I'm Sorry, But That's Not On Our Menu
Author's note: If you’re easily offended, slightly prudish, or believe potty humor has no place in this world, don’t read any further. For those who continue, I apologize in advance. I grew up watching a lot of Benny Hill.
A newer part of our routine this year is ordering sandwiches on the way from a little sandwich shop in Wellfleet center. I’ll spare them the humiliation of being associated with the events included in this story and keep their name out of it, but they make great sandwiches. And the convenience of being able to place an order in the morning on the way, having them ready by the time we get to Wellfleet, and just throwing them in the cooler and heading to the beach removes an extra level of complication when trying to rouse teenagers out of bed no matter how psyched they were the night before to “hit the beach early.” Dealing with that, plus trying to make sandwiches in the morning or getting in line at a sub shop somewhere en route causes anxiety and fear that we’re missing valuable beach time.
Now, this sandwich shop, in addition to crafting beautifully delicious sandwiches with multiple options in each category of vegetarian, seafood, chicken, turkey, roast beef, and ham, has also taken the time to develop creative names for each sandwich. The clever name is typically some sort of spin on or hints at what the main ingredient of the sandwich might be. This is not a unique practice. However, it is the type of thing that Jenn struggles with. Knowing this, maybe she should not have been the one in charge of placing the order.
Before I go on, I will point out that I am known in the family as the one who cracks under pressure and has a tendency to break down when ordering at drive-thru windows. As much shit as I take from my family about this, they fail to understand that it’s incredibly distracting to have a wife in the passenger seat or child in the backseat, whispering additions, alterations, or custom requests as I’m trying to relay the orders for four people that had just been confirmed 10 seconds before pulling up to the speaker.
Trying to recite an order only to be cut off because a passenger has a sudden craving for an Oreo McFlurry or because another didn’t realize the McRib was back until we started ordering is like having some jackass say random numbers out loud while you’re trying to count something, or rubbing your belly while tapping your head — they all take an incredible amount of concentration. But I receive no sympathy or empathy, and instead, when we pull up to the drive-thru, I’m usually scolded and advised to, “Just put the window down, and let me order it. You never get it right.” And I sink back into my driver’s seat as my wife shouts the order across my face.
I will admit that one time in a Burger King drive-thru, I may have ordered “nuggets” instead of tenders. At least I didn’t say McNuggets. But because the person taking the order was obviously much younger than me and refused to assume that I wanted the “fried pieces of chicken” option that every fast food joint has, he had to ridicule me with, “I’m sorry sir, but we don’t have nuggets here,” to the glee and satisfaction of the rest of my family in the car. So, yes. I do have a few drive-thru faux-pas on my resume.
And the reason this particular instance stung so much is that, when I was 13, I was in a Burger King with my dad and he ordered a Filet-o-Fish. I was mortified. Of course, what he meant was a Whaler. But even back then in 1987, the bastard behind the counter had to rub it in with, “I’m sorry sir, but we don’t have Filet-o-Fish here.” Knowing, as an adult, that I fell victim to the same thing that embarrassed me as a kid when my dad did it years ago, left an indelible mark in my psyche that the protective armor of youth and cool were quickly leaving the building. I’ve just decided upon writing this that I now hate Burger Kind and will no longer go there.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the Burger King employee handbook has a section that says, “If a customer ever confuses our products with that of McDonald’s, be sure to make them feel like shit.”
But as this fateful day of August 28, 2021, would prove, no adult is immune to the pitfalls of embarrassment. Especially when it comes to imaginatively named menu items.
So, as we drive along route 6A and finalize our orders, there aren’t many surprises. Mason wants an Italian, Rowan is ordering a ham option, I’m feeling some kind of turkey concoction, and Jenn decides in her mind what she’s going to have.
Jenn calls in the order and begins to rattle off our sandwich choices. First up, Mason’s Italian, no tomatoes but with hots. Standard, she’s been ordering this for him at sub shops across the nation for the last eight years or so.
My turkey sandwich is listed on the menu as “The Calypso.” She sort of stutters when ordering this one and I can tell that the clever names of these sandwiches might be more than she can handle. I’m now convinced it wasn’t a good idea for her to be the one placing the order. But I’m driving, and this generation of teenagers is unable to communicate via telephone even though there is one in their hands most minutes of the day. Jenn has got to handle this mission. Our beach lunch depends on her successful execution.
She plows forward. Onto Rowan’s, “and we’ll have one ‘Porkey’s Delight’.”
Ok, now she’s just making shit up. This is not on the menu. I whisper to her, and Rowan, exhibiting less patience than me, shouts the same correction from the backseat, “It’s called ‘Porkey’s Nightmare!’”
Jenn stabilizes, and tries to right the ship, “Sorry, ‘Porkey’s Nightmare’, yes, a ‘Porkey’s Nightmare.” Her demeanor becomes an odd combination of panic and immature giggling.
But it’s ok, because the last sandwich to order is hers, and of course she knows what she’s ordering for herself, right?
“And finally, we’ll have one ‘Prince Albert’.”
There’s an awkward pause.
I sort of cock my head to the left as if to question this. I mumble under my breath, “nope, that doesn’t sound right.”
The young girl on the other end of the phone, who can’t be more than 18, sounds confused, “What?”
