Sunday would not be Sunday in the Yaegerhut without the hot Panera injection. J has developed this odd addiction to their cinnamon crunch bagels and lowfat cream cheese, and sways with rapture as he feasts and conquers his world for the week.
Not being a fan of their pretty pastries that taste like sawdust, I usually end up ordering lunch at 10:30 am. I have overdosed on their lowfat black bean soup. It's not bad if I can convince them to stop being so damn stingy with the croutons. Honestly. I ask for croutons, and they hand me a baggie filled with oh, four. Once, five. I am not satisfied with less than eight.
On yesterday's jaunt, I was almost delirious as their website promised the trifecta: a new salad, a new sandwich, and a new soup. Wheee! Got there to discover the salad and sandwich, but the same old boring and greasy soup choices. Where oh where was my spring pea with asparagus and mint?
I made the mistake of asking the Paneroid at the counter, and with great sighing and banging upon her shiny register, she rolled her eyes as if I had asked her to calculate Pi to 57 places. And as my husband bounced up and down with glee over his forthcoming toasty bagel, I contemplated all the miseries that my first boss would've heaped upon her snotty, indifferent head. Paneragirl, you are a bad, bad person.
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