The club house speculation starts

It was a cold and frosty weekend, and inadvertently house sitting for some old friends just off Broadway in the 'toon, I could only go as far as I could walk, having also hitched a ride in from a friend (traveling on a dime!). Having already ventured to Nino's and Sushiro, I returned to the Broadway Cafe, where I had ventured once last summer, and ate a messy slop of a sandwich.

Taking a back seat by the chrome bar, I had thoughts swimming around in my head over a conversation held the previous night. Sitting in the Star Trek inspired lounge of The Cave bar and restaurant, my friend and I witnessed a man nearby devour a club house sandwich. Being at The Cave and all, we thought perhaps it was the environment that caused a time warp back to the days of people ordering club house sandwiches. Who orders a club house sandwich still? They are a classic staple of sandwich menus, but seemingly of yesteryears. Those little sandwich wedges of toasted bread that always hurt the top of your mouth (also known as roof burn), feels a thing left in the past.

I ordered the club with a side of poutine, and it's exactly as I recall, roof burn and all. Chicken, bacon, lettuce, tomato, and mayo toppled between three slices of bread, cut four ways, with toothpicks and all. I was hungry as hell and cold to the bone, so I didn't leave much evidence that I didn't enjoy it, but I don't know if it's something I ever crave.

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