It happens. It has to me, already, this year, event with a new fridge in the office, and plans for an office toaster oven. (Did you know they will sell you one w/ a rotisserie, raising the spectre of roasting a chicken in the office, and the passing of drumsticks to students waiting for academic advising, etc.) But, it happens. Rather than packing a delicious and inexpensive lunch, I've wound up paying for something more expensive and less good. No need to go into details - those of you who know where the Cod grinds can paint the unpretty picture; those in similar rackets can paint a similar picture using colors other than orange and purple. You plan for something like Badthings epically simple sandwich:
If, say, it is 90 degrees out and you are late for work, you will want to make yourself the easiest lunch possible. You will put a tomato (maybe even an heirloom, as long as it doesn't suck) in a bag with 2 slices of bread. Because you live in a less pleasant part of the world, current temperatures notwithstanding, you will have to settle for some simulacrum of Acme pain au levain. Come lunchtime, you will grab a paper packet of salt from the cafe and pour most of it over the tomato you have carefully sliced with your dedicated pocket knife, and thoroughly squish the result between said slices of bread. Yuppies will substitute sea salt. You will have a tiny bottle of Catalan arbequina olive oil sitting in your office for just such an occasion. You may have planned ahead and brought a substantial slice of pecorino fresco with you, but this is not stricly necessary. Refreshed, you are now ready to return to counting the hours until you can shower again.
But it's 95 degrees out, and you forgot to get an extra tomato, and you need to pay someone for a less good sandwich than the one above, so you go to a non-Jared sandwich outlet. It happens. But! It's the kind of thing one keeps to one's self. However, the social media wizards at the aforementioned sandwich chain now want you not only to confess your weakness, but to shout it from the electronic rooftops of Twitter. It could happen, but only on a Guiteau Monday.