Category Archives: Food

Customer Service from a Sandwich Perspective

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Bell peppers don’t belong on a meatball sandwich.

No, don’t bother arguing. This is non-negotiable.

A meatball sandwich–a proper meatball sandwich–has but four components: a solid roll (and no, not Dutch Crunch) that can absorb liquid without falling apart, tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese, and meatballs.

Anything else distracts from pure appreciation of the star of the dish; a well-spiced meatball is a thing of purity and beauty. And bell peppers are a wishy-washy, waxy substitute for food, barely a step up from lettuce on the “why would you want to eat that on a sandwich” ladder.

Not that I’m trying to convince you about any of this. It’s not the point. Today.

I bring up the subject of the meatball sandwich because it was recently the catalyst for a lesson in customer service done both poorly and well.

There’s a localish pizza chain around here, Me-n-Ed’s, that does a quite good meatball sandwich*. They use well-toasted focaccia, the meatballs have flavor, and the sauce-to-cheese-to-meat ratio is darn near perfect. And then they spoil the sandwich by adding those darn peppers.

* They do add onions, but I can live with that. Onions, unlike bell peppers, are actual food. Interestingly, now that I look at the online menu, it appears that not all the locations have the meatball sandwich. Nice that they allow some local variations instead of enforcing a single menu across all locations.

Fortunately, experience has shown that they’re quite willing to let you customize your order; omitting the peppers doesn’t even cost extra.

We usually phone in our order, then drive over and pick it up. This weekend, with all the rain, we thought we’d try ordering online for delivery. It didn’t go well.

The online order system is provided by something called intouchposonline.com. Intouch is, to put it bluntly, out of touch.

First, the site doesn’t work in Firefox. Windows close without saving data–including the registration window closing if you try to select anything other than “Mobile” as the type of phone. Granted, Firefox is only the fourth most popular browser out there, but why would you do so little testing that you prevent 5% of your potential customers from becoming actual customers?

So I switched to Chrome, registered, and signed in.

Strike One: I registered using the same phone number I’ve given them in the past when making a phone order, but there was no indication that I had a history with them. No saved credit card information, no previous orders, nothing to show there’s any communication between the online and offline systems.

Strike Two: Each sandwich has an “Add to cart” and a “Customize” button. But clicking either one takes you to a page where you select whether you’re making a delivery, take out, or dine in order. If that choice needs to be made before you can order, maybe ask for it before you display the menu? Otherwise you’re yanking your customers from one mental workflow to another.

Strike Three: Once I was able to customize my sandwiches–NO PEPPERS!–and add them to the cart, they displayed as non-customized. Clicking the Edit button showed the customization, but by that point, I’d lost faith that my order would be processed properly.

Contrast with the telephone order process:

“Hi, I’d like to place an order for pick up.”

“Can I have your phone number, please?”

I gave my number, he asked if I was Casey, and when I said yes, he said “Last time you ordered two meatball sandwiches, no bell peppers. Would you like the same thing?”

I confirmed that that was what I wanted, and he said they’d be ready in twenty minutes.

Took less than a minute from when I picked up the phone to when I put it down, and I had complete faith that I’d get the food the way I wanted it.

As I said, there’s a lesson there.

Clearly, whoever designed the phone order system was thinking about it from the customer’s perspective: “How do we make this fast and easy?”

By contrast, whoever designed the online system approached it from the perspective of intouchposonline.com and the developers: “How do we deploy the system quickly and start making money?”

I know which system I’ll be using in the future. And saving the online order surcharge means I can give the guys at the store a bigger tip. That’s the real win of a properly designed, customer focused system.

Centerpiece or Main Dish?

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Rhubarb wishes it to be known that, despite his pose, he never had any doubt that he was not on the menu.

He also wishes it to be known that at no time did he sample the wine in that bottle behind him*, despite vigorous marking of the bottle as his via cheek rubs.

* Mr. Goldkitty maintained a diplomatic silence on the question of what relationships he might have had with any other bottles of wine, past or present.

