Everyone has a favorite restaurant they go to, a little hole in the wall with sandwiches from Jesus himself. If you don't, you can't possibly be human. I was looking forward to this sandwich because I, like all true-blooded, non-Communist Americans, love a good, melty 'wich. But after gnawing through a third of this, I can safely say that Stouffer's Corner Bistro should be condemned and shut down by the health committee.
The sandwich looked promising. The bread smelled buttery and was thickly sliced, and there were big pieces of chicken and bacon on the surface. I positioned it on the obligatory crisping tray and set it off, and the microwave was flooded with a pleasant, though buttery, cooking aroma. Not a bad start.
I let it sit for a minute while I went about setting up the photo shoot. I kind of went wild with the Southwestern theme. But my efforts were for naught, I tell you! This killed in more ways than The Virgin Suicides and almost hurt my feelings. Before I even tasted it, I knew I hated it. I couldn't pull the sandwich halves off the tray! I had to wedge a knife under and saw them off, leaving big chunks of bread behind. When I did get them together, the bread was downright offensive. One "crisped" brown spot lay exposed, like a scab on top of a mushy, soaking wet bread, covered in fake butter. It oozed butter to the touch.
It was $4.79 at my hideously overpriced university convenience store, though, and I was hungry, so I persevered, maneuvering the grotesquely wet sandwich into my mouth. It was horrid. The bread was the dominant flavor, reeking of fake butter and chewy white flour, leaving a greasy film in my mouth and a shameful sheen on my fingers, and the chicken was spongy and crumbly at the same time. The bacon was sparse and few between, and the southwestern sauce didn't lubricate so much as glue the entire thing together. The cheese left the den of sin for a better, more fulfilling sandwich.
Congratulations, Stouffer's. I now hate you more than I hated you before. If you need me, I'll be at an actual deli.
The sandwich looked promising. The bread smelled buttery and was thickly sliced, and there were big pieces of chicken and bacon on the surface. I positioned it on the obligatory crisping tray and set it off, and the microwave was flooded with a pleasant, though buttery, cooking aroma. Not a bad start.
I let it sit for a minute while I went about setting up the photo shoot. I kind of went wild with the Southwestern theme. But my efforts were for naught, I tell you! This killed in more ways than The Virgin Suicides and almost hurt my feelings. Before I even tasted it, I knew I hated it. I couldn't pull the sandwich halves off the tray! I had to wedge a knife under and saw them off, leaving big chunks of bread behind. When I did get them together, the bread was downright offensive. One "crisped" brown spot lay exposed, like a scab on top of a mushy, soaking wet bread, covered in fake butter. It oozed butter to the touch.
It was $4.79 at my hideously overpriced university convenience store, though, and I was hungry, so I persevered, maneuvering the grotesquely wet sandwich into my mouth. It was horrid. The bread was the dominant flavor, reeking of fake butter and chewy white flour, leaving a greasy film in my mouth and a shameful sheen on my fingers, and the chicken was spongy and crumbly at the same time. The bacon was sparse and few between, and the southwestern sauce didn't lubricate so much as glue the entire thing together. The cheese left the den of sin for a better, more fulfilling sandwich.
Congratulations, Stouffer's. I now hate you more than I hated you before. If you need me, I'll be at an actual deli.
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