To paraphrase Bob Dylan, “I ain’t gonna work at Maguire’s Farm Store no more…but I’ll definitely purchase their fine sandwiches!”
Truth be told, I never have worked there and never want to work there, but my first week out of the hospital, eating became a huge job for me, and one where I wasn’t even getting paid what I was worth. All I could really seem to stomach were sandwiches—didn’t really matter what kind, just grab some wheat bread and a couple of slices of meat and cheese and I was reasonably in a good mood, or as good a mood as could be expected of me.
The Maguire Farm Store, 9551 E. Maguire Rd. in Nobel (but really Slaughterville—it’s confusing), is a fortuitous happenstance because of the two rural, rustic convenience stores in the area—and it’s a tiny area, mind you—the Maguire Farm Store is the only outlet to offer freshly made sandwiches and baked goods, among other treats for local neighbors and lost travelers alike.
An independently run gas station, ostensibly, with plenty of edible goods to get you by until Saturday when you put on your finest duds and head to the Wal-Mart Supercenter twenty or thirty some-odd miles away, Maguire is loaded with a strong stock of Mexican Coca-Colas and Spider-Man Spaghetti-O’s, doing a bravura job of feeding every bloated member in your familial party, as well as offering plenty of hay and horse-feed if your bloated animals are starving too. I’m sure it’s all so very delicious.
But what most people, including myself, we’re stopping in for this cloudy day was a couple of sandwiches to last me until the weekend; sliding out of the truck gently on my little doe-like legs, I rambled inside and filled out my form—remember to ask for the sandwich form!—and circled everything I was looking for in a sandwich: double-pounded turkey with the sharpest of cheddars on a couple square wheats with lettuce, tomatoes, onion and both bell AND banana peppers. That’s how I get down, girl.
The whole grain goodness ($4.00) was desperately, densely packed together and weighed down my paper carry-out bag quite immensely; it was the kind of heavy-duty sandwich mom would have made for you in school if, you know, mom really loved you. Everyone’s house is different, I suppose. But regardless of your family’s histrionics, the sandwich is delectable, a flight of turkey and cheese fancy that Subway or Blimpie’s or some other random gas station sandwich shop could never fulfill, especially while standing next to a whole pallet of no-name cigarettes. Smoke em’ if you got ‘em!
While I was waiting there, glassy-eyed as the girl behind the counter made my sandwich, I noticed they now also offered 12-inch sub-rolls on the menu. I was intrigued by how the Maguire Farm Store handles those inglorious bastards, so a few day later, I made a trip back to try one of their unsinkable submarines.
On a 12-inchers worth of wheat bread, I ordered double-roast beef and double-pepperjack cheese, along with other typical accoutrement such as lettuce, tomatoes, so on and so forth. Wrapped tightly and stuffed in another brown paper bag, it was even heavier than the first sandwich—it was like lifting a five-pound barbell, only you’re reward for each heart-pounding rep is a nourishing bite of this tantalizing roast beef totem.
Unwrapping it at home, it was like a low-key Christmas morning; it was a monster sammie ($5.00) that I was able to divide into about four well-fed meals. The roast beef was some high-quality stuff, but—and this was wholly my fault—that pepperjack cheese was muy caliente. I consider myself a pretty big pepperjack fan, and maybe it’s because I haven’t had any hot spices in quite a while, but that pepperjack scorched my mouth rabidly, downing a bottle or two of ice cold water to quell that ultimate queso ferocity.
So, kudos to you, Maguire Farm Store, for having the hottest pepperjack on the planet, I guess. Cómpralo ya!