Fair’s Fair

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Can it really have been five years since we last went to a county fair?

I know we haven’t gone the last two years, for obvious reasons. But further back, my memory fails to confirm or refute attendance.

On one paw, scheduling time to go to a fair has been difficult for several years. On another, fairs are high on our list of priorities. On a third paw, I sometimes have trouble remembering what I had for lunch yesterday, much less a couple of weeks ago; three or four years is hopeless. But on the fourth paw, fair food is…memorable.

So, anyway, there was a Marin County Fair running up until the Fourth of July. I was working Monday, but I was off Sunday; the Fair had fireworks every night, and I had some cash in my wallet. Done deal.

The Fair was stripped down: almost all of the judging was done online and none of the indoor events or exhibits were happening–they’re supposed to return next year, COVID-19 willing.

But there were a few animals, including my favorite plush bunnies.

And the fluffy chickens Maggie likes.

And, while there were a few ducks in cages, there were significantly more of them roaming free.

The Fair’s focus this year was on vendors and carnival rides.

File this one under “Oh, hell no!”

This is a bit more my speed.

Okay, I exaggerate. If I’d gone on any rides, it would have been something in between those extremes. A carousel. Maybe a Ferris wheel.

The food offerings were a bit of a disappointment. Not in FairQuality, I hasten to add, but in cost and accessibility. I didn’t even consider the Lobster Fries when I learned the Fish & Chips I’d been pondering were $22–and the line looked to be on the order of a twenty minute wait just to order. How much of the cost was “Well, it’s Marin,” and how much was “COVIDflation” I wouldn’t even try to guess. And the lines were, I believe, a result of the plenitude of choices. With only one booth specializing in most flavors (fried stuff, bbq stuff, etc.) lines for the popular or unusual were inevitably going to get excessive.

I wound up with “California Fries”: French fries covered in refried beans, melted cheese, guacamole, sour cream, and carne asada. Basically, cross-cultural nachos. Good fair food and quite tasty. We didn’t quite manage dessert. No strawberry shortcake on offer and the funnel cake vendors (both of them) were only selling funnel cakes (and we’re not fond of those). So the only option for true FairDessert–deep fried Twinkies, Oreos, or some other thing that really shouldn’t be deep fried–was that fried stuff vendor with the twenty minute lines. Strawberry crepes might have done the job, but the crepe vendor’s line was even longer.

My arteries are grateful, even if my stomach and taste buds were (and still are) disappointed.

Anyway, strawberry shortcake notwithstanding, fireworks were the main reason I wanted to go to the fair.

We got good seats.

Maybe not quite as good as those people on the other side of the lake, but it’s hard to say. The show was aimed slightly toward our side, but explosions are largely omnidirectional, and the wind was blowing right-to-left, so the smoke didn’t block either side’s view. Call it a wash.

And the show was well worth it. Yes, the long lines, the high prices, the four hour wait on a backless bench–next time I’ll at least take a cushion–and even the traditional painful cold after the sun went down. From first boom, through rainbow arcs and blossoms (it was Out at the Fair day), several different variations on crackly/crinkly/twinkling, to the finale, one of the best low altitude shows I’ve seen.

Inevitably, it’s online. Not from the night we went, and not the best vantage point, but it’s almost like being there. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But if you crank up the air conditioner to chill your house to 40 degrees and full-screen the video, it’s a reasonable approximation.

Bottom line: A well-spent afternoon (sorry). Would go again.

Thoughts About Muesli

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I don’t know why it took me so long to try muesli. I like granola and oatmeal, both of which are twigs on the same branch of the breakfast family tree. Yet, every time I saw muesli on the shelf, I’d think “Looks interesting. Maybe one of these days” and then buy something else.

So I finally decided that one of these days had arrived and bought a bag of Bob’s Red Mill Muesli. They’re my go-to for oatmeal, so it seemed like a safe bet for the experiment.

