Sandwich Factory

If you’re a chick into grease monkeys, this is a great place to pick up mechanics. If you’re into sandwiches, they’ve got something for you too.
I was nursing a hangover, waiting on our mechanic to confirm that our tranny was indeed shot (and I mean that in a purely mechanical sense, not like someone popped a cap in Dame Edna’s ass or something). In an act of empathy for the car, I was was feeling pretty broke down, and was looking for a place to discretely reassemble my bilious liver.
The tranny situation needed an hour or two, and The Sandwich Factory was a hop across the street so we went in.
I immediately needed to make use of the facilities. For some reason, every dive-​y spot I eat at in Broward has the can in the kitchen. This place was no different. But I like a place with a pisser in the kitchen. Keeps things honest in the hygiene department.
Anyway, prisons have better décor than this place. It’s just a couple of tables, chairs and those pseudo-​gambling machines where you can win lotto tickets but no actual cash. There’s a car hood hung on the wall. I think it had Bud Light or some other classy libation emblazoned across it.
I plopped down and ordered an Italian foot-​long to share with my motor-​head husband, whose latest vehicular tragedy was the reason for being in this god-​forsaken locale in the first place.
The Italian was real good. They made everything fresh on the premises, a claim that I was able to verify as I passed through the kitchen en route to the bano several times.
The lady owner was nice as pie. She let me camp out at one of the tables while my husband was handling the tranny. I read one of the many mags she had in the place.
During my stay, she began stacking the reading material into neat little rows.
«Gotta make it look good in here,» she said.
I looked at her quizzically. Nothing short of a complete gutting/​reno of that place could make it look good. The first move, in my opinion, would be taking the car hood and the borderline porno centerfolds off the walls.
«You’d be surprised at how many people come in here, look and turn around and leave cuz of the looks of the place,» she said.
I wasn’t really surprised.
«Well, consider yourself lucky,» I said. «That’s probably not a customer you want anyway.»
She continued stacking up her old Prevention and Good Housekeeping magazines binding-​to-​binding in an order that would make Gunnery Sgt. Hartman beam with sempre fi pride. Oh, how the sincere, yet futile efforts of others never cease to pull my fraying heartstrings.
Mostly mechanics floated in and out of this place during my stay. And that speaks well of the place. Car guys usually know where the good grub is. Speaking dive-​wise, that is. When they talk Michelins, it’s tires. Not stars.
I could only stomach half of my sandwich, due to the boa constrictor that seemed to have seized my belly after my night of tippling. I ate the rest of the sandwich hours later, way up on the Florida Turnpike, after reading the Steak N’ Shake menu and turning on my heel.
Damn. That thing was ten times better after it sat in the cooler for a while.
This place is great. Looks like a bombed out, rusted up Trans Am T-​top, but goes down like a a drunk soror-​whore in the back of daddy’s Lexus SUV. Real good and easy. Try it. If you dare.