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| - Dear Miracle Mile,
This is the last time you will ever sucker another $15 bucks from me for bland, over-salted cafeteria food. I hate to be the rabid cur of dissent in this love fest, but I can no longer fake it and go with the flow. I despise everything about you, Miracle Mile.
Unless someone had cued me into the fact, I never would have guessed that you were trying so hard to duplicate NY deli-style fare. Why so? Because every NY staple I've tried from your fetid excuse for a deli has sucked so effing hard it just about pulls grey matter out through my ears.
Stale and mealy defrosted cheesecake that was as unappetizing to look at as to consume. Matzo ball soup so bland I had to keep looking down to assure myself I was indeed consuming something other than hot air. Wilted salads guaranteed to deflate my hopes upon first bite. Vegetable soup that was so flavorless as to be nearly nonexistent. Are you trying that hard to fade into the background, you wallflower? It's no wonder the median age of a patron in your restaurant is pushing 80. The near total annihilation of my taste buds is the only way I would ever step foot through your doors again.
And then there's your pathetic excuse for a sandwich, Mile. Pastrami and corned beef sandwiches piled (not so) high with bland, fatty meat that's been slopped with reckless abandon atop your choice of bread, guaranteed to disintegrate in five seconds flat. All topped off with a slice of sweaty Swiss cheese that adds zero flavor and flops listlessly atop a piteous excuse for a sandwich. If it weren't for the spicy mustard at each table, I'd hardly have tasted anything at all! Bravo! You surely deserve an award for the most poorly constructed sandwich in all of Phoenix!
Although I guess that dubious honor should clearly be bestowed upon your brusque, monosyllabic cafeteria line workers. "Next? Bread?" Unappetizing slop of meat, slid down the line to the next guy. "Fries?" Heap of fried garbage, liberally applied, slid down the line. That is, unless you're asking for something outside of the crap-sandwich-and-fries box. At that point your request will be wordlessly acquiesced to with a scowl and a slop. "Drink?" No! Please! NO! Just get me out of this slovenly pit of cafeteria hell. What do you want, I'll pay anything! Anything!
Wait a tic. That's your whole ploy all along, isn't it Miracle Mile? Brainwash the masses with mediocre food and overcharge for everything to make it seem like it's a privilege to be dining upon such slop.
Well I'm on to you. I've given you plenty of chances, Mile. Your Reuben was the only sandwich that didn't make me want to violently upend tacky cafeteria tables on the way to my car.
Wishing you the bland, inoffensive dreams of an automaton,
Erica
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