum; and went shopping.

But of all the things we did – and we did a lot in a little more than a day – one of the seemingly minor things that stood out were the two breakfasts we ate: Saturday morning at the IHOP in Bellingham, and Sunday morning at the Denny's just outside Everett.

They have these two establishments in Canada, too, of course, but in both cases, the American menus are quite a bit different. Better, mostly. And also fatter.

One fatter-in-America example: American IHOPs have found a way to combine cake and pancakes with something called the New York Cheesecake pancake.

Another case in point: On both breakfast menus, country-fried steak is featured prominently. This is something that just isn't Canadian. I mean, it's steak, caked in deep-fried batter, fried (of course), and then topped with white gravy, which is approximately 214% fattier than regular gravy (rough estimate). For breakfast!

I mean, we here in Canada are fat – we invented poutine, for fuck's sake – but we're not that fat. Of course, though I mock it, I obviously ordered it on Sunday from Denny's (What can I say? I enjoy local cuisine... it was a cultural experience).

And not only did I order it, but I actually ordered it as part of some artery-choking extravaganza called the Meat Lovers Trio. The trio consisted of the following: country-fried streak covered in country-fried gravy; two sausages, two strips of bacon, two eggs, and then hashbrowns. But not just any hashbrowns – these were "new" hashbrowns, which were covered in cheese and sausage crumbles.

I know it said "trio" and I assume that refers to the three types of meat, but considering there are clearly more than three items, and sausage is in it twice, the number three could easily refer to the number of minutes you have, post-eating, until you keel over and die, or perhaps the number of times – maximum – that you will ever have sex again should you continue to eat in this manner.

At one point, I had on my fork a piece of steak, sausage, bacon, egg, and cheese. All covered in gravy, of course.

What a country.

:: A difference of opinion ::

"I just don't like my chicken wings with a side of tits." - Christene, on why she hates Sammy J. Peppers, and refuses to go there.

:: Yeah, I'd eat that* ::

"I had a dream last night that Kristyl and I were making sandwiches, but instead of bread, we used cheesecake." - Christene.

*editor's note: That's what she said.

:: That time I was a jerk at Subway ::

Waitress: Have you decided?

Mr. Grotti: I'll have the linguini, red sauce on the side. If the sauce does not come on the side, I will send it back. I want garlic bread. Toasted. Not burnt. If it comes burnt, I will send it back.

Michael Scott: I will have the spaghetti. With a side salad.

Waitress: OK.

Michael Scott: If the salad is on top, I send it back.

- The Office, season 5 "Mafia" episode

It's often hard to tell because I'm such a sarcastic asshole most of the time, but the truth is that I really don't like confrontation – especially in restaurants, or places of that ilk.

I hate returning things to the mall, for one example, and this dislike for confrontation is also one of the main reasons I won't go out for a meal with a certain friend of mine – because he (his whole family, really) ends up having problems with everything, making a big scene, and eventually demanding free food etc... Through the years, we've stormed out of more than a few restaurants – him in a huff, me just trailing behind.

If I get a subpar meal at a restaurant, I'm more apt to just suck it up, shrug my shoulders and tell myself, "Well, they can't all be good." Because it's true – throughout your lifetime, it's next to impossible that every single meal you ever eat is going to be perfect. This doesn't mean I won't complain about said meal for days after – because trust me, you'll hear about it until you wished I'd choked and died trying to eat whatever it is I'm whining about – but I just don't waste time demanding that my meal be re-cooked/free/served to me with complimentary bread/dessert/appetizer/sports car.

It's just not worth it.

But earlier this week, I hit my breaking point.

After work the other day, I went to Subway to pick up some dinner. I ordered a foot-long roasted chicken sub, on white bread. For starters, the woman behind the counter grabbed a loaf of the parmesan oregano bread – apparently she just didn't listen at all, because the two types of bread do not sound remotely alike – and I had to correct her. No big deal, I guess, but I should have known it was foreshadowing what was to come.

Next, she cut open the correct bread with the skill and precision of a six-year-old, essentially tearing the bread in half, rather than cutting it. And again, I let it slide.

But then it began. She put tomatoes on it when I never asked for any – so she had to remove them. Then she put peppers on it, which I also didn't ask for – so she had to remove them. Then came time for "a little bit of mustard and a bit of ranch, please." (Notice, I was still polite at this point).

She then proceeded to empty nearly the entire damn mustard container on the sandwich, followed by so much ranch dressing that it looked like somebody jacked off an elephant onto my dinner (Nice visual? You're welcome). This was the last straw.

"Oh c'mom, I asked for a little of each. That's waaaay too much. You wanna scrape some of that off, or something?" I asked.

