I’ve had issues with the Armenian deli-from-helli recently. I mean, I’ve always had issues with them - the random order fulfillment, the rudeness, the wildly varying pricing policy, the chaos and stress of just trying to get a coffee and some toast in the morning - but recently, they’ve surpassed themselves.

For a month or so, now, I’ve been avoiding Bad Cop. Remember her? The “what you want, lady?” lady? Bad Cop is the snappish matriarch who bosses the other family members around, and seems to want to be in charge of the cash register, the coffee machine and the sandwich making bar, all at the same time. This is eeempossible, but it doesn’t stop her trying. There’s a very limited space behind the counter, and Bad Cop, Good Cop, the new boys (lurch, the one who’s twelve, and the prodigal daughter with a tattoo on her neck - the usual cast members) jostle for elbow room and prep space. It’s all a bit chaotic.

Anyway, a month or so ago, I noticed that Bad Cop was using her stumpy little thumb to hold the the salad on my sandwich as she tonged it on. I don’t know about you, but I sort of object to having a thumb in my sandwich (”Mozarella and tomato on ciabatta, please, with some black pepper - but hold the Armenian thumb!”) and besides, the sandwiches she made were also sloppier and less carefully made than those made by the other employees. She wanted to get the money and get you out the door, without recognising that maybe, just maybe, you were less likely to return if you had a sloppy sandwich with a thumbprint in the middle of it. I started avoiding her gaze, and whenever she barked “what you want, lady?” at me, I’d say “oh, still thinking” and wait until another employee was serving. Sneaky, I know.

A couple of weeks ago, I went in at lunchtime and ordered a cheese and tomato sandwich on wholemeal bread. There was a new boy serving, while Bad Cop manned the till. She watched with eagle eyes as new boy plonked one, then another slice of cheese on the bread. Bad Cop barked at him. I speak no Armenian, but even I could tell that she was telling him that he’d put too much cheese on. He mumbled something back which caused Bad Cop to roll her eyes and leave the cash register, walk over to my sandwich and reach in to remove the offending superfluous slice.

“You’re not taking that slice out of my sandwich, are you?” I asked, incredulous and peering over the top of the counter.

“He put too much on,” she answered, “he’s new. It’s one slice per sandwich, he doesn’t know yet.”

“I’m not objecting to you removing the cheese - I’m objecting to your unwashed hands in my food,” I replied.

“I only touch a little bit,” she responded, placing the redundant slice back on the pile in the chilled cabinet.

“I don’t care,” I said, “you’ve been handling money at the till. Coins are filthy, you know, all sorts of germs on them.”

“I wash them now,” she said, heading for the sink.

“It’s too late!” I exclaimed, “can I have another sandwich, please?”

Good Cop stepped in, chucked out the old butty and started to make me another. Bad Cop stormed back to the till and glowered at me. Good Cop buttered the bread and then reached for the top slice of cheese on the pile in the chilled cabinet.

“Not that one,” I said, “that’s the one she touched with her dirty hands,”

He shot Bad Cop a steely glare, and then threw away the top slice. Finally, he passed me the completed sandwich. I took it to the till to pay, and Bad Cop overcharged me. Figures.

The thing is, I don’t think I’m being out of order to expect food to be made hygienically. Money is filthy and germ-laden, and anyone handling food (and that includes me, before I eat it) should wash their hands before they eat, especially if they’ve been handling coins or cash.

Scary factoid: E.Coli and Salmonella bacteria can survive for up to eleven days on normal silver/copper coins. Eeuw!

In case you are wondering, the reason I keep going back to the deli-from-helli is principally because the food is great. Fresh, tasty and usually worth dealing with the stress and hassle of ordering it.

Today, all is forgiven, though. Bad Cop cooked with her own fair hands the tastiest (and perhaps only) Armenian/Thai chicken curry I’ve ever had. Utterly delicious.

I fully expect to discover that she stirred it with her boot or something, but I’d still eat another plate without hesitation. Yum.

Mind you, if I come down with giardia within the week, you’ll know what happened.