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Some people get hooked on cocaine, some on gambling. Yeah, I know exactly what that’s like; for me, it was a sandwich shop chain. First they gave me a taste, and then they made it easy to get. They located their restaurants everywhere, so whenever I felt a hunger pang, I was likely to be driving past one, and pull in I would.

After a while, man, I needed it.

It was relatively tasty and sort of reasonably priced, and the only thing that bothered me was that every cashier would plop my drink cup rim-down on the counter. I’m no microbiologist, but it seemed like maybe they could flip the cup over and place the bottom on the germ-bearing surface. But not a big deal.

Gradually, larger problems arose. The best way to end a meal at this place – or, for that matter, the best way to end any random 10-minute interval — is by savoring two chocolate chip cookies. One establishment didn’t have any available, and I inquired about that. Well, the youngsters behind the counter said, the previous shift didn’t leave any.

I’m told that preparing these cookies is a challenge only slightly greater than eating an olive. But these lovable scamps seemed to think it required at least a year’s training at Le Cordon Bleu, and went back to toying with their lip rings. A few weeks later, it happened again.

Then, for two lunches in a row at two different restaurants, the bread was dry. Hey, when I want poor quality control, I make my own meals.

Then one day as I was shuffling through the line, the sandwich maker put the tuna salad on the bread, and the result seemed kind of skimpy. I mentioned it to the guy in charge of finishing touches, and he informed me that the tuna lady was also the manager, so whatever she did must be right.

In fairness, the last person in the line threw in a free bag of chips, so they did try to appease me.

But what I wanted was another ounce of tuna salad. Not an encyclical on managerial infallibility.

In olden times, an unpretentious lunch-box restaurant could become popular despite a few quirks. When my parents would take me to Taylor’s Maid-Rite in Marshalltown, I always would think it strange that there was no ketchup; I would always spill some of my chocolate malt while pouring it from the big metal container into the too-small glass; and people waiting for a seat always stood a few feet away, watching us chew.

Still, I loved the joint, because it had character. It still does. If I’m not mistaken, the world map is still on the wall, with the legend: “Go ’round the world, but come back again.”

But we live in an age of chain restaurants now, and we don’t walk in looking for offbeat charm. They offer consistency, and, easily trained creatures that we are, we’ve decided to settle for that.

Unfortunately, it takes more than a set of written rules to achieve consistency. At some point, some person has to place some tuna salad on some bread.

I sympathize with the owners of franchises like that. I think of them hunched over the books at home, worried about staying in business, while the kids down at the shop lean against an empty cookie case, daydreaming about a career in the movies.

But then, that’s true of many businesses, even those where people dress smartly and do mysterious, brain-taxing things.

No matter how well-crafted the business plan, no matter what art you hang on the walls, it all comes down to individuals doing things right.

I’ve more or less switched to other outlets for my lunchtime needs, but there are no hard feelings. I’ll give the franchise another chance now and then.

Gotta warn those folks, though. Once you become such a gourmet that you notice stale bread, there’s no going back.

To contact Jim Pollock, send an e-mail to jimpollock@bpcdm.com.