I went out to dinner Saturday with my aunt. We ended up at a pizzeria in her neighborhood.
At the end of the night, we wanted to use a coupon, but there was one problem: on the back, there was a coupon for a different restaurant she liked.
"Don't worry, I'm sure she will figure something out," I reassured her about the waitress.
When our bill came, I explained our dilemma and wondered if there was any way she could use one side, or make a copy, or something, to keep the back intact.
"I'm not sure, but I'll ask."
Love it when people say that!!!!
She returned with their coupon blacked out, and the back in perfect shape.
Gained: A free entree or 20 percent off of my aunt's next dinner on the town.
Lost: Nothing.
Recent Posts
Showing posts with label dining out. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dining out. Show all posts
February 22, 2011
February 14, 2010
Are you suuure we can't sit there?
Sunday morning I awoke with no hangover. Pizza is the perfect prevention.Before making our way to the mountain, Mr. A and I stopped in town for breakfast. The night before, I'd eyed a diner called "The Evergreen Cafe and Raccoon Saloon," so we parked across the street and walked over.
To my shock, there was a line. Like a real line. A crowd of people waiting outside. I've never been to a mountain hamlet diner before and not found a seat. What was going on?
"Are you waiting? For a table?" I asked.
"Yes," someone answered.
We walked in anyway and asked for a table for two.
"That'll be a 20, 30 minute wait. There's a few people in front of you."
I glanced at her list. Party of 5, party of 2.
I looked around the room and saw three open seats at the counter.
"What about those?" I asked.
"I can't give you those. There's a list and we'll need them soon."
"We just want a quick cup of coffee. Before we go skiing. I promise we'll be in and out in 15 minutes."
"I'll have to check with my manager."
"Of course! Thank you!"
She came back with a smile.
"You can have them. One party has five people, and the party of two only wants a table."
Excellent.
Would she have turned away two customers who were eager to eat there and who had a place to sit -- simply because she wasn't thinking on her feet?
Yes.
Did it matter?
Apparently not. The place was full, it had a line out the door, and we wanted to eat there so bad I asked her to reconsider her refusal.
Some places, I guess, can afford not to be too careful.
What do you think: Are competence, quick thinking and customer service sometimes overrated? Or are they always paramount?
[image of the Tiffany Diner, in NJ, not the Evergreen, since I could find none online.]
January 20, 2010
Double darn
Short and sweet, because I have something better to report in the next round.
Asked twice. Was rejected twice. Here ya go:
First, I asked Sprint for a rebate or discount after my cell phone's internet has been down for a MONTH. After several attempts, I've just given up. (Actually, I feel liberated by not being able to check email or the news every few seconds. It's been a major lifestyle boost. I'm not kidding!! But I still wanted to fix it, because I'm paying for it. And because it does occasionally come in handy, as long as I am able to keep the internet urges in control.)
The agent told me that since internet is an extra feature, rather that part of my phone's core functionality, they can't offer any discounts.
I had a response ready.
I had several.
But I was exhausted. So I let it rest. For now.
Sprint: 1. Roxy: 0.
Darn!
Later, I went to dinner at Taco Bell. Not a place I usually frequent given that there's a ton of real Mexican food within a mile of my house. But it was close to midnight, after a long day, when the last thing I wanted to do was cook.
Drive through to the rescue.
"Hi, I'd like your cheesy beefy melt burrito, but could you give me tomatoes instead of beans?"
"I can hold the beans, but the tomatoes are still going to cost extra."
"Really? Even if it's a substitution?"
"Sorry."
Darn!
The thing is, the voice did sound sorry. I get the feeling he's the kind of person who would have thrown in tomatoes for free, if it he ran own business. But he's working hard at Taco Bell, close to Midnight on a Tuesday, for close to nothing.
I smiled when I pulled up, but he didn't notice.
Asked twice. Was rejected twice. Here ya go:
First, I asked Sprint for a rebate or discount after my cell phone's internet has been down for a MONTH. After several attempts, I've just given up. (Actually, I feel liberated by not being able to check email or the news every few seconds. It's been a major lifestyle boost. I'm not kidding!! But I still wanted to fix it, because I'm paying for it. And because it does occasionally come in handy, as long as I am able to keep the internet urges in control.)
The agent told me that since internet is an extra feature, rather that part of my phone's core functionality, they can't offer any discounts.
I had a response ready.
I had several.
But I was exhausted. So I let it rest. For now.
Sprint: 1. Roxy: 0.
Darn!
Later, I went to dinner at Taco Bell. Not a place I usually frequent given that there's a ton of real Mexican food within a mile of my house. But it was close to midnight, after a long day, when the last thing I wanted to do was cook.
Drive through to the rescue.
"Hi, I'd like your cheesy beefy melt burrito, but could you give me tomatoes instead of beans?"
"I can hold the beans, but the tomatoes are still going to cost extra."
"Really? Even if it's a substitution?"
"Sorry."
Darn!
The thing is, the voice did sound sorry. I get the feeling he's the kind of person who would have thrown in tomatoes for free, if it he ran own business. But he's working hard at Taco Bell, close to Midnight on a Tuesday, for close to nothing.
I smiled when I pulled up, but he didn't notice.
January 14, 2010
How many Bloomin' Onions do you sell in a day?
[just looking at this picture makes me want to drive to the nearest Outback... via prnewswire]Backtrack to Thursday.
Mr. A and I were craving red meat, so we went to Outback.
As the waitress handed us our menus, she asked if we wanted to order drinks and/or a Bloomin' Onion, which is a crispy, crunchy, tongue tickling ball o' allium cepa.
Even if you don't eat meat, I recommend going to this steakhouse just for the onion. Share with friends, or tackle it alone. (No, I don't own Outback stock.)
We said yes.
We ordered.
We ate.
We talked.
We laughed.
All was calm, all was bright.
And then I remembered that I hadn't asked.
On cue, the waitress approached with our check and before I knew what I was doing, the question escaped.
"How many Bloomin' Onions do you sell in a night?"
"A lot. I couldn't tell you exactly."
"But, ballpark? Does everyone order them?"
"I'd say every other person."
"Ok. Thanks."
I turned to Mr. A. "So what do you think that comes out to?"
I did a rough headcount and guessed there were about 40 people in the restaurant. If dinner lasts from 5 to 10, and each dinner seating lasts about an hour, and usually there are more than 40 people since we were eating late, then he figured that at most 120 people must order them.
"120? I would have guessed something like 500," I replied. "Minimum 300."
"Way too many. Maybe if some tables order two, it's more than 120, but that's what it works out to."
"Let's find out," I said.
We got up and went to the kitchen.
Our waitress happened to be walking out, and her smile faded for a moment. Were we about to complain? Did we forget something?
"We were about to ask someone in the kitchen how many of those onions you sell. We're total nerds," I explained. "He's been sitting there calculating a total number of onions sold in a night based on what you said -- 'every other person' -- and now we want to know if we got it right. Would you mind finding out? If you have a moment?"
(Oh, and I have this blog... but you're not supposed to know that...)
"I guessed it was around 120," Mr. A added.
She relaxed.
"Of course! I'll be right back with an answer for you."
Writing this up Sunday night, I realize it's about time for dinner. Hmm...
Mmmm...
I think I know what I need to do...
See you later!
Wait!? What? You want the answer?
She reported that they sold 80, but it was a slow night. So Mr. A was on the right track, and I clearly lost my objectivity (and math skills) when faced with such greasy goodness.
July 06, 2009
2 for 1 cheesecake?
Friday, July 3
My mom treated me to a healthy, organic and generally motherly lunch at a place she heard about on the radio, called Tender Greens. The food was unremarkable, but the cheesecake -- a fluffy wedge drenched in blackberry jam -- was to die for.
Mr. A was getting back from a business trip Friday night, and he loves cheesecake. At $5 a pop, two slices were out of the question, but I had one thing going for me: the servers hand cut each piece from the whole cake.
Not precut = more leeway = more cash maximization potential.
I walked up to the counter, asked for a slice to go, and added this plug. "Can I get an extra big slice? My boyfriend is going do ADORE your cheesecake! I just had a slice, and I think it's the best cheesecake I've ever had!!"
She carved out a quarter of the cake and dumped it into a to-go box. WOW. Thanks!!
