An open love letter to Jimmy John’s
Sarah Borrmann | Wednesday, December 8, 2010
As a senior graduating this coming spring, I’d like to take the time to reminisce during finals about one of my greatest and most memorable friends in college, a Mr. James John. Coming from the West Coast, I was completely unaware of your notoriety in the Midwest for sandwiches that are totally freaky. When I was a freshman at Notre Dame, your menu was casually slipped under my door in hopes that I would one day have some extra cash floating around when it was too disgustingly cold to walk 10 seconds from Farley to North Dining Hall. When I finally decided to indulge in a tasty sub sandwich (delivered right to my door), our relationship grew faster than Lindsay Lohan’s eight ball collection.
Jimmy, you were always there for me — five minutes after football games, finals week in Hesburgh — you even came to parties wandering around and mingling with drunk people until you found me. I cannot thank you enough for your cutesy sandwich names, (who wouldn’t want a J.J. Gargantuan, Turkey Tom or Big John in their mouth?) and the safer option of a lettuce wrap (also known as the “ano” sandwich). Unlike Fever, Club Lulu is the right choice every night of the week. Every time a random Indiana phone number lights up my cell phone, I turn around and see you sprinting to my door hoping I’ll be the first college student in history to tip you more than 50 cents. Unlike Golden Dragon, I can understand you every time you pick up the phone, and I know you’ll never wreck the delivery van. You truly represent America, Jimmy. I’m sure there are many girls out there, just like me, that think you’re the Ultimate Porker.
Thanks, Papa John, but I’m going with Baby J.