I love English mustard. Like, I really love it. I like it so much that I get a kick out of having so much that my nose burns when I eat it on a sandwich.
The girls who work at Fatsos don't know that I like mustard, but they put more mustard onto the sandwiches than I have ever had in my life. Not just a bit more, but a LOT more.
This has happened several times now, even though they are asked for 'just a bit'.
Picture it like this as I slowly open the sandwich, panting and teary-eyed - there's about the same amount on there as someone who likes salad cream would put on a sandwich. Yeah, about enough to fill your mouth. Like salad-cream, but bright yellow. Everywhere.
They obviously don't eat mustard themselves or they would know that they are making sandwiches that are horrifically inedible.
Having a slightly masochistic trait when it comes to mustard, I consider it a challenge to cough and snotbubble my way through one of these freaky butties whilst fighting the overwhelming need to puke and simultaneously breathe air normally - all in front of my work colleagues who look on with amused intrigue as they nibble away on their normal food.
Ultimately, the service staff are mindless automatons, and because the mustard is in the same industrial-size squirting tubes as the less brave sauces, like ketchup and brown, there is no differentiation when it comes to their application of it.
Solution: Don't ask for mustard. Buy your own and you put it on. NEVER let them do it. read more