Panera Made Me Throw Up In My Mouth...

So, between the television and the dog both being extra distracting, I decided to look over some reference material for an upcoming book project somewhere with wifi that's not my place. Didn't feel like thinking on it too hard, so I just head to Panera Bread that's around the corner. As much as I abhor projecting the image of a douchebag working on his novel (a la Stewie Griffin voice), I sucked it up.

I ordered food. A soup/sandwich thingie and they took me for fifteen fucking dollars. Whatever. I spent more last night and already pissed it away before I zonked out early this morning. My order is ready and I have to speed walk to a table close to an outlet. This is a busy establishment…

I sit down. I get situated. I have my iced tea/lemonade (sans Vodka, unfortunately) and I'm all set to dip that spoon into this ginger chicken wonton concoction. I'm not positive on the sandwich I ordered because I stopped reading when I saw bacon.

What did I think?

First, some background. I'm an adventurous eater. I'll try just about anything at least once. Only mushrooms populate the list of foods I will not touch, and even then I can deal with it if they're mixed in with something - for instance, soup. Also, I'm a comparatively healthy eater. Not a freak or fundamentalist, but I do consider what I'm willing to stuff down my throat so as to prolong this charmed life without a set of fucking luggage to keep my medications when I do reach a certain age. And finally, I am easy to please. I really am. We've all had bad experiences in eateries and such. It's part of First World life. I never raise an issue, or my voice. I always tip. And I can always finish the meal with relative ease though it may not have been to my liking. It's the cost of being willing to try new things. Sometimes, they don't take. Right?

Well, I used to be able to say always. Would you like to know why? Because up until about 10 minutes ago I always cleared my goddamn plate as a matter of courtesy and custom. That bowl of shit-tasting foulness they've the nerve to call soup - clearly stated on the menu board - will require some toxic blend of Lysol, bleach, and probably fire to purge the lingering taste. Yes. There were mushrooms. But that wasn't the issue, even though there were more mushrooms in that square footage of soup bowl then there are baby rabbits following a jackrabbit fuckfest. I don't know what the fuck they put in there. I honestly don't know what marketing team made up of sadistic fuckers sat around a conference table and felt good about themselves when they agreed, "Yes. This chicken wonton clusterfuck is a good idea. Let's greenlight it."

I assure you, I can cook. I'm a bachelor, and I do not like Spaghettios. And I cannot, for the fucking life of me, begin to identify whatever that ingredient was, though I've no doubt that in many households said ingredient is a top notch toilet cleaner.

That sandwich? I got one thin slice of turkey and a tomato wedge big enough to choke a Spam canister. The bacon? More or less crumbled and skittered off the table -- presumably away from the swamp-in-a-bowl.

Did I complain? Nope. There was still that little chunk of bread they dump on the tray as though you’re a peasant from the French Revolution. I ate that.

After my $15 piece of bread I wanted a cigarette. I fucking earned it. But, despite living in the Tobacco state, I had to hike far enough away from this establishment (who charged me and then served me this disaster) as though there's a restraining order against me. In the fucking rain.

Now. I'm going to try to do some research. Unfortunately, I'm still scraping this HazMat issue off my tongue with my teeth. People are fucking staring at me. One old lady lurched over with a spoon ready to jam between my teeth as though I was seizing. Parents hugged their children much tighter as they drew some sardonic conclusion that I was a street urchin off his meds.

Do not order the chicken wonton whatever the fuck from Panera Bread.