Oh Christ, I’ve gone and done it again. I swore up and down I was done with this shit-ass chain, but I found myself needing something to keep my head from spinning into low blood sugar oblivion. So I moseyed up and down Eighth Avenue looking for something that fit the bill–something not greasy, heavy or expensive. And, voila, up popped this scuzzy Subway franchise. Situated between one of those nasty White Castle/Taco Bell/Church’s Chicken (but not really) combo joints that specialize in satisfying nobody but the rats in the storeroom, and a cut-rate, bootleg sneaker store, the edifice of this Subway looks to either be crumbling or dealing with a serious case of the schmeg. So I shut my eyes, held my breath and scooted through the door before a hypodermic wielding nut job could give me a mainline of the HIV. And it was like being home. The mixed stench of that specially concocted Subway baked bread and an undertone of bleach that smells sort of like a nasty staph infection or festering WWI trench wound hit me full in the face. I ordered my usual turkey and air sandwich, refused the meal deal and got the hell out of there. The meal satisfied my hasty criteria, although next time I’ll remember to make taste, value and made-from-something-organic priorities. [MF]
525 8th Ave.