“Um, um…” Jenn is a deer in the headlights.
“What?” the employee asks again.
“Um, it’s the one with the tuna? And the lettuce and the avocado?”
“The ‘Captain Albert’?”
“Yes! The ‘Captain Albert’!”
Now, for those who don’t know, I’ll save you the time from looking up in the urban dictionary what a “Prince Albert” is and the potentially embarrassing Facebook ads that would soon follow in your feed if you do this search. “Prince Albert” is slang for pierced male genitals. And I’m 110% sure it is not on the menu at this sandwich shop.
Unclear on who Captain Albert is/was and whether or not he flaunted bling on his phallus. But rumor has it, Prince Albert, who was an actual Prince and the consort of Queen Victoria in the 1800s, did, thus the reference. It even has its own dedicated Wikipedia page entry. Proud mom moment?
At this point, Jenn was completely aware of what she said, what it meant, and it was confirmed by the 15-year-old in the backseat via a quick search on urbandictionary.com that “Prince Albert” means pierced genitalia. It’s quite possible the 15-year-old has urbandictionary.com bookmarked on his phone. Confirmation came very quickly.
Jenn has completely broken down into hysteric laughter at this point, but the kind of laughter where no sound comes out, she can’t catch her breath, and she is just waving her cell phone straight out in front of her, unable to speak, let alone breathe, hoping someone will just take the phone from her hands and put her out of her misery.
And the poor girl at the sandwich shop is still on the other end, “Hello? Hello? Is that all? I can’t hear you…”
I might mention that the 17-year-old, sitting in the backseat directly behind Jenn, was passing time by creating about a 10-inch sharp-tipped pointer out of the aluminum foil his breakfast sandwich had been wrapped in and was using it to flick at the wisps of Jenn’s hair, hanging down from her hair clip on the back of her neck. Might have been a little distracting and adding to the absurdity of the situation.
Our sandwich order was in jeopardy. That is if they hadn’t already decided not to take this phone-in order seriously. And if they didn’t, I wouldn’t blame them. It sounded like Jenn was auditioning for the Jerky Boys rather than calling in a serious sandwich order for the family, “Hey there, wiggle tits. Give me one of them Prince Alberts and make it hurt!” Who was this woman I married?
I grabbed the phone, hoping to save our lunches.
The girl on the other end, who likely figured getting a job at a sandwich shop in Wellfleet would be relatively safe from lewd comments by customers, was still trying to complete our order, God bless her, ”Hello?”
“Hi,” I said. “Sorry, my wife had a little bit of a laugh attack since she couldn’t get the names straight.”
“Oh, ok. Can I get a name for pick up?”
“Sure, it’s Jennifer.”
And maybe Jennifer could help you redo your whole menu! Why not, who wouldn’t want to order a:
Full Monty Christo Sandwich
Slappin’ the Salami Sub
Pearl Necklace Oyster Po’Boy
Chicken Parm with Pecker-ino Cheese
Fish Sandwich with extra Twatter Sauce
Roast Beef Curtain Sub
Chicken Cuntlet
Steak and Dirty San-Cheese
A Rusty Strombone-li
The “BLST” - Bacon, Labia, and Scro-Tomato
And, of course, don’t forget about a happy ending for dessert.
I’m not sure how her mind got so quickly into the gutter at 9:30 in the morning. But I will say, she can’t be fully to blame. They do have two ham sandwiches on the menu incorporating the name Porkey’s, and even though they spell it differently, anyone from our generation will likely associate anything close to Porky’s with the boob-movie from the early 80s. Plus, they have a breakfast sandwich called “The Quickie,” so someone in that place has a sense of humor.
Unclear if the poor girl on the other end of the phone shared the sense of humor, but in the aftermath, Jenn was gauging from her reaction that for one, she knew what a “Prince Albert” was, and two, the generation gap between her and Jenn made the situation borderline unbearably awkward as opposed to slightly humorous.
This also seems like an apropos time to clear my name and declare that in no way, shape, or form does “Prince Albert” reside in the McCullough household. As Jenn has stated, she was familiar with the term from her heydays working at Newbury Comics.
I wondered if it was a standard question on the application or one that came up often in the interview process. Turns out that the large selection of piercing jewelry Newbury displayed in the glass-enclosed counter spindle had something for just about any part of the body, including your twig and berries. I wouldn’t know. I worked at Strawberries. We wore red vests and were much less risque.
Upon arrival at the sandwich shop, you can be sure that Jenn refused to step out of the car or set foot in the shop and show her face to any of the sandwich makers. Even with a mask on.
Burger King be damned, I walked in to retrieve our order, half wondering if there would even be one for me to pick up.
“Haha, Hi. I ordered the Prince Albert…”
“Oh, you were serious?”
No, there was none of that. I simply walked in. The woman at the counter was at least in her early 50s and definitely not the permanently damaged teen we’d ordered from earlier. Perhaps they sent her home. Put her on leave for rest and recovery from our earlier debacle.
The woman asked what name the order was under. “Jennifer,” I replied as if everything was fine. She didn’t flinch. No one behind the counter looked up. And I paid for our sandwiches and we went on our way. Genitals unharmed.
Feel free to leave a note in the comments about what you think should be included on a “Prince Albert” sandwich.
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