I eat at Subway four times a week.  Many would find this fact embarrassing or indicative of severe laziness.  I would not argue otherwise.  However, hundreds of repeated meals have allowed me to extensively sample the entire menu and develop a false sense of superiority when it comes to my knowledge of the business.  For example, never order two footlongs regardless of how hungry you may be—you will find yourself inevitably napping in the tap room.

My only beef (pun intended) with Subway concerns not their meat but their cheese—in fact, their lack of a certain cheese.  While they cater to most tastes by carrying American, Swiss, provolone, cheddar, and mozzarella, my stomach remains unfilled, my heart with a void, due to their lack of feta. 
“This is only because you’re Greek,” I expect you to say. 

True.   

In fact, Greek children are baptized by sprinkling feta cheese over the baby’s forehead (though I have no source to back this up).  I will often come home, pull a hunk of feta cheese out of its brine, and simply nibble at it until it exists only in memory.  What ketchup is to seven year olds, feta is to Greeks.  We need it, and until it is available at every place we frequent, we will complain and make flaming cheese and name our kids Nick and George. 

This hostility comes not from bitterness that our civilization’s importance peaked two thousand years ago, but from altruism.  We want everyone to appreciate this white, crumbly, versatile cheese produced in sheep’s’ bellies. 
It really does improve sandwiches, especially if you stick with the Mediterranean theme and pick an Italian sub.  Olives and feta is as great a match as Tiger Woods and girls from Tool Academy.  Simply sprinkle them on top of pepperoni and ham, cover them with Italian dressing, and a magnificent sandwich is born.   

I know that Subway probably rationalizes not providing feta cheese by claiming that there’s a low demand for it or that it’s too expensive, but they obviously don’t fully understand the issue.  Greeks created logic; since Greeks like it, it must be good.  It’s an airtight argument. 
If the corporate heads somehow reject that proposition then I hope the owner of the Subway in the Union takes my passionate plea into account.  After all, I supply them with one thousand dollars of business per year (four $5 footlongs per week times fifty weeks).  I could easily take my business elsewhere in the Union basement—like Wen-, um, Pand-, hmm, Piz-, no.  Alright, well I’ll probably keep going to Subway—but I’ll do it begrudgingly.  And they certainly won’t have my approval if they decide to expand into the flaming cheese market.