Anything Xtra Is Xtra Money

Growing up, we knew not to go to the beach until four in the afternoon, and to clear out by sundown. Now the same is true for Monica’s Mercato.

The entire clientele has changed. I remember squeezing my way into the old shop for “un porcion di parmiggiano” and maybe an empanada. Now they offer a Tuuka Special. You even have to wait thirty minutes for a call-ahead order placed the day before.

Just this afternoon, a tightly-wound mannequin of privileged upbringing held up the line for a good ten minutes trying to substitute grilled chicken breast for the mortadella in her Italian sub. 

“Like, is mortadella, like, the one with the chunks in it?”

The fellas behind the counter tried heroically to comprehend the request through the whining, while her idiot boyfriend perspired with shame in the glare of the incredulous behind him.

Why must the entitled defile perfection? 

Two mini-Biebers cut the line in front of me to join their acquaintance in tapered sweats at the counter, insisting upon Calabrian peppers instead of hots. They ordered six more for the pack of bama-swept brosephs grunting outside.

No wonder Jorge hung a sign that reads “anything xtra is xtra money.”

I was forced to overhear the animated debate behind me over the best way to stab a PvE video game character in the underbelly from down on one knee. I was jostled forward with a reenactment gone awry.

I gave up on the line and looped around to follow a tray of pizza samples as it made its way up from the basement ovens.

Before I could even try it, another little priss at the register started feeding her equally prissy little purse dog straight from the tray, batting her store-bought eyelashes as if I should find the performance cute.

I am disappointed in the next generation Mendoza model.

Industrialize the system, bring in a few celebrities and signed hockey sticks, and milk it for all its worth. The more you let the service suffer, the longer your lines will get, stuffed out the door with hipsters and yuppies and tourists.

And I’ll be forced to buy my subs from Dino's.


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