TUCSON, Ariz. — Besides the psychoactive properties of eggplant parm and mid-century nostalgia, there isn’t much about East Coast Super Subs that you would describe as medicinal.

It’s a Wednesday during the late afternoon lull and Keith McNesby, who owns the place, is shuttling back and forth between the deep fryer and the griddle, sweat coating his forehead, grease lodged in the grooves around his fingernails. At this hour, most orders are coming in by phone or online, and he’s making red sauce, he’s assembling subs to go, he’s yelling for two more crates of wings. The only eat-in customer is a heavy-equipment mechanic whose knuckles are covered in blue tattoos.