Gained: Two portions for the price of one. Saved $5.
My mom treated me to a healthy, organic and generally motherly lunch at a place she heard about on the radio, called Tender Greens. The food was unremarkable, but the cheesecake -- a fluffy wedge drenched in blackberry jam -- was to die for.
Mr. A was getting back from a business trip Friday night, and he loves cheesecake. At $5 a pop, two slices were out of the question, but I had one thing going for me: the servers hand cut each piece from the whole cake.
Not precut = more leeway = more cash maximization potential.
I walked up to the counter, asked for a slice to go, and added this plug. "Can I get an extra big slice? My boyfriend is going do ADORE your cheesecake! I just had a slice, and I think it's the best cheesecake I've ever had!!"
She carved out a quarter of the cake and dumped it into a to-go box. WOW. Thanks!!
Gained: Two portions for the price of one. Saved $5.
June 27, 2009
The end is near!!!
June 27. Day 362.
Today Mr. A celebrated his birthday with a picnic in the park, surrounded by friends and fam.
I was in charge of decorating and catering, so I called our favorite Thai place to see if they could handle an order for 15 people this afternoon.
The man on the phone said yes.
I hung up and said I'd call him back once I read the menu online.
When I called back, I realized I'd forgotten to ask!
"Since we're doing a big order, how about you give me 10 percent off."
"Fine."
The order came to around $80 something, including tax.
Gained: Around $9. In retrospect, he agreed to my request too fast. Maybe I should have let him make an offer, or aimed bigger. Oh well. Still $9.
And, an update from yesterday: I called the mother back after not hearing from her, and asked if she had time to think about my request.
She replied she wouldn't hire me at the higher rate.
I asked and lost.
And yet... I am glad I asked.
I am in not in rush to find a job, and I am confident there are better options if I look harder. That was the first attempt.
Now, if this recession keeps up, or I don't find something by graduation, I will change my tune. But right now, I feel I made the right choice.
Ultimately, I feel that not asking would have been more costly than losing the job.
That's a mantra I need to take with me, for the next time around.
Today Mr. A celebrated his birthday with a picnic in the park, surrounded by friends and fam.
I was in charge of decorating and catering, so I called our favorite Thai place to see if they could handle an order for 15 people this afternoon.
The man on the phone said yes.
I hung up and said I'd call him back once I read the menu online.
When I called back, I realized I'd forgotten to ask!
"Since we're doing a big order, how about you give me 10 percent off."
"Fine."
The order came to around $80 something, including tax.
Gained: Around $9. In retrospect, he agreed to my request too fast. Maybe I should have let him make an offer, or aimed bigger. Oh well. Still $9.
And, an update from yesterday: I called the mother back after not hearing from her, and asked if she had time to think about my request.
She replied she wouldn't hire me at the higher rate.
I asked and lost.
And yet... I am glad I asked.
I am in not in rush to find a job, and I am confident there are better options if I look harder. That was the first attempt.
Now, if this recession keeps up, or I don't find something by graduation, I will change my tune. But right now, I feel I made the right choice.
Ultimately, I feel that not asking would have been more costly than losing the job.
That's a mantra I need to take with me, for the next time around.
More like this:
Asking to save time,
Career,
dining out,
Financial gains or savings,
Negotiation
·
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June 21, 2009
Give me a kleenex? And a free pizza?
June 21. Day 356.
I went on a bike ride today with Mr. A and a friend, the K-meister. We started in the middle of Point Loma and rode up to the lighthouse.
For those readers not from San Diego, i.e. most of you, that means we rode approximately 5 miles each way, up hill and knoll, and then careened back down the gentle slopes after a lovely break at a historic lighthouse overlooking the bay.
5 miles is an objective standard.
Subjectively, allow me to add that it felt like I skinned a 2,000 pound potato with a butter knife.
We rode long enough that my legs were trembling and I hee-hawed the whole way.
It was so intense that at the top, when our ride was half over, I stretched out on a bench and actually fell asleep, while the guys rode up and down a steep hiking path that led to the beach, for a real workout.
To top it off, I had a runny nose, and there were no stores where I could buy tissues or even ask for a napkin.
Instead, I decided to beg mercy from a fellow human. I thought of knocking on anyone's door, but an easier option presented itself.
Before my nap, a couple with two young kids walked by the bench where I was recovering.
"Excuse me, do you have a kleenex?" I asked, eyeing their generous diaper bag.
They have two toddlers and look the part. Meaning it probably takes more than the request of a sweaty, sleepy biker to phase them.
"No, sorry! All we have is wet wipes," the mom offered.
"Oh, no, that's okay. Thanks anyway."
Gained I: Nothing. Because a wet wipe would only make things worse.
For all my dramatic whining here, the trek was actually awesome. The ideal 72 degree Sunday afternoon breezy bike ride with postcard views. Great to be back in San Diego. And, today makes me think that I should try to build up some muscles or resistance. Sheesh.
Out: Feeling like you're 70 when you're almost 30. In: the exact opposite!!!
Afterward, we stacked the bikes onto the car rack, made a detour to see a movie, then drove to the newest branch of Pizzeria Luigi, which has my favorite NY-style pizza in San Diego. A seditious faction of the storied Bronx Pizza, a San Diego popular favorite, broke off a few years ago and started its own joint, pruning and culling staff from the other NY-style pizzerias around the city.
Or so goes the rumor.
Some say the sauce is just perfect. Others prefer the crust. I dig, and dig into, them both.
We tumbled in, exhausted, but before we ordered I checked one key thing:
"Do you guys take credit cards? Cause we don't have cash."
"We don't, but that's okay. Today is free."
"What?"
"We're testing things out this weekend, making sure everything goes smoothly, so we're giving everything away free."
"Really???"
"Yeah. What can I get you?"
"I don't know. What's your favorite pizza?" I asked.
"I love the margherita. It's really light and fresh. I'd say that's my favorite," he told me.
Pause. You know what the old La Roxy would have ordered, same time last year: a slice of whatever. Must not impose. Must not be, or seem, greedy. Enjoy the offer, but not too much. It would be unseemly.
For an instant I was tempted to do precisely that, even today. Even after a year of asking.
Instead, I snapped out of it just in time and asked for two slices and a water.
"Sure -- so one whole margherita pizza and a slice of mushroom?"
At that point I was confused.
"You're seriously giving away whole free pizzas?" I checked.
"Yeah."
"Oh my God, thank you!!!! I live in the neighborhood and I promise to become a very good customer."
He laughed.
We ate.
And I am spreading the word.
Anyone in this town, or passing through, listen up: I liked Luigi's pizza before today, and now I like their attitude, too. Seriously the best thin crust "a-round." Heehee.
Gained II: About $25 worth of food, with 3 slices, the pizza, two waters and sales tax between the three of us. Not exactly a direct gain, i.e. by walking in and asking for free food, but I'm including it because I started with a question, and then I milked the situation for all it was worth: a guilt free acceptance of a generous pizza-fest. (Yes, we left a nice tip.)
The pic above is a nice angle from the Fifth Deadly Sin.
I went on a bike ride today with Mr. A and a friend, the K-meister. We started in the middle of Point Loma and rode up to the lighthouse.
For those readers not from San Diego, i.e. most of you, that means we rode approximately 5 miles each way, up hill and knoll, and then careened back down the gentle slopes after a lovely break at a historic lighthouse overlooking the bay.5 miles is an objective standard.
Subjectively, allow me to add that it felt like I skinned a 2,000 pound potato with a butter knife.
We rode long enough that my legs were trembling and I hee-hawed the whole way.
It was so intense that at the top, when our ride was half over, I stretched out on a bench and actually fell asleep, while the guys rode up and down a steep hiking path that led to the beach, for a real workout.
To top it off, I had a runny nose, and there were no stores where I could buy tissues or even ask for a napkin.
Instead, I decided to beg mercy from a fellow human. I thought of knocking on anyone's door, but an easier option presented itself.
Before my nap, a couple with two young kids walked by the bench where I was recovering.
"Excuse me, do you have a kleenex?" I asked, eyeing their generous diaper bag.
They have two toddlers and look the part. Meaning it probably takes more than the request of a sweaty, sleepy biker to phase them.