I’ll admit to being both intrigued and bemused by the notation on the package that it can be eaten hot or cold. I don’t think there are any other breakfast foods designed for eating both ways. Granted, in my somewhat misspent youth, I’d occasionally eat English Muffins without toasting them, but that’s hardly what the makers intend. And, as Maggie pointed out, while there are people who eat Grape Nuts hot and Pop-Tarts cold, neither is standard behavior*.

* Yes, Pop-Tarts’ packaging pays lip service to eating them straight out of the box, but really, that’s not what anyone expects. Remember, the “Pop” refers to them popping up out of the toaster.

So, anyway, I expected cooking instructions for the “hot” option. And they’re there. I didn’t expect instructions for eating the cereal cold. I mean, do you really need to go beyond the standard “Pour into bowl, add milk to taste, eat”? Actually, yes. Those rolled oats need to soak up some liquid or they’re going to taste like cardboard.

I followed the instructions. I won’t make that mistake twice.

Served hot, it was an uncomfortable combination of sweet, hot sludge and weirdly warm nuts. The sunflower seeds were especially peculiar: their mouthfeel was different from anything else in the bowl–and not in a good way–and when heated, their flavor didn’t harmonize with the oats. Maybe if I’d used milk instead of water, per the alternate instructions, it would have turned out better, but I’m dubious enough that I’m not going to risk it.

The cold preparation was much better. But I found the recipe incorrect. Using the recommended quantity of milk, even after somewhat more than the recommended soaking time, I wound up with something that closely resembled soup. Maybe that’s the tradition, but when I finish the solid contents of my cereal bowl, I don’t want to have enough milk left to require a drinking glass.

Fine-tuning ensued. I find that about 2/3 the recommended quantity of milk and about 50% more soaking time results in something quite tasty.

In the final analysis, I’m not sure whether the experiment was a success.

I’ve still got about half the bag of muesli left. I plan to finish it, mostly on days when I’m not working and don’t have to balance soaking time with commuting. But will I buy it again? Not Bob’s; I’m quite sure of that. But I might try someone else’s interpretation.

Cold.

What To Do?

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People like leftovers. If they didn’t, why would there be so many websites about them?

Nearly nine years on, my infamous leftover sauerkraut post still pulls in views–as I write this, so far this year, that post has been seen six times more often than anything I’ve written in 2022*.

* Granted, the numbers are somewhat skewed, because most of the readers see new posts on the blog’s home page, so they don’t get counted as views for the individual post. But the point stands: leftover sauerkraut gets looked for hugely more often than anything else on the blog.

And it’s great that so many people are willing to help their fellows repurpose the stuff in those half-empty containers in the back of the fridge. But unused ingredients are one thing; complete dishes are another.

Turkey can go into sandwiches, soup, tacos, and a dozen other things. Extra cheese has roughly ten thousand uses (beer and cheddar soup, anyone?) But what are you going to do with the last of the turkey soup after you’ve had it for three days straight? Freezing it just kicks the decision down the road. And the example of Chopped notwithstanding, most of us aren’t prepared to repurpose a complete main course into something totally new.

We ran into a double dilemma of this sort recently.

The chili was bad enough. As has been noted previously, our chili tends toward a souplike nature. That makes it impractical to do chili burgers (or dogs) or put it on baked potatoes. I suppose we could make ice cream, but (a) there’s significant cognitive dissonance there and (b) we don’t have an ice cream maker.

But the Mac and Cheese? It’s really a monolithic dish, not amenable to breaking down into its components.

When in doubt, go with the classics: “embrace the power of ‘and'”. Pour chili over the mac’n’cheese.

The train of logic went something like this: tomato and pasta is a classic combination; cheddar cheese goes well in chili; and, hey, in Cincinnati they put chili on spaghetti. Okay, maybe that last isn’t a good precedent: can we really trust the judgement of an area that thinks cinnamon is a mandatory spice in chili?

But, we mixed our cinnamon-free, bean-laden chili with our vegetable-free m&c. And it worked. Got two large pots out of the fridge.

Somehow it had escaped both of our notices that chili mac and cheese is a thing. I won’t tell you how long it took us to figure that one out.

