We should film a sequence of me when the crew does coerce me to stop at Subway (I don't do fast food burger or taco joints).
Server, "Can I make you a sandwich?"
Fin, "Yeah, I'll take the six-inch turkey on wheat."
Server, "OK, do you want that toasted?"
Fin, with a sideways look of who would toast a turkey sandwich, "Nah, no need to toast it."
Server passes it to the next person who asks, "What all ya want on this?"
Fin, "A little cheese, some shredded lettuce, and a few cuke slices would be good."
Server does just that, then asks, "You want any mustard or other condiments."
Fin, trying not to sound aghast, "Nope. That stuff kills a lot of people. I'm allergic to all of it. I doubt you want me to die right here on your floor and make a scene." (Note, I've done this enough that I can deadpan it and the server is not sure how to take my presentation, but they do seem to pay attention.)
Server, thinking they've done a great job, starts for the knife that was just used to cut the camera guy's sandwich and is still dripping with some sort of el cheapo high volume honey mustard remnants. I've come to expect this lapse of judgement on their part.
Fin quickly raises his voice, "Hey. Hey! You wanna kill me?"
Server looks up, completely surprised, "What's that?"
Fin, now trying to control his blood pressure, retorts, "I told you I'm allergic to that stuff. If you cut my sandwich with it, I might die right here. Trust me, my mom had a little diner and an obese 84 year-old died of a heart attack one Sunday morning. Having people die on restaurant your floor isn't good for business."
The camera guys are doing all they can to not laugh, knowing I'm about half-pissed at this point. They grab their sandwiches, head for the truck, and let me pick up the tab.
By the time I'm to the truck, I'm completely pissed that once again these guys talked me into stopping at a sandwich joint that almost results in a death. They know it and act as if we are each in our own separate universe.
I continue my unrecognizable rumblings as I put it in gear and drive off, the camera guys knowing full well to not say much. I roll down the windows as we merge on to the interstate, holding firm to my promise that if people eat stinky pucky in my truck, expect to do so with the windows down, no matter the temp or time of year.
Wanting to remind the crew how much I hate pucky, I keep the windows down for an extra hour. The crew doesn't suggest a sub sandwich for at least another month.