Just once, I'd like to walk into the Subway restaurant by my house wearing the outfit of an eighteenth century Englishman -- replete with a noble powdered wig, crushed velvet breeches, and walking stick -- and say:
"Sirrah! What wond'rous evening this! Though mine appetite grows inhospitable and turbulent. Prithee tell, are your savourous sandwich breads freshly baked? Then grant me thy favour, and let us begin with a King's foot of your Parmesan ore-gah-no. Aye, cheese without question. Hmmm? Methinks tonight, twixt the moment of night's curtain and the falling sun, I opt for the BLT.
"Clamperton and shandy! What day brained questions vex this hungered soul. Has come before you a man than wants not a toasted sub? Aye, toast it!"
And thirty seconds would pass.
"Mark thee this: tender cleavings of green pepper, and the coldest tomah-to, sliced as thin as cold winter's breath on window pane, and lettuce, firm and plenty. And cousin, douse that supper with oil and vinegar. Thou art cupshot! I said douse! As though wretched by flame, and by desperate hands thou art to extinguish! Hurry man! My spirit like burnt embers cools, and by my troth, I wouldst consume an equine whole at this moment.
"Beshrew me, no cash hath I. Do you take debit?"
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