"No, sorry! All we have is wet wipes," the mom offered.
"Oh, no, that's okay. Thanks anyway."
Gained I: Nothing. Because a wet wipe would only make things worse.
For all my dramatic whining here, the trek was actually awesome. The ideal 72 degree Sunday afternoon breezy bike ride with postcard views. Great to be back in San Diego. And, today makes me think that I should try to build up some muscles or resistance. Sheesh.
Out: Feeling like you're 70 when you're almost 30. In: the exact opposite!!!
Afterward, we stacked the bikes onto the car rack, made a detour to see a movie, then drove to the newest branch of Pizzeria Luigi, which has my favorite NY-style pizza in San Diego. A seditious faction of the storied Bronx Pizza, a San Diego popular favorite, broke off a few years ago and started its own joint, pruning and culling staff from the other NY-style pizzerias around the city.
Or so goes the rumor.Some say the sauce is just perfect. Others prefer the crust. I dig, and dig into, them both.
We tumbled in, exhausted, but before we ordered I checked one key thing:
"Do you guys take credit cards? Cause we don't have cash."
"We don't, but that's okay. Today is free."
"What?"
"We're testing things out this weekend, making sure everything goes smoothly, so we're giving everything away free."
"Really???"
"Yeah. What can I get you?"
"I don't know. What's your favorite pizza?" I asked.
"I love the margherita. It's really light and fresh. I'd say that's my favorite," he told me.
Pause. You know what the old La Roxy would have ordered, same time last year: a slice of whatever. Must not impose. Must not be, or seem, greedy. Enjoy the offer, but not too much. It would be unseemly.
For an instant I was tempted to do precisely that, even today. Even after a year of asking.
Instead, I snapped out of it just in time and asked for two slices and a water.
"Sure -- so one whole margherita pizza and a slice of mushroom?"
At that point I was confused.
"You're seriously giving away whole free pizzas?" I checked.
"Yeah."
"Oh my God, thank you!!!! I live in the neighborhood and I promise to become a very good customer."
He laughed.
We ate.
And I am spreading the word.
Anyone in this town, or passing through, listen up: I liked Luigi's pizza before today, and now I like their attitude, too. Seriously the best thin crust "a-round." Heehee.
Gained II: About $25 worth of food, with 3 slices, the pizza, two waters and sales tax between the three of us. Not exactly a direct gain, i.e. by walking in and asking for free food, but I'm including it because I started with a question, and then I milked the situation for all it was worth: a guilt free acceptance of a generous pizza-fest. (Yes, we left a nice tip.)
The pic above is a nice angle from the Fifth Deadly Sin.
June 19, 2009
Teach me how to take a man down?
June 19. Day 354.
Mr. A and I rang in our fourth year together tonight.
Since I know you'd rather read about asking and negotiations, I'll spare you the intimate, mushy, high-res blow-by-blow. (Except you. Yeah, you. I'm sure you'd like to read about it. Well, dream on, perv. We are not interested in that Canola oil themed "adult" weekend. Stop sending me samples!!!)
So.
We started the evening at the Red Fox Steakhouse, a retro restaurant reminiscent of an English hunting lodge, enhanced by 60s style pleather booths and a live blues trio. We sometimes stroll over for a nightcap, but never dinner. I'd eyed the menu when I was hungry after midnight -- and Mr. A is always up for red meat -- but the kitchen was always closed when we were there.
Tonight was the night. We got there at 7, in time to chow down.
To kick things off I ordered a stiff drink, a gin and tonic. The waitress carded me, but it took me a while to dig out my ID. She went away, came back with our waters, and in the meantime I found my ID -- and a flash of inspiration. A more celebratory drink was in order.
"Could I actually have a pina colada?" I asked, handing her my ID.
"Sure!"
She walked away, then came back to check.
"So you want that, and the gin and tonic." She wasn't insulting or accusing. Trust me. It's the kind of place where you could order two drinks at a time all night, and then the waitress would cheerfully call you a cab at the end. But she wanted to make sure, I guess.
"Instead, actually."
"Oh! Because that's a gin and tonic," she said, pointing to my 'water.' "Do you want me to replace it?"
I told her not to. We had plans after dinner -- a play at a nearby theater. I wasn't interested in passing out.
Gained I: Accidentally asked for two drinks, but downgraded just in time.
After dinner we walked a few blocks to a tiny neighborhood theater. They were putting on a Christopher Durang play, "Baby with the bathwater," an uplifting farce about a disturbed couple who has a child and manages to fck it up in every possible way.
Then we went to a nearby dessert place, where a guard was standing by the gate.
"Wait here," he instructed.
There was a shooting here a few years ago, so the bakery hired him.
But rather than keep the peace, he's also a bouncer of sorts. He waits for people to leave and tables to clear before he lets the next eaters in. And he makes the place seem exclusive. Lame, but the desserts are good.
As we waited for a table, I started talking to him.
"Are you're here because of the shooting?"
"Yeah."
"So are you an off-duty police officer?"
"No, but I'm trained in security and combat."
"You have a gun?"
"Yes."
"Mmmhmm. So can I ask you a question?"
"Go ahead."
"If someone were to storm in here with a gun, you'd be prepared to take him down?"
"That's what I'm here for."
"What about self-defense? What tips do you have for a woman?"
By now he'd loosened up, and he told me several points I already knew (aim for the eyes and other sensitive parts). But he also said some things I didn't know:
1. Go for the Adam's apple. Swift and strong. Hurts a lot, and could leave the assailant out of breath.
2. Stomp down on the crown of his foot, which is sensitive and delicate. But use your HEEL, not the ball of your foot. That's something I never would have thought of. (Picture drawn by Matthew Taylor, an artist and designer)
Gained: Expert self-defense advice from the Keeper of the Desserts.
Mr. A and I rang in our fourth year together tonight.
Since I know you'd rather read about asking and negotiations, I'll spare you the intimate, mushy, high-res blow-by-blow. (Except you. Yeah, you. I'm sure you'd like to read about it. Well, dream on, perv. We are not interested in that Canola oil themed "adult" weekend. Stop sending me samples!!!)
So.
We started the evening at the Red Fox Steakhouse, a retro restaurant reminiscent of an English hunting lodge, enhanced by 60s style pleather booths and a live blues trio. We sometimes stroll over for a nightcap, but never dinner. I'd eyed the menu when I was hungry after midnight -- and Mr. A is always up for red meat -- but the kitchen was always closed when we were there.
Tonight was the night. We got there at 7, in time to chow down.
To kick things off I ordered a stiff drink, a gin and tonic. The waitress carded me, but it took me a while to dig out my ID. She went away, came back with our waters, and in the meantime I found my ID -- and a flash of inspiration. A more celebratory drink was in order.
"Could I actually have a pina colada?" I asked, handing her my ID.
"Sure!"
She walked away, then came back to check.
"So you want that, and the gin and tonic." She wasn't insulting or accusing. Trust me. It's the kind of place where you could order two drinks at a time all night, and then the waitress would cheerfully call you a cab at the end. But she wanted to make sure, I guess.
"Instead, actually."
"Oh! Because that's a gin and tonic," she said, pointing to my 'water.' "Do you want me to replace it?"
I told her not to. We had plans after dinner -- a play at a nearby theater. I wasn't interested in passing out.
Gained I: Accidentally asked for two drinks, but downgraded just in time.
After dinner we walked a few blocks to a tiny neighborhood theater. They were putting on a Christopher Durang play, "Baby with the bathwater," an uplifting farce about a disturbed couple who has a child and manages to fck it up in every possible way.Then we went to a nearby dessert place, where a guard was standing by the gate.
"Wait here," he instructed.
There was a shooting here a few years ago, so the bakery hired him.
But rather than keep the peace, he's also a bouncer of sorts. He waits for people to leave and tables to clear before he lets the next eaters in. And he makes the place seem exclusive. Lame, but the desserts are good.
As we waited for a table, I started talking to him.
"Are you're here because of the shooting?"
"Yeah."
"So are you an off-duty police officer?"
"No, but I'm trained in security and combat."
"You have a gun?"
"Yes."
"Mmmhmm. So can I ask you a question?"
"Go ahead."
"If someone were to storm in here with a gun, you'd be prepared to take him down?"
