If I had to pick a song to symbolize the food and atmosphere at Theo’s, it would be “Tomorrow” by Morrissey (hopelessness) or “Heathen” by David Bowie (darkness and despair).

But one needn’t rely on musical metaphors to underline the slovenly conditions and salty “dude food” that you’ll find in this skate-right-up-to-the-counter eatery. It’s not as though I set out hunting for haute cuisine when flip-flopping down Newport Avenue. A basic taco or grilled cheese sandwich always does the trick.

And make no mistake, I truly like Ocean Beach for all its grit and risky business. Where else in town can you get a tattoo engraved on your ass and then walk into any number of independently owned diners wearing a thong bathing suit? Well, maybe in Pacific Beach, which is exactly where Theo’s plans to open a second location.

Needless to say, I ended up grazing here twice in an effort to remain fair and thorough. During visit number one my lunch companion and I got chased off the front patio by a swarm of flies that were simply answering a call from the flattened onion rings and pizza crusts lurking on the ground. And I couldn’t help but think that the seagulls were on their way.

So we moved inside to where fewer flies buzzed around a plastic bin of dirty dishes, which happened to be perched alongside the napkin and plastic-fork dispensers. A game of musical chairs ensued until we found a table clean enough to rest our elbows.

Our lunch consisted of a pretty good Gyro sandwich for the companion, which came with meaty fries and some decent yogurt-cucumber sauce on the side. Conversely, I ended up with a nine-inch submarine sandwich weighed down with Spam-y tasting ham that was rubbery and salty. And the weak “vinaigrette” drizzled inside the sandwich tasted like cheap bottled Italian dressing. All of Theo’s subs are made with double meat and cheese, a formula that leads to overkill in my opinion.

Fetching a refill of soda turned into a learning experience for the staff. The cashier, like, totally zoned out after I approached her with my empty Styrofoam cup. Puzzled over the soda allowance, she asked a cook who didn’t know either, and then laggardly moseyed over to a backroom employee who gave her the go ahead to push the Diet Coke button. The process took forever.

Visit number two was like a remake of “Back to the Planet of the Flies.” The tabletops and floors were slightly cleaner, but those catchall plastic bins overflowed worse with neglect.

“Why did you bring me here?” the latest companion asked.

“Because they have sausage hoagies and pizza,” I said, in the hope of appealing to his coastal New Jersey roots.

It turned out that the double decking of Italian sausage on his sandwich was acceptable. But the salty marinara sauce slathered over it wasn’t. Soda refills became a dire necessity, as I too, began puckering over my Chicken Philly, which dripped with some sort of briny brown juice that sadly overpowered the flavor of the chicken breast, onions and peppers. Determined to find out what it was, I inquired at the front counter. But the babe of the day working the register was clueless.

Theo’s pizza became the final litmus test, which yielded no results. “This tastes like pizza from my junior high cafeteria!” exclaimed the companion as he looked up at the menu board and pointed to the misspelling of “flafel.” The tomato sauce lacked acidity. The cheese and crust were flavorless. And yet the thought of reaching for a salt shaker was totally out of the question.

Perhaps our taste buds might have been more forgiving if the interior was brighter and cleaner. Is the ownership unaware of the sacred relationship that exists between our eyes and stomachs? Or are they of the mindset that “this is casual O.B.?” Either way, customers should never have to come away with food stuck to their sandals.