So we recreated the wheel.

But this “throw two meals together” notion has possibilities. Clearly we need to experiment further.

Fauxtisserie Chicken and potato soup? Could work.

But rest assured we will not be adding sauerkraut to mac and cheese.

A Waterfall Memory

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Once upon a time, there was a restaurant in Seattle called The Windjammer.

For many, including my family, it was an “occasion” restaurant. Not necessarily huge occasions like weddings and family reunions–although it did host such events–but the smaller occasions: graduations, birthdays, and hosting out-of-town guests.

The Windjammer’s signature bit–or perhaps one of them; certainly the one that made the biggest impression on me*–was the way the servers filled water glasses. The pour started with the pitcher just above the rim of the glass. As the glass filled, the server would lift the pitcher higher–leaving the glass on the table, untouched–until it reached his shoulder height. The waterfall effect was eye-catching, especially at the end, when a twist of the server’s wrist bent the stream slightly.

* At the time, I was what we now call a tween. If there were similar rituals in the presentation of alcoholic beverages, I was and am blissfully unaware of them.

If you think about it, it’s a perfect gimmick for a restaurant. It’s not as showy as lighting something on fire, granted, but there’s less risk of igniting a customer’s clothing or hair. And it doesn’t require your customers to pay attention: no chance of a flying shrimp bouncing off someone’s chin.

It’s not as easy as The Windjammer’s staff made it look, either. Believe me, I spent a lot of time trying to do it myself. The basic pour-and-lift isn’t difficult, but stopping is tough. You want the glass to be full enough that you won’t have to come back around immediately, but not so full that it overflows. Once you let the water out of the pitcher three feet above the table, you can’t put it back. Don’t forget about the wrist twist, either. It changes the flow so the last part of the pour hits the inside of the glass and flows smoothly down, instead of splatting down and spraying water on the paying customers.

By now you’re probably wondering why I even bring up this bit of little-known nostalgia.

Blame it on muscle memory.

I hadn’t thought about The Windjammer in decades until our recent hot spells came along. At one point, I raided the pitcher of water in the fridge and found myself doing a Windjammer Pour. It didn’t go well. I bobbled the wrist twist and splashed myself and the countertop with a significant amount of water. While it felt nice, it wasn’t quite the cooldown I’d been planning on.

So now I’ve got a problem.

I’d like to practice up and get my pouring skills back up to standard, but California is in drought conditions. Can I really indulge myself, knowing each practice pour will waste precious milliliters of water?

Hungry?

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I really wanted to write something cheerful today.

(Disclosure: I’m writing this Tuesday evening so it’ll be ready for you all in the morning.)

But then I made the mistake of looking at the news.

Yeah, I know, I know.

I presume you’ve heard by now that our government has declared meat processing plants to be critical infrastructure.

I’m an unrepentant omnivore, and I was not looking at the predictions that meat could follow toilet paper* into virtual non-existence on store shelves.

* Our TP supply dropped low enough last week that we went in search of a few rolls. As it turned out, we found some in the first store we checked. It’s a 30 roll package, which should be enough to stave off the total fall of civilization for at least a month, and quite probably several times that. Mind you, it’s a Korean brand–not the one everyone knows–and of totally unknown quality, but it’s almost certainly better than, say, last week’s newspapers. We haven’t tried it yet, but in the spirit of helping one another, I’ll issue a report once we’ve put it to the ultimate test.

So, on one paw, it’s good to know that meat will remain available. On another paw, though, the fact that our gracious president highlighted the fact that his declaration will “solve any liability problems” does lead one to wonder (a) just how sweeping that immunity from liability is and (b) just how safe that meat will be. On a third paw, one also has to wonder what effect the presidential order will have on the cost of meat. And, on the fourth paw, will that shield remain in place indefinitely?

Let’s face it. The current administration is fond of rolling back laws and regulations that improve the health of most individuals. And, as we all know, the meat packing industry’s favorite recreation is dancing back and forth across the red line of legality.