"That's what I'm here for."
"What about self-defense? What tips do you have for a woman?"
By now he'd loosened up, and he told me several points I already knew (aim for the eyes and other sensitive parts). But he also said some things I didn't know:
1. Go for the Adam's apple. Swift and strong. Hurts a lot, and could leave the assailant out of breath.
2. Stomp down on the crown of his foot, which is sensitive and delicate. But use your HEEL, not the ball of your foot. That's something I never would have thought of. (Picture drawn by Matthew Taylor, an artist and designer)
Gained: Expert self-defense advice from the Keeper of the Desserts.
June 16, 2009
What is a panzerotto?
June 16. Day 351.
For my last few hours in Milano, the plan was to meet up with La Divina, Il Divo and some of their friends and have a farewell drink.
(By the way, I've gotten one email vote for Il Grillo -- it's more original, this reader says. Hmm. Sounds reasonable. Perhaps I should just defer to the subject himself. Cosa ne dici, carissimo???)
On the way to the bar, we passed by a locale brimming with people.
"That's Luini. The panzerotti place," La Divina explained.
"Panzerotti?" I asked.
"You don't know what a panzerotto is????"
She redirected me to the counter and ordered one for each of us.
And then I discovered.
Panzerotto, n, masculine. Pocket of pizza dough folded into a half moon and stuffed with tomatoes and mozzarella, occasionally variants like pesto, then deep fried and served steaming hot, to go. Originally from Naples. Frequently used as an alcohol sponge, dinner substitute, salty dessert and/or pre-happy hour thirst instigator.
For my last few hours in Milano, the plan was to meet up with La Divina, Il Divo and some of their friends and have a farewell drink.
(By the way, I've gotten one email vote for Il Grillo -- it's more original, this reader says. Hmm. Sounds reasonable. Perhaps I should just defer to the subject himself. Cosa ne dici, carissimo???)
On the way to the bar, we passed by a locale brimming with people.
"That's Luini. The panzerotti place," La Divina explained.
"Panzerotti?" I asked.
"You don't know what a panzerotto is????"
She redirected me to the counter and ordered one for each of us.
And then I discovered.
Panzerotto, n, masculine. Pocket of pizza dough folded into a half moon and stuffed with tomatoes and mozzarella, occasionally variants like pesto, then deep fried and served steaming hot, to go. Originally from Naples. Frequently used as an alcohol sponge, dinner substitute, salty dessert and/or pre-happy hour thirst instigator.
June 14, 2009
Live to eat, or eat to live?
I owe you an apology... I realize there's a huge lag between today and when these posts are dated. Trouble is, some days I'm inspired to write and some I'm not, and if I force it, if I plow through and write them in the time it takes you to read them, I know I will regret it later. You can always skim or skip a post, that is, but I cannot. And I'd rather make it worth my while. ;)
But here we are, catching up bit by bit.
***
June 14. Day 349.
I've mentioned before, though it goes without mentioning, that Italians like to eat.
This weekend, this tenet was applied to its most vigorous maximum, as I sampled the cuisine of the Italian countryside with La Divina and her beloved, Il Divo.
I wavered between nicknames for him -- Il Divo, I think I'll stay with. Other options were Il Grillo (the cricket, but also a reference to a movie character he loves, Il Marchese del Grillo, pictured here) or Il Papi (in local parlance, the affectionate name for Berlusconi -- and his idol.) Any votes?
After my business trip wrapped up in Florence, from Friday though Sunday we've been spending nights in Montecatini Terme, in a hotel that seems like it was designed explicitly for the purpose of housing one night stands between Russian aristocrats with diminished fortunes and their Swiss mistresses circa 1958. Double twin beds, chinzy wallpaper, undoubtedly the height of luxury about 50 years ago. And zee staff is very discreet, my darlink.
As for days? We've been touring Tuscany in La Divina's peppy MiniCooper, looking for food.
Yesterday we got up, decided whether to eat lunch sooner or later, decided where to eat lunch, drove toward lunch, where we spent a lot of time discussing when and where to eat dinner. Oh yeah, and somewhere between all that we saw Pisa and bought some leather.
Then we drove to dinner, discussing dinner and lunch, had dinner discussing tomorrow's plans (including dinner) and then drove back discussing future culinary plans.
Today, naturally, we planned the itinerary around where to eat, since Il Divo had read about a restaurant in a cute town.
Over lunch, I explained to them that in America, there's an intriguing group of people called "Foodies."
"Foodie? What is this?" Il Divo asked.
"They are a special group of people who will drive 100 kilometers to try a restaurant, they will buy a cow in the countryside so it produces milk for them, they only want the best ingredients and love to obsess over food -- the finest details, the quality of the salt. That sort of thing."
"Bello. But why this is special?"
"Special, because that's not the normal way. Foodies are rare, a minority. Normally, meals are more rushed, food is about ingesting and satisfying hunger between long workshifts. There's a controversy: to eat well or cheaply? eat at length or be efficient? Are foodies heroes -- daring to prioritize taste and company at the dinner table when fast food reigns -- or are they decadent snobs?"
We went on to talk about lunch time: In Italy, according to them, you must take an hour, by law. And they milk that hour. Eat a proper meal. See a friend. Sure, go home later because of that. But it's a pleasure, a right, not an obligation.
I confessed that when I've had desk jobs, I routinely worked though lunch.
But Italians are faced with the same dilemmas, in a grand scale: Eat well or eat affordably? Be productive or perish? Grocery stores deliver mass produced super cheap crap, and the cost of commodities make many better foods prohibitive. And it's not that they hold back -- eat less, to afford a good quality. As for productivity, lunch time in Milan is becoming more of a time for errands -- even if lunch is still sacred in the rest of Italy. So maybe, maybe the empire of calm, caring meals will collapse, there, too.
Despite all this, I suspect that for many people here, it's a moot point. If you can afford it, of course you buy the hand sliced prosciutto. And even if it cuts from other options, you make the time. You take a day to visit the truffle festival three hours away. Pick up the tastier pesto, even if it adds 10 minutes to your commute. That's not time wasted, it's time that will improve the meal with your loved ones. Live to eat, not eat to live. Of course.
Am I rhapsodizing? Romanticizing? Am I just hungry again?? What are your thoughts, Italophiles, Italophobes -- and others?
As for what I asked: after dinner, which was a three-course meal of penne pomodoro, chicken, and tiramisu, topped off with coffee and liqueur, I asked the waiter for a slice of lemon. (Helpful hint: lemon works wonders against car sickness.) Because as much as I adore this lifestyle, as much as I enjoyed every bite and every conversation about every bite, there's one sad fact I can't ignore: Tuscan mountain roads in a Mini at 60 mph + La Roxy on a full stomach = a recipe for disaster.
But here we are, catching up bit by bit.
***
June 14. Day 349.
I've mentioned before, though it goes without mentioning, that Italians like to eat.
This weekend, this tenet was applied to its most vigorous maximum, as I sampled the cuisine of the Italian countryside with La Divina and her beloved, Il Divo.
I wavered between nicknames for him -- Il Divo, I think I'll stay with. Other options were Il Grillo (the cricket, but also a reference to a movie character he loves, Il Marchese del Grillo, pictured here) or Il Papi (in local parlance, the affectionate name for Berlusconi -- and his idol.) Any votes?After my business trip wrapped up in Florence, from Friday though Sunday we've been spending nights in Montecatini Terme, in a hotel that seems like it was designed explicitly for the purpose of housing one night stands between Russian aristocrats with diminished fortunes and their Swiss mistresses circa 1958. Double twin beds, chinzy wallpaper, undoubtedly the height of luxury about 50 years ago. And zee staff is very discreet, my darlink.
As for days? We've been touring Tuscany in La Divina's peppy MiniCooper, looking for food.
Yesterday we got up, decided whether to eat lunch sooner or later, decided where to eat lunch, drove toward lunch, where we spent a lot of time discussing when and where to eat dinner. Oh yeah, and somewhere between all that we saw Pisa and bought some leather.
Then we drove to dinner, discussing dinner and lunch, had dinner discussing tomorrow's plans (including dinner) and then drove back discussing future culinary plans.
Today, naturally, we planned the itinerary around where to eat, since Il Divo had read about a restaurant in a cute town.
