Real men don’t eat salads. But grown men do. As your favorite grown man reporting on the best places to do all things LA, I sit in West Subs doing just that, and enjoying it. No, I haven’t gone soft but this healthy green salad accompanying my meal has thrown me a curve ball. It’s disregarded my maturity level, strategically placing raisins atop my fork amidst raspberry vinaigrette. Their subterfuge is rewarded — mental note add raisins to shopping list.
I am still a red blooded American male, and a man’s staple awaits me, the sandwich. A tuna melt with Cheddar at that. However, Matt the manager refuses to allow me my regular vulgar display of power by serving the sandwich on French bread cut in thirds, and served open faced with fresh fruit as well.
The swine! Forcing me to eat slowly and savor the real albacore tuna bite by bite on a toasted roll. No, they unforgivingly rounded out my palette with seasonal fruit! The Mrs. claims my eating style is akin to a Viking pillaging the land. Now, I appear somewhat cultured, yet somehow satisfied. Strange, this West subs.
West Subs interior features local artists works and young playwrights’ in the throes of discussion flank my right. Though Boba is available this is no flyby night drink spot. If coffee is your poison rest assured your roast of choice is available.
Glancing at the full menu of salads and light sandwiches, the faint scent of a brilliant chicken gumbo wafts towards me. Free Wi-Fi after 3pm, 2 large plasmas within view, shows I have stumbled upon a secret. It now belongs to you. Dine fine my friends, dine fine.