Without more details than we have right now, I can only assume that the price of meat is going to go up in lockstep with the health risks of eating that meat. And there is, of course, no upper limit to either cost.

I see only one solution for those of us who aren’t going to go vegetarian.

Anyone got a good recipe for coyote?

Errata

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I’m not afraid to admit when I’m wrong. I’m not eager to do it, and I’m certainly not going to go out of my way to announce every little misstatement. But some errors are so egregious that they can’t be allowed to stand.

On July 4, 2017, I said “It’s also probably the simplest recipe I’ll ever post here.”

What was I thinking? That recipe has three ingredients and five steps! A simpler one was inevitable.

You ready for a really simple recipe? I’m not going to claim this one can’t be beat–I’ve learned that lesson–but I can’t think how.

Normally, at this point I’d give credit to the originator of the recipe and explain how we’ve modified it. But in this case, variations are all over the Internet and very few of them are credited. If you want to trace the history, please let me know what you learn.

Slow Cooker Salsa Chicken

Ingredients

  • 3 lbs of boneless, skinless chicken thighs – Don’t use breast meat: it gets dry and doesn’t soak up flavor well.
  • One jar, bottle, or other container of salsa – Whatever variety appeals. Chunky and smooth both work well. Just check the ingredient list before you buy: an unexpectedly high bell pepper concentration can ruin an otherwise delightful salsa.

Steps

  1. Dump the chicken in your slow cooker.
  2. Slop the salsa on top of the chicken.
  3. Cook on Low for 8-9 hours.

The salsa cooks down and combines with the chicken juices to produce a rich liquid that tastes great over rice, and leftovers work well as a chili base. Be aware, however, that the mingling and cooking does reduce the spiciness. If you prefer some kick in your chicken, a mild salsa is not your friend.

The chicken itself can go into the rice along with the salsa liquid, or anchor a burrito. It makes great sandwiches–try it with some pickled carrots or onions–and stuffs into baked potatoes well (don’t forget to add some bacon as well).

This is, by the way, one of those recipes that reheats well in an Instant Pot: pressure cook on low for zero minutes, shut off the cooker, and vent the pressure manually.

There you go: a mindless recipe for taxing times.

And, rest assured that if I find a two-ingredient, two-step recipe, I’ll let you all know.

Worst Good Eats

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Or should that be “Good Eats, Bad Cooks”?

I am thrilled and intrigued.

Which is just what They want, of course. But that’s fair enough. It’s nice to see some evidence of competence from time to time.

What I’m talking about is the upcoming season of Worst Cooks in America.

There are no major changes in the offing. Still sixteen bad cooks competing to improve their skills. Anne Burrell is still the face of the show. And a few minor variations to keep the whole thing from devolving into an unwatchable photocopy of the last half dozen seasons.

But, oh, those minor variations.

Foremost among them: Anne’s competition in training up the contestants this time around is Alton Brown.

This is going to be fascinating to watch.

Alton’s on-screen persona isn’t competitive. Despite the years hosting Cutthroat Kitchen, he still comes across primarily as an educator.

Which is, naturally, what the Worst Cooks participants need.

But will there be room for a few patented Alton historical and scientific digressions? There must be a lot that never makes it to the screen. I’m sure the competitors get plenty of one-on-one coaching from the instructors, and Alton’s methodical approach should be very helpful for whatever subset of the group who are capable of following directions.

But still. Entertaining as it might be to see how the gang takes a discourse on the chemical properties of gluten or the history of saffron, will it help their cooking?

And, given that entertainment is the name of the game here and the overall story arc of the competition between Anne’s and Alton’s cooks, are we going to see a few well-placed items from the Cutthroat Kitchen archives show up? How would Anne’s cooks manage with a corkscrew-shaped skillet?

Even if Alton plays it straight, though, his sense of humor may be the only thing that gets him through the season. And, if this season’s selection of cooks are truly as horrible as in years past, we may all need to play the Alton Drinking Game to survive.

Here’s hoping for a season of golden Brown deliciousness. We’ll find out on Sunday.