Over lunch, I explained to them that in America, there's an intriguing group of people called "Foodies."
"Foodie? What is this?" Il Divo asked.
"They are a special group of people who will drive 100 kilometers to try a restaurant, they will buy a cow in the countryside so it produces milk for them, they only want the best ingredients and love to obsess over food -- the finest details, the quality of the salt. That sort of thing."
"Bello. But why this is special?"
"Special, because that's not the normal way. Foodies are rare, a minority. Normally, meals are more rushed, food is about ingesting and satisfying hunger between long workshifts. There's a controversy: to eat well or cheaply? eat at length or be efficient? Are foodies heroes -- daring to prioritize taste and company at the dinner table when fast food reigns -- or are they decadent snobs?"
We went on to talk about lunch time: In Italy, according to them, you must take an hour, by law. And they milk that hour. Eat a proper meal. See a friend. Sure, go home later because of that. But it's a pleasure, a right, not an obligation.
I confessed that when I've had desk jobs, I routinely worked though lunch.
But Italians are faced with the same dilemmas, in a grand scale: Eat well or eat affordably? Be productive or perish? Grocery stores deliver mass produced super cheap crap, and the cost of commodities make many better foods prohibitive. And it's not that they hold back -- eat less, to afford a good quality. As for productivity, lunch time in Milan is becoming more of a time for errands -- even if lunch is still sacred in the rest of Italy. So maybe, maybe the empire of calm, caring meals will collapse, there, too.
Despite all this, I suspect that for many people here, it's a moot point. If you can afford it, of course you buy the hand sliced prosciutto. And even if it cuts from other options, you make the time. You take a day to visit the truffle festival three hours away. Pick up the tastier pesto, even if it adds 10 minutes to your commute. That's not time wasted, it's time that will improve the meal with your loved ones. Live to eat, not eat to live. Of course.
Am I rhapsodizing? Romanticizing? Am I just hungry again?? What are your thoughts, Italophiles, Italophobes -- and others?
As for what I asked: after dinner, which was a three-course meal of penne pomodoro, chicken, and tiramisu, topped off with coffee and liqueur, I asked the waiter for a slice of lemon. (Helpful hint: lemon works wonders against car sickness.) Because as much as I adore this lifestyle, as much as I enjoyed every bite and every conversation about every bite, there's one sad fact I can't ignore: Tuscan mountain roads in a Mini at 60 mph + La Roxy on a full stomach = a recipe for disaster.
June 04, 2009
Lend me cash? (f)or gelato?
June 4. Day 339.
This is kind of embarrassing. But since I'm here to document, indiscriminately, my triumphs and their less exalting cousins (defeats, near misses and total fall on your face screw ups), here it is. In high-def slow-mo.
And consider, gentle reader, consider that it all started with a photo. A photo I shot for this project. To think!
And now... onward...
Judge as you please...
I was supposed to meet an acquaintance, a friend of a friend, for a midday chat over coffee or gelato. He works as a financial consultant, and I invited him out so we could catch up. I was going to be in his neighborhood, and I thought it would be nice to hang out briefly. I'd been working all day and I was definitely craving a walk. And he had told me to call him if I was ever downtown.
Since getting here Monday, I've spent most of the 100 euros I extracted from the airport ATM. One taxi ride to get to a spot with no metro, a few cocktails, some medicine for my cold, one lunch and dinner out, two ice creams, some groceries. Poof! Gone! Just two more coins were snuggling in the coziest recesses of my purse.
On the way to meet this individual, I was planning on stopping at an ATM. Instead, I ended up talking to an old lady about politics. She's the one who approached me. I was taking this picture (your next hint -- a dead giveaway, if you ask me. Better than any marble monument or postcard.)
"Are you a photographer?" she asked.
"Oh, no! I just take pictures for a project I'm working on."
"You're not from here."
"No. America."
"Ah. I have a son in Denver. Nice place. Big highways."
Over the next few minutes, we talked about politics, Obama, the students protesting university funding cuts right in front of us, how the city has changed for the better in recent years, the opera rehearsal she was about to attend thanks to a ticket her daughter-in-law snagged, and the recession. Now a universal "the," she specified, not "mine" or "yours" -- the recession is everywhere. She drove the whole conversation. I was just listening, answering and considering how nice it was to be accosted in a piazza by a random retired elementary school principle in a blue dress, a self-declared socialist, a person I'd never talk to if I were anywhere else but here and now.
I saw the gentleman across the street. Excused myself. Ran over.
We approached Grom, his preferred gelateria.
We stood in line, and he made his recommendation: vanilla with biscotti. I was leaning toward apricot.
All was bene.
And then I remembered. Never stopped at the ATM.
I had invited him. I had asked him to come down from his office for a break, I had suggested coffee or ice cream. And now I had 2 euros to my name.
Of course the place didn't take cards. And the cheapest portion was 2.5 euros.
So I asked.
"Listen... I feel terrible about this, but is there any way you can cover this? Or can I run really quickly to an ATM? I'm out of cash and I didn't make it--"
"Of course!!!!!"
"I'm sorry."
"Stop!!"
"I got held up and totally--"
"Stop!! Don't be ridiculous!!!"
Gained: Ice cream for two, courtesy of the person I was supposed to treat. $10. D'oh! Or as they say in this country... D'oh!
This is kind of embarrassing. But since I'm here to document, indiscriminately, my triumphs and their less exalting cousins (defeats, near misses and total fall on your face screw ups), here it is. In high-def slow-mo.
And consider, gentle reader, consider that it all started with a photo. A photo I shot for this project. To think!
And now... onward...
Judge as you please...
I was supposed to meet an acquaintance, a friend of a friend, for a midday chat over coffee or gelato. He works as a financial consultant, and I invited him out so we could catch up. I was going to be in his neighborhood, and I thought it would be nice to hang out briefly. I'd been working all day and I was definitely craving a walk. And he had told me to call him if I was ever downtown.
Since getting here Monday, I've spent most of the 100 euros I extracted from the airport ATM. One taxi ride to get to a spot with no metro, a few cocktails, some medicine for my cold, one lunch and dinner out, two ice creams, some groceries. Poof! Gone! Just two more coins were snuggling in the coziest recesses of my purse.
On the way to meet this individual, I was planning on stopping at an ATM. Instead, I ended up talking to an old lady about politics. She's the one who approached me. I was taking this picture (your next hint -- a dead giveaway, if you ask me. Better than any marble monument or postcard.)
"Are you a photographer?" she asked."Oh, no! I just take pictures for a project I'm working on."
"You're not from here."
"No. America."
"Ah. I have a son in Denver. Nice place. Big highways."
Over the next few minutes, we talked about politics, Obama, the students protesting university funding cuts right in front of us, how the city has changed for the better in recent years, the opera rehearsal she was about to attend thanks to a ticket her daughter-in-law snagged, and the recession. Now a universal "the," she specified, not "mine" or "yours" -- the recession is everywhere. She drove the whole conversation. I was just listening, answering and considering how nice it was to be accosted in a piazza by a random retired elementary school principle in a blue dress, a self-declared socialist, a person I'd never talk to if I were anywhere else but here and now.
I saw the gentleman across the street. Excused myself. Ran over.
We approached Grom, his preferred gelateria.
We stood in line, and he made his recommendation: vanilla with biscotti. I was leaning toward apricot.
All was bene.
And then I remembered. Never stopped at the ATM.
I had invited him. I had asked him to come down from his office for a break, I had suggested coffee or ice cream. And now I had 2 euros to my name.
Of course the place didn't take cards. And the cheapest portion was 2.5 euros.
So I asked.
"Listen... I feel terrible about this, but is there any way you can cover this? Or can I run really quickly to an ATM? I'm out of cash and I didn't make it--"
"Of course!!!!!"
"I'm sorry."
"Stop!!"
"I got held up and totally--"
"Stop!! Don't be ridiculous!!!"
Gained: Ice cream for two, courtesy of the person I was supposed to treat. $10. D'oh! Or as they say in this country... D'oh!
June 02, 2009
Can I have some ice cream? Or, how not to ask
June 2. Day 337.
I asked for several things but chose this episode because it's a useful counterexample.
Here goes:
I decided to skip lunch and go straight for coffee and dessert. Bad, so bad -- but so so good!!! I entered a gelateria, asked for a cup (i.e. not a cone), half strawberry half pineapple.
I sat down outside, waiting for my selection.
A minute later, a waitress brought me a huge bowl of ice cream, three scooops, with a few cookies sticking out. Looked amazing. Just much bigger, and much more expensive, than what I had in mind.
For in my mind, I'd asked for a small, with half a scoop of each. But as far as they were concerned, I'd merely requested a cup with two flavors. They gave me the most expensive thing they could get away with charging based on that request. Or maybe they just understood I wanted the larger size.
Justice was on their side. I realize that if I protested, they could fairly say, "You never specified the size and asked for two flavors. That's what we understood." Returning the ice cream, protesting, would have been wasteful. Unpleasant, give my relaxed mood. And there wasn't a huge price difference.
Gained: Nothing. Actually, I lost about 2 euros by not being specific. I should have been much more precise: Could I have a small portion, with half a scoop of each?
This brings me to something I've been wanting to write for a while:
How not to ask. This isn't very scientific -- I haven't yet tabulated my gains and identified which strategies are most effective. (That's for when the year-end statistical extravaganza, once we hit Day 365). For now, a rough sketch of what I've found to be ineffective.
1. Don't ask someone who can't help you. Most often when I've failed, I suspect it's been because I approached the wrong person. Partly it's a crap shoot, but partly it's about finding who weilds the power to make concessions. In retail settings, that's not the lower level salesperson, the floor walker. Ideally, go to the decision maker -- usually, the higher up, the better. (Plus, if you start low and end up high, it pits employee against employer. e.g. asking a manager for a discount after the cashier said no. Much harder for the manager to agree, if it humiliates the cashier, than if you'd asked her directly. So it seems.)
2. Don't ask vaguely. Both because you might not get what you want, and because it's easier to refuse a vague request than a specific one. I've definitely had much more success when I've requested something exact: "I'd like 10 percent off of this hotel room. Is that possible?" instead of "Do you have any discounts you can apply to any of your rooms?" The second format makes the giver work in order to come up with a solution, a proposition, a discount. Why should she bother? But if I come up with a reasonable proposition, it's easier for her to say yes.
3. Don't ask expecting a no. Sure, at first I expected rejection all the time, since I didn't realize how easy it is to get what you want by asking. Now, on occasion I ask something I don't think I'll get and the result surprises me. Most often, though, when I ask expecting a no, the answer is no. I think they can see it in my eyes, hear it in my voice, and they realize I think it's reasonable to be refused. What do they have to lose by refusing?
4. Any contributions, or other ideas out there? Some of you have emailed me some wonderful examples of when you've been effective askers. But from your other experiences, when/why did you fail? Conversely, why would you be inclined to say no, when someone else asks you?
These two photos, above and below, were take from a bridge not far from where I had the treat.
I asked for several things but chose this episode because it's a useful counterexample.Here goes:
I decided to skip lunch and go straight for coffee and dessert. Bad, so bad -- but so so good!!! I entered a gelateria, asked for a cup (i.e. not a cone), half strawberry half pineapple.
I sat down outside, waiting for my selection.
A minute later, a waitress brought me a huge bowl of ice cream, three scooops, with a few cookies sticking out. Looked amazing. Just much bigger, and much more expensive, than what I had in mind.
For in my mind, I'd asked for a small, with half a scoop of each. But as far as they were concerned, I'd merely requested a cup with two flavors. They gave me the most expensive thing they could get away with charging based on that request. Or maybe they just understood I wanted the larger size.
Justice was on their side. I realize that if I protested, they could fairly say, "You never specified the size and asked for two flavors. That's what we understood." Returning the ice cream, protesting, would have been wasteful. Unpleasant, give my relaxed mood. And there wasn't a huge price difference.
Gained: Nothing. Actually, I lost about 2 euros by not being specific. I should have been much more precise: Could I have a small portion, with half a scoop of each?
This brings me to something I've been wanting to write for a while:
How not to ask. This isn't very scientific -- I haven't yet tabulated my gains and identified which strategies are most effective. (That's for when the year-end statistical extravaganza, once we hit Day 365). For now, a rough sketch of what I've found to be ineffective.
1. Don't ask someone who can't help you. Most often when I've failed, I suspect it's been because I approached the wrong person. Partly it's a crap shoot, but partly it's about finding who weilds the power to make concessions. In retail settings, that's not the lower level salesperson, the floor walker. Ideally, go to the decision maker -- usually, the higher up, the better. (Plus, if you start low and end up high, it pits employee against employer. e.g. asking a manager for a discount after the cashier said no. Much harder for the manager to agree, if it humiliates the cashier, than if you'd asked her directly. So it seems.)
2. Don't ask vaguely. Both because you might not get what you want, and because it's easier to refuse a vague request than a specific one. I've definitely had much more success when I've requested something exact: "I'd like 10 percent off of this hotel room. Is that possible?" instead of "Do you have any discounts you can apply to any of your rooms?" The second format makes the giver work in order to come up with a solution, a proposition, a discount. Why should she bother? But if I come up with a reasonable proposition, it's easier for her to say yes.
3. Don't ask expecting a no. Sure, at first I expected rejection all the time, since I didn't realize how easy it is to get what you want by asking. Now, on occasion I ask something I don't think I'll get and the result surprises me. Most often, though, when I ask expecting a no, the answer is no. I think they can see it in my eyes, hear it in my voice, and they realize I think it's reasonable to be refused. What do they have to lose by refusing?
4. Any contributions, or other ideas out there? Some of you have emailed me some wonderful examples of when you've been effective askers. But from your other experiences, when/why did you fail? Conversely, why would you be inclined to say no, when someone else asks you?
These two photos, above and below, were take from a bridge not far from where I had the treat.
June 01, 2009
Can you please explain your rudeness?
June 1. Day 336.
This afternoon, after a stroll of my temporary neighborhood, I sat down, ordered a coffee, and began reading "A Prayer for Owen Meany." I found it in a "give a book, take a book" coffee shop back home -- a far cry above the typical Reader's Digest classics those exchanges usually offer. So far, it's one of the funniest things I've read. Ever.
Half an hour after I finished my coffee, I realized I needed another. The only way to avoid a week of jetlag is to really push hard in the first 24 hours. And I can't afford to be sleepy. I'm here for work.
I ordered a second coffee, but the waiter said no.
"After six, it's happy hour. No coffee," he barked.
Too bad. I shrugged and figured that if he'd rather I sit there consuming nothing, versus consuming something, it was fine with me... even though it made me a little sad. No coffee because of some silly rule? And why was he such a jerk? How was I supposed to know his rules?
As I read, and tried to keep my eyes open, a pair of middle aged me sat at the table next to mine. Ordered two coffees. And got them.
I thought about it. A good twenty minutes, between people watching and reading. Thought good and hard. Part of me wanted to forget about it. They were locals, they probably knew the guy. They were regulars, or maybe they knew just how to ask the right way. I'd never be back. Who cared, really.
On the other hand, the waiter had been gruff, a living cliche. He simply figured he could tell the tourist "no" but act all buddy buddy with the locals. Assume I was too dumb to notice, or too helpless to do anything about it. What if I gave him a piece of my mind?
I composed a few lines in my head: "I'm curious why you declined to give me a coffee but served these gentlemen. Just to put things in perspective: I have been traveling for 24 hours, I'm exhausted and starved, and was thrilled to drink the first coffee. It was delicious. Would it have been that much trouble to make another, for which I would have paid, considering you did the same for those two men? Is it because I'm a tourist, or would you mind explaining why? I'm just wondering."
I asked him something like this, calmly, and in a much shorter version.
He looked shocked. Stung. Panicked.
"He's the owner!" he said. "He can have whatever he wants here. It's his place. Look, I don't make the rules. I'm really sorry. I'm sorry!"
"Ok, I understand. Thanks for letting me know. I was just a little surprised. No problem!"
I paid and left.
"Thanks, bye!" he called after me.
Later, I chatted with an acquaintance here who explained that until very recently, in boom times, this city was full of jerks. Salespeople, waiters, anyone with anonymous customers, pulled attitude, because they could. Refused to seat people. Rolled their eyes at the slightest request. Finally, they're remembering they need their customers as much as the customers need them. If not more.
Gained: A satisfactory answer. Better yet, stood up for myself in a foreign country. That's a first. Usually I just suck it up, try to be empathetic. Read: wimpy.
Here are a few pictures from the cafe across from mine. Hey, is that Mischa Barton, on the right, or does it just look like her? Consider these your next clues.
This afternoon, after a stroll of my temporary neighborhood, I sat down, ordered a coffee, and began reading "A Prayer for Owen Meany." I found it in a "give a book, take a book" coffee shop back home -- a far cry above the typical Reader's Digest classics those exchanges usually offer. So far, it's one of the funniest things I've read. Ever.
Half an hour after I finished my coffee, I realized I needed another. The only way to avoid a week of jetlag is to really push hard in the first 24 hours. And I can't afford to be sleepy. I'm here for work.
I ordered a second coffee, but the waiter said no.
"After six, it's happy hour. No coffee," he barked.
Too bad. I shrugged and figured that if he'd rather I sit there consuming nothing, versus consuming something, it was fine with me... even though it made me a little sad. No coffee because of some silly rule? And why was he such a jerk? How was I supposed to know his rules?
As I read, and tried to keep my eyes open, a pair of middle aged me sat at the table next to mine. Ordered two coffees. And got them.
I thought about it. A good twenty minutes, between people watching and reading. Thought good and hard. Part of me wanted to forget about it. They were locals, they probably knew the guy. They were regulars, or maybe they knew just how to ask the right way. I'd never be back. Who cared, really.
On the other hand, the waiter had been gruff, a living cliche. He simply figured he could tell the tourist "no" but act all buddy buddy with the locals. Assume I was too dumb to notice, or too helpless to do anything about it. What if I gave him a piece of my mind?
I composed a few lines in my head: "I'm curious why you declined to give me a coffee but served these gentlemen. Just to put things in perspective: I have been traveling for 24 hours, I'm exhausted and starved, and was thrilled to drink the first coffee. It was delicious. Would it have been that much trouble to make another, for which I would have paid, considering you did the same for those two men? Is it because I'm a tourist, or would you mind explaining why? I'm just wondering."
I asked him something like this, calmly, and in a much shorter version.
He looked shocked. Stung. Panicked.
"He's the owner!" he said. "He can have whatever he wants here. It's his place. Look, I don't make the rules. I'm really sorry. I'm sorry!"
"Ok, I understand. Thanks for letting me know. I was just a little surprised. No problem!"
I paid and left.
"Thanks, bye!" he called after me.
Later, I chatted with an acquaintance here who explained that until very recently, in boom times, this city was full of jerks. Salespeople, waiters, anyone with anonymous customers, pulled attitude, because they could. Refused to seat people. Rolled their eyes at the slightest request. Finally, they're remembering they need their customers as much as the customers need them. If not more.
Gained: A satisfactory answer. Better yet, stood up for myself in a foreign country. That's a first. Usually I just suck it up, try to be empathetic. Read: wimpy.
Here are a few pictures from the cafe across from mine. Hey, is that Mischa Barton, on the right, or does it just look like her? Consider these your next clues.
May 29, 2009
Split drinks?
May 29. Day 333.
Split entree? Split appetizer? Split dessert? Pretty standard.
But split a cocktail? Not so sure.
I was at Red Lobster, about to have dinner with my mom and some of her co-workers, when my eye fell on the description of the mango mai tai. Nostalgic for Hawaii, and totally tempted by the mango, I wanted to go for it but... I also didn't want a full drink. Just not in the mood, you know?
My mom noticed the same drink, and the thought crossed my mind: Could we split it?
The waiter, who was very chatty, in a nice way, came to take everyone's orders, and I went for it.
"I'd like a mango mai tai, but would it be possible to split it?" I asked, motioning toward my mother. "We're both driving," I felt obligated to add, for some reason.
He looked a little unsure, but then agreed.
A few minutes later, he showed up with two drinks in lowball glasses, each with a slice of pineapple and cherry. Lovely.
Gained: Half a drink. Exactly what I wanted, that is.
Split entree? Split appetizer? Split dessert? Pretty standard.
But split a cocktail? Not so sure.
I was at Red Lobster, about to have dinner with my mom and some of her co-workers, when my eye fell on the description of the mango mai tai. Nostalgic for Hawaii, and totally tempted by the mango, I wanted to go for it but... I also didn't want a full drink. Just not in the mood, you know?My mom noticed the same drink, and the thought crossed my mind: Could we split it?
The waiter, who was very chatty, in a nice way, came to take everyone's orders, and I went for it.
"I'd like a mango mai tai, but would it be possible to split it?" I asked, motioning toward my mother. "We're both driving," I felt obligated to add, for some reason.
He looked a little unsure, but then agreed.
A few minutes later, he showed up with two drinks in lowball glasses, each with a slice of pineapple and cherry. Lovely.
Gained: Half a drink. Exactly what I wanted, that is.
May 24, 2009
Share your campfire? Buy a drink with no ID?
May 24. Day 328.
My idea of a fun mountain getaway involves: cozy cabin, waking up to the sound of woodpeckers outside my window, making waffles for breakfast, going hiking or skiing, stopping for pizza and a drink at the local brewery, taking time to read, write, and think on the lovely backyard deck overlooking a crisp stream, topping it all off with homemade hot chocolate or a glass of wine by the fire.
Mr. A's idea is identical to mine, only he'd replace everything with one word: camping.
Since I'm not a camper, have never been a camper and (sorry, amore mio!) will never be "a camper," we compromised and booked the Forest Suites Resort, complete with spa and heated pool for me, and the word "Forest" in the title, for him. Close enough, right?
Jokes aside, I've been relatively open to the idea of trying to rough it. As long as I'm warm at night, and I don't have to carry twice my body mass in supplies, and the bears are on sabbatical, I decided to give camping a try. One day. (Hey, if I've slept in a mosquito infested hut in the Peruvian jungle, an overheated car in Mexico, and a hotel lobby couch on Halloween in San Francisco (long story), I should definitely be able to handle a sleeping bag in the High Sierras. Right??? Please say yes.)
Tonight, to give me a feeling of what camping would be like, Mr. A proposed we take a stroll through a campground by the lake as the intrepid adventurers settled in for the night.
Just after sunset, we wandered in. All around us, small groups of people were searing meats on their barbecues, sipping beers and talking in low whispers. Music played here and there. It did look relaxing.
As we strolled, I mentioned I hadn't asked for anything yet. Maybe I could come up with something here? See the inside of a mobile home? Have dinner with some strangers? Solicit advice for a potential first time camper?
I didn't want to ask for the sake of asking, so I thought about what I really wanted. And then it dawned on me: all weekend, I'd been smelling the burning wood of hundreds of campfires. And that's one thing we couldn't do at our hotel. Mr. A was on exactly the same wavelength.
We walked around the now dark lakefront property, wondering who to ask, "Can we share your campfire?" Then Mr. A suggested I refine it to "Can we share your campfire for 5 minutes?" Then, stay longer if they invited us to. That would give people a chance to test us out without committing, since we really didn't want to impose on their holiday. But who knows? Maybe someone would be up for it? Plus, if someone agreed to let us hang out, we'd offer to buy a few beers or food from across the street. And then chill out for an hour, or as long as we felt welcomed.
A family with kids seemed like they'd be quickest to reject us. We also decided to avoid couples, since it seemed likely they'd want the evening to themselves. That left groups of adults. Some had chairs set up, with no room for extras, so we walked by. Other groups were completely silent and it seemed strange to bust in.
For some reason, I was feeling nervous. People come to the forest to escape strangers, not commune with them.
Still, what was the worst thing that could happen?
We settled on a group of three guys who were in their twenties. Or so they seemed in the light of the fire.
We walked up, and they smiled as we approached. Or so it seemed in the light of the fire.
"Hi," I said, softly.
"Hey."
"We were just walking around, and we were wondering if we could share your campfire for 5 minutes. Just to warm up. Would that be ok?"
"Sure," one replied. Or so it seemed in the light of the fire. No wait, actually he really did.
They stopped talking, and it felt kind of awkward.
"Thanks a lot," I continued, filling the silence. "We're staying at a hotel nearby, so we can't have the campsite experience there."
"No problem."
Then, we were all quiet for a minute or so.
Next, a young man and woman walked out of the tent, and her body language screamed "leave."
"What are they doing here?" she asked her friends.
"They asked if they could stop by for a few minutes," one guy told her.
"We don't camp, but we were taking a walk and asked if we could share your fire for a bit. Do you mind?" I asked.
"Actually, that's weird," she said. "That's not normal behavior. We don't feel comfortable with you here. Please leave."
We thanked the guys and left.
Afterward, I started dissecting the interaction. What if we'd come earlier, so they could get a better visual read on who we were? What if we'd come with beers, or offered something from the start? Or maybe it's an unspoken rule of the forest: to each her own campfire.
"Relax," Mr. A told me. "Don't beat yourself up. You tried."
I guess.
To ease the sting, we headed across the street, to an empty bar. Rojo's Tavern. A reggae band was starting soon.
I ordered a cocktail, and when the bartender carded me, I realized I didn't have my ID in my wallet.
Where was it? Probably in the hotel.
"I'm almost 30," I told him. "Ancient. Can't you see my white hair and wrinkles?" I joked.
He laughed merrily.
"I believe you're almost 30, but I can't sell you a drink without an ID."
I really wanted to talk back. Both to question his reasoning and rail against the idiotic U.S. drinking system. Doesn't work, except to prevent legal drinkers with missing IDs from consuming a cocktail. Drinking age should be abolished, period. So there.
But what was the point.
We left.
I found my license in the car.
Next bar: didn't get even carded. This place, The Brewery, was packed, had delicious house cocktails and yummy appetizers, for great prices.
Gained: Two rejections in one night. Still alive!!
My idea of a fun mountain getaway involves: cozy cabin, waking up to the sound of woodpeckers outside my window, making waffles for breakfast, going hiking or skiing, stopping for pizza and a drink at the local brewery, taking time to read, write, and think on the lovely backyard deck overlooking a crisp stream, topping it all off with homemade hot chocolate or a glass of wine by the fire.
Mr. A's idea is identical to mine, only he'd replace everything with one word: camping.
Since I'm not a camper, have never been a camper and (sorry, amore mio!) will never be "a camper," we compromised and booked the Forest Suites Resort, complete with spa and heated pool for me, and the word "Forest" in the title, for him. Close enough, right?
Jokes aside, I've been relatively open to the idea of trying to rough it. As long as I'm warm at night, and I don't have to carry twice my body mass in supplies, and the bears are on sabbatical, I decided to give camping a try. One day. (Hey, if I've slept in a mosquito infested hut in the Peruvian jungle, an overheated car in Mexico, and a hotel lobby couch on Halloween in San Francisco (long story), I should definitely be able to handle a sleeping bag in the High Sierras. Right??? Please say yes.)Tonight, to give me a feeling of what camping would be like, Mr. A proposed we take a stroll through a campground by the lake as the intrepid adventurers settled in for the night.
Just after sunset, we wandered in. All around us, small groups of people were searing meats on their barbecues, sipping beers and talking in low whispers. Music played here and there. It did look relaxing.
As we strolled, I mentioned I hadn't asked for anything yet. Maybe I could come up with something here? See the inside of a mobile home? Have dinner with some strangers? Solicit advice for a potential first time camper?
I didn't want to ask for the sake of asking, so I thought about what I really wanted. And then it dawned on me: all weekend, I'd been smelling the burning wood of hundreds of campfires. And that's one thing we couldn't do at our hotel. Mr. A was on exactly the same wavelength.
We walked around the now dark lakefront property, wondering who to ask, "Can we share your campfire?" Then Mr. A suggested I refine it to "Can we share your campfire for 5 minutes?" Then, stay longer if they invited us to. That would give people a chance to test us out without committing, since we really didn't want to impose on their holiday. But who knows? Maybe someone would be up for it? Plus, if someone agreed to let us hang out, we'd offer to buy a few beers or food from across the street. And then chill out for an hour, or as long as we felt welcomed.
A family with kids seemed like they'd be quickest to reject us. We also decided to avoid couples, since it seemed likely they'd want the evening to themselves. That left groups of adults. Some had chairs set up, with no room for extras, so we walked by. Other groups were completely silent and it seemed strange to bust in.
For some reason, I was feeling nervous. People come to the forest to escape strangers, not commune with them.
Still, what was the worst thing that could happen?
We settled on a group of three guys who were in their twenties. Or so they seemed in the light of the fire.
We walked up, and they smiled as we approached. Or so it seemed in the light of the fire.
"Hi," I said, softly.
"Hey."
"We were just walking around, and we were wondering if we could share your campfire for 5 minutes. Just to warm up. Would that be ok?"
"Sure," one replied. Or so it seemed in the light of the fire. No wait, actually he really did.
They stopped talking, and it felt kind of awkward.
"Thanks a lot," I continued, filling the silence. "We're staying at a hotel nearby, so we can't have the campsite experience there."
"No problem."
Then, we were all quiet for a minute or so.
Next, a young man and woman walked out of the tent, and her body language screamed "leave."
"What are they doing here?" she asked her friends."They asked if they could stop by for a few minutes," one guy told her.
"We don't camp, but we were taking a walk and asked if we could share your fire for a bit. Do you mind?" I asked.
"Actually, that's weird," she said. "That's not normal behavior. We don't feel comfortable with you here. Please leave."
We thanked the guys and left.
Afterward, I started dissecting the interaction. What if we'd come earlier, so they could get a better visual read on who we were? What if we'd come with beers, or offered something from the start? Or maybe it's an unspoken rule of the forest: to each her own campfire.
"Relax," Mr. A told me. "Don't beat yourself up. You tried."
I guess.
To ease the sting, we headed across the street, to an empty bar. Rojo's Tavern. A reggae band was starting soon.
I ordered a cocktail, and when the bartender carded me, I realized I didn't have my ID in my wallet.
Where was it? Probably in the hotel.
"I'm almost 30," I told him. "Ancient. Can't you see my white hair and wrinkles?" I joked.
He laughed merrily.
"I believe you're almost 30, but I can't sell you a drink without an ID."I really wanted to talk back. Both to question his reasoning and rail against the idiotic U.S. drinking system. Doesn't work, except to prevent legal drinkers with missing IDs from consuming a cocktail. Drinking age should be abolished, period. So there.
But what was the point.
We left.
I found my license in the car.
Next bar: didn't get even carded. This place, The Brewery, was packed, had delicious house cocktails and yummy appetizers, for great prices.
Gained: Two rejections in one night. Still alive!!
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May 16, 2009
My fight for freedom of choice
May 16. Day 320.
I was having brunch at Bleu Boheme, a bistro I've never visited before which caught my eye about a year ago. At last, I was sitting in its lovely dining room.
I zeroed in on a bread basket, which comes with either two baguettes or two toasted croissants, fluffy butter, a mix of jams, and coffee, for $7.50.
Before ordering, I inquired if it would be possible to get one of each (one baguette and one croissant), instead of two of one.
The reply was no.
I looked at my dining companion, a friend visiting from New York with her adorable new baby. She was looking at me, expectantly. What was I waiting for?
I turned back to the waitress.
"Is there any way you could let me try both? Pleeease?"
She thought about it, thougt about it some more, and then agreed.
Merci!
Gained: variety
I was having brunch at Bleu Boheme, a bistro I've never visited before which caught my eye about a year ago. At last, I was sitting in its lovely dining room.I zeroed in on a bread basket, which comes with either two baguettes or two toasted croissants, fluffy butter, a mix of jams, and coffee, for $7.50.
Before ordering, I inquired if it would be possible to get one of each (one baguette and one croissant), instead of two of one.
The reply was no.
I looked at my dining companion, a friend visiting from New York with her adorable new baby. She was looking at me, expectantly. What was I waiting for?
I turned back to the waitress.
"Is there any way you could let me try both? Pleeease?"
She thought about it, thougt about it some more, and then agreed.
Merci!
Gained: variety
April 30, 2009
Discount card or loyalty program?
April 30. Day 304.
For months, I'd been wanting to try out Caffe Calabria, which is rumored