What makes the best sandwich maker? Let me confess something that might surprise you.
My favorite part of running Kaysville Subway, the part that actually lights me up, the part that made me fall in love with this whole ridiculous industry in the first place, is the one thing I barely get to do anymore:
Making sandwiches.
Not invoices.
Not staff meetings.
Not checking inventory to figure out who opened the mozzarella and didn’t close the bag.
Not hiring or firing or training or re-training the training.
I mean actually working the line.
Gloving up.
Grabbing the bread.
And building someone a sandwich they’re genuinely excited to eat.
Because here’s the truth research confirms we don’t talk about enough:
Most of us care deeply about what people think of the food we make.
You know it’s true. Think about holidays. You don’t just plop mashed potatoes on the table like a medieval servant. You swirl it. You fluff it. You aim for those dramatic vertical peaks so people say things like, “Wow, the potatoes look amazing this year.” You pretend it doesn’t matter, but your ego eats that compliment faster than your uncle eats the rolls.
And I’m no different.
When I’m on the line, I’m in my element. Being the best sandwich maker is my sport. It’s my art. It’s the one place where my slightly unhinged perfectionism is socially acceptable.
Because I don’t just make subs.
I đź‘Ź Make đź‘Ź Subs đź‘Ź Better đź‘Ź Than đź‘Ź Anyone đź‘Ź Else.
Is that cocky? Absolutely.
Is it true? Also absolutely.
When someone whispers to their spouse, “That is the best-looking sub I’ve ever had,” I hear it. Oh, I hear it. It lives rent-free in my heart next to the memory of every customer who ever said, “Just a little mayo,” and then watched in awe as I delivered the perfect swirl.
If I’m going to do something in life, anything, I want to do it well enough that people walk away thinking, “Dang, that mattered more than it should have.”
And right now?
I sell sandwiches for a living.
So I’m going to be the best sandwich maker and make those sandwiches like a man possessed.
The Best Sandwich Maker Problem: I Never Get To Do It
Running a restaurant sounds glamorous until you realize “restaurant owner” is actually code for:
- Chief Marketing Officer
- Chief Operations Officer
- HR department
- Therapist
- Math teacher
- Babysitter
- Full-time firefighter, but the fires are metaphors and sometimes real
And somewhere buried underneath all that paperwork and “Why did we order eight cases of tomatoes?” conversations is the thing I actually love: feeding people.
Sometimes I daydream about it.
Not vacations.
Not winning the lottery.
Just getting to work a full shift on the line as the best sandwich maker.
Making subs.
Talking with customers.
Crafting the perfect bite.
Watching someone take their sandwich and do that little happy nod humans do when their day instantly improves.
That’s the magic.
That’s why I’m here.
And one of these days, I’m going to sneak out from behind the desk, tie on an apron, and make your sandwich myself—the way it deserves to be made.
Until then, if you see me wandering the store staring longingly at the line like a golden retriever staring out a window, just know:
I’m not stressed.
I’m not burnt out.
I’m just a man who desperately misses being the best sandwich maker and building the world’s best sandwiches for the people he loves serving.
And trust me, when I get back on that line?
You’re getting the best sub of your life from the best sandwich maker in Kaysville.
Rick’s Rant
You ever notice the people who walk their dog without a plastic bag, spot the dog getting into “the stance,” and suddenly start looking around like they’ve never seen this animal before in their life?
They do the fake phone check.
The fake “wow, look at that tree” distraction.
The fake speed-walk.
Anything to avoid acknowledging that their dog is actively unloading a steaming crime scene on your lawn.
And then, when the dog finishes, they do this quick half turn, glance at it, then look away like, “Well, nothing I can do now. Nature is wild!”
Listen, I love dogs. I love your dogs. Your dogs are better behaved than half the teenagers who come in asking for twelve pumps of chipotle southwest.
But if your dog drops something on my grass, I’m begging you, just bring a bag. A single bag! I’ll even give you one. I’ve got a whole box of food-safe gloves that would do the job in a pinch.
Just don’t pretend it didn’t happen. My security cameras have seen everything, and at this point I’ve practically memorized the guilty shuffle.
This passion goes way back to The Kaysville Subway Love Story.
Speaking of loyal customers, read about The 8th Grade Order.
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