The Stuff You Wake Up Craving?

During Tripitaka’s seven year pilgrimage to find scriptures for the Buddha, Sun Wukong, also known as the Monkey King, gave him some valuable advice- one of many maxims, in fact. And it was this particular passage that stuck out in my mind the one double odd day last month I hauled myself to a watering hole after a long, long shift of hard cooking.

In pleasant company, as per usual, and debating the most mundane of things, like cruiser bicycles, the legitimacy of authenticity (and whatever the hell that was), as well as vegan tattoos, a member of my company, knowing me to have a roving palette for whatever personal reason, testified absolutely, as if a truth universally acknowledged, that Big John’s submarines were the stuff dreams were made of. That John’s secret sauce (whoever John was) was the kind of sauce you wake up in the middle of the night craving. Big John’s subs was practically famous. They were the best hoagies the submarine supporter ever had and continued to have. In retrospect, I recall their telling me that their own mother frequented the same place while pregnant with them, whose cravings may have rooted themselves deep within the devotee’s DNA.

But, leaving that aside, and as skeptical as I always am when it comes to matters of food, I asked this staunch sandwich eater if they were willing to stake the reputation of the shop on it? To stake the reputation of the new owner, whom, they assured me, kept the place tasting the same? To stake even their own? They told me they’d do more than that. They would personally accompany me there and eat with me, proving just how great Big John’s Submarines was. It was then that I remembered Wu Cheng'en’s story, and Sun Wukong’s words to Tripitaka: that the men of this world stake too much on fame. And that the sometimes tyrannical gastronome in me loves expelling whatever restaurant lore potentially exists in the edible world of Kitchener-Waterloo.

To call Big John’s Submarines a dive, I think, would be too generous. Though its appearance certainly seemed neglected and unkempt, and its walls full of kitsch, like outdated, but polite, no smoking signs, bristle board menus and chipped paint, its space and the sole submarine sandwich maker (the owner himself), had the luster of a place that was there for convenience, and not adventurous eating, though there were small stalls that trimmed along the windows and door, and a lone table outside for those who wanted to sit down, it was, to my disillusionment, too similar to every sub shop, I’m sure even you, my dear readers, see, only older and paying homage to a past and a founder who offered a good service some forty odd years ago. A founder who’s picture still hung steadfast atop the old, most likely unusable cash register. Yes, the layout was vaguely familiar, and it seemed that Big John’s shouldn’t even be able to maintain itself, its fridges stocked with soft drinks and milk and its display cases stocking an effigy to today’s commodified brand named potato chips. Family’s Best was the choice offered, and I could only imagine that the place either stood behind a name that supported a kind of moral value of the establishment, or that the display was only there for keeping up appearances. Stranger still was the display case on the other end of the small room selling brass candle holders. I can’t say anything else about it besides that it was bizarre.

My company advised that my first sub be the ‘mixed (assorted)’; not only was it their favourite, but it offered inside of it, aside from onions, lettuce, processed cheese, tomatoes, salami and spiced ham, John’s secret, wake up craving in the night, sauce. I thought it was an equitable choice. There needs to be some kind of standard, and as generic as the sub seemed in regards to the rest of the menu which offers 53 sandwich combinations as well as pitas, chicken wings, salads, even pizza (which I didn’t even bother with, assuming they too were only there to fill a menu) I believed it was the perfect boilerplate conclusion. I do wish though that I had reconsidered, because as I always do, I find my curiosity for food always leaves me offering second chances. My sub, the largest option, which I neglected to measure but was near 12 inches, cost a very reasonable 6.19, and offered a drink deal along with it (the special of the day, which I enthusiastically took). My enthusiasm though could only cater towards price. Though offered a lot, and substantial in terms of being fed, the flavours were all too familiar, the coveted sauce nothing very secret. That familiar, tangy mayonnaise and vinegar that accompanied the subs in my personal yesteryear. The kind of sauce that stings the back of your throat on the way down. The thick slices of meat between a long chewy bread that stubbornly stayed together reminded me of my past frustrations eating these kinds of things, and as far as I was concerned it was a race to the finish, because I soon found the sauce overtaking all body the bread had to offer with its cheap processed composure.

The wistful memories of my companion may have been what made Big John’s subs seem so worthwhile before hand; and my own cynical eating may make Big John’s seem otherwise. Remember my fellow diners, there’s a whole plethora of cheap, affordable options that may not miss the mark, like the ‘Sicilian Connection’, ‘The Irisher,’ and ‘The Grandmaster,’ a submarine I pretended was named in honour of my old kung fu master, who lived on nothing but a slice of bread for three days while waiting to take down a whole Triad in an abandoned factory. And if the options you try aren’t what you are looking for, simply try more, the price is certainly affordable enough. Surely a good submarine is out there, we need only search for it. Like the Monkey King said, “whether by moonlight or starlight, supping the air, braving the wet, we must go on, so long as the road lasts.”

	See? Bizarre.

Big John's Submarines

(519) 578-7900

699 Belmont Ave W

Kitchener, ON

N2M 1P1

Mon-Sat: 10:30 a.m.-9:00 p.m.

Sun: Closed

Tweet