Goodbye, San Francisco

Feelings on farewells

Goodbyes are difficult, usually. This custom-ordered goodbye was both difficult and spicy.

As covid began to sweep the nation and lockdowns kicked off, my family (me, [borat voice] my wife, and our newly discovered unborn child) decided it was time to move north to be closer to family. San Francisco had served us well over the prior four years, but with a child on the way (and mortgage interest rates dropping like a steaming meatball through soggy wonder bread) buying a home in Tacoma was looking more attractive by the day.

I have all kinds of memories from those heady SF days, one of which was becoming sandwich pals with Irving Subs on Irving St. I say “sandwich pal” because as a regular and dedicated patron of Irving Subs, I rarely visited their storefront. Our uber-modern relationship existed digitally over Uber Eats. In the vein of pen pals → one person puts a message out there and hopes for a satisfying response → so too did I put a digital request out there hoping for a sandwich to be delivered in return. 97% of the time, it was. (Uber’s delivery rate on my orders)

This went on with embarrassing frequency for years. On special occasions (Tuesdays count, right?) I would ask for two sandwiches. Surprise, it was during this time I ballooned to 255 lbs full of sandos, subs, and clubs, and I was well on my way to becoming a po’ boy. Uber Eats fees really creep up on you…

I digress. Back to the goodbye. For my final Irving Subs order the day before pulling out of town in our u-haul, I felt obligated to leave a note in the order comments section.

— Wanted to let you know I’m moving out of SF tomorrow, and I wanted to also say thank you for all of your delicious subs over the years. All the best. —

I simply hoped this would bring a smile to the sub-maker that day and make them feel appreciated. Of course, I know what it’s like to be on that side of the deli counter. To my delight, when my sub(s) arrived, the sandwich (pen) pal vibe had come full circle. In the brown bag was a handwritten note. And, not only was there a heartfelt message, but they also included a hot sauce bottle. On. The. House. I mean, come on! To my wife’s chagrin, I ended up hanging onto that hot sauce without tapping into it for two years as a weird sort of memento. It wasn’t until we packed up our Tacoma house for yet another move (this time for Amsterdam) that I realized I still had the hot sauce, and it had gone bad. Sad.

A truly human experience created through the power of sandwiches (and Uber Eats). Spoiler alert, on this occasion both sandwiches were for me — I ate both sandwiches.