Panera Bread Panned

I was in Houston and had about a half-hour before my doctor’s appointment.

Where to go for breakfast?

I was starving and my favorite neighborhood diner closed months ago.

There wasn’t time to find another big breakfast place so I went to Panera Bread across the street from where I was parked: memories of that chain were good until the economy collapsed in 2008 and the one I frequented closed.

The menu board at this one included an “Egg, ham and cheese sandwich.”

The first change from years ago was obvious: each item on the list had the number of its calories displayed.

What? Am I in New York City?

I remember that Panera had generous sandwiches, fresh breads and meats, corresponding portions of soup and generally the size of the offerings were in line with Texas standards of bigger is better.

No man worth his home on the range appetite had to leave hungry.

“So what’s with the calorie-counting” I kept thinking as I ordered an egg and ham sandwich on toasted rye: hold the cheese.

As I moved like a conveyor along the customer side of the long counter I stopped at lines end to pick up the food. On the counter was a small notice bragging about 500 calorie choices.

Huh?

500 calories isn’t enough to feed a pigeon awakening from an historic five year slumber.

I asked one of the ladies behind the counter: “That’s all, 500 calories?”

“What do you need calories for?” she shot back.

Then I realized that Panera is no more the Texas man’s kind of place, unless you need tofu, bean sprouts and gluten-free bread.

Suspicions aroused I took my order of the “sandwich” in the brown paper bag and noticed how lightweight it was. Where’s the food? Did I just pay $4.10 for a napkin?

Hand into the bag I tried to find the prospective sustenance: the paper wrapping at the bottom hid something the size of an English muffin; it could roughly fit in the palm of my hand.

THAT is a “sandwich”?

Now I was agitated: hunger does that to me.

Returning to the register I asked for a second, one would never do.

Departing with two featherweight bags I began to laugh in expectation of what I would find.

Sitting in my truck I unveiled:

From the passenger’s seat even Ernie giggled. That is saying something for a dog!

My once-contractual mind began to experience pangs fueling retribution.

What is the definition of an “egg”? [I’ve got to tell the American Egg Board about this.]

A “sandwich” is …………………….? [Too bad the Earl of died long ago; I can’t email him.]

One bite of the white thing with a yellow Jackson Pollock swirl made me think that these creations must come from China, stamped out by the millions at a tire factory annex.

Even The Ern turned up his nose at them, and he can smell a rat a mile away.

[No, I won’t go there.}

The final insult was seeing how the sandwicher slapped a folded piece of ham on the bread: the overall presentation was awful.

I was embarrassed just contemplating eating that crud so I deep-sixed the industrial eggs and forced down the rest with orange juice.

That was orange juice, wasn’t it?

After my appointment I stopped and had an extensive lunch.

And it certainly wasn’t at Panera Bread.