I got a baffled look, followed by a lame attempt to scrape the sauces off with a paring knife, which ended up a) tearing the bread some more and b) smearing a lovely mustard and ranch combination all over the outside of the bread.

"You know what? You've ruined the whole damn thing. Just start over, I want a new one."

This did not sit well with the person behind the counter, and she seemed bewildered at such a request. Her co-worker, who came over, was also reluctant.

"It's fine," the co-worker said. "What's wrong with it? We can't make a new one, unless you want to order two."

It was at this point that I informed said employee that since I hadn't yet paid for the first one, they'd better restart the process – and not fuck it up – or else I'd just walk out altogether, paying for nothing.

"Either way, you're gonna be out the cost of at least one sandwich," I said.

I should also mention that, by now, there were a few people behind me in line, no doubt wondering what the hell my problem was. Normally, I would have resorted to my usual "Aw, shucks" mentality (see above), but this is not the first time this Subway has fucked up my sandwich. In fact, more often than not, the employees at this particular location have ruined, in some way, my meal.

Now, you may wonder why I continue to return if they suck so bad, and my answer is two-fold. First, it's close to my house and convenient. And second, I always go back with the assumption that "It can't be that bad again, right?"

I would have likely also given this woman a break if she had a trainee sticker on, like many there often do. Hey, she's new, she's learning. That's cool – I get it. But I've seen this woman there before many times. And for somebody dubbed a "Sandwich Artist" you'd think you wouldn't suck so hard at it.

I mean, seriously, your only job is to make sandwiches. If you can't do that, maybe look into a new line of work. I mean, if I am a bad writer, I probably don't get to keep the job I have. If Bucholtz was a dangerously incompetent subpar electrician, he wouldn't be one. If Jeremy couldn't plumb, he wouldn't be a plumber, and if Kelsey didn't do... whatever the hell it is that she does, well she'd probably run away to Fort McMurray try something else.

In the end, you'll be happy to know that I got what I wanted – a remade footlong, roasted chicken sub, on white bread.

And the best part was, they couldn't even spit it in – such is the benefit of having them make it right in front of you. I'm sure they wanted to, though.

I can almost guarantee it.

:: It's okay, I'll just eat a sugar packet or two ::

It's just after noon right now, and I am starving.

However, going into the lunchroom to retrieve my lunch from the refrigerator is a difficult task, as two of the most notorious talkers are currently in there, eating lunch. I have, as you've probably guessed, absolutely zero inclination to speak with either or them – especially one, because the conversation always ends up being about her somehow.

Also, once any type of food is put on display – my lunch, for example – the conversation with inevitably turn to one of the following topics: how said person only eats organic food, how she ate just the most marvelous tomato from a hillside market on her recent trip to Central America, or the local farmers' market.

She's a self-proclaimed "foodie" (chief ingredient: pretentiousness!). Meanwhile, I'll be microwaving a panini sandwich that came frozen in a cardboard box (From Wal-Mart no less, which is really nothing more than a global farmers' market, when you think about it).

Had I brought a sandwich or something similar to work, I would likely be able to swoop in while the two were engrossed in conversation, and slink out without being noticed. But unfortunately my lunch today, as mentioned, is of the microwave variety, and there is absolutely zero chance that I can prepare it, wait for it to cook, and run away without getting trapped into a conversation about the healing power of asparagus, or how smart it is to cook 7 meals on a Sunday afternoon, then freeze them, thus freeing up your evenings for the rest of the week.

Thankfully, I've been eating far less the last few weeks as part of my latest weight-loss infatuation ("Hi, you may remember me from failed fitness regimes such as"Carb-free January 2007" and "Yo-Yo dieting attempts 1 through 6.").

And as such, my body has gotten used to always being at least a little bit hungry. My willpower is at an all-time high, which is why I am content (sort of) to wait out "the talkers" in the lunchroom, even if it means eating lunch way later than I'd like to.

My appetite is no match for my hatred for awkward, boring conversations.

:: Breakfast of champions ::

In life, there are only a handful of non-breakfast foods (for lack of a better term) which can acceptably be eaten for breakfast. For example, any type of dessert – pie, cake, whatever – are usually delicious if eaten before 10 a.m. Also, traditional leftovers such as cold pizza or cold KFC are staples of the It's-Saturday-morning-and-I'm-hungover-as-fuck diet.

But, as I alluded to, most of these foods are consumed for breakfast when one is in a hangover state, usually on a weekend. It's a desperation breakfast borne out of laziness, essentially.

Which is why I had to look twice this morning when I arrived at work, walked into the lunchroom, and saw a colleague of mine – a woman in her late 50s – sitting at the table, scarfing down cold, rubbery-looking tempura prawns out of a Chinese take-out box, along with her morning coffee.

At 8:15 a.m. on a Tuesday.

I mean, find a bagel or something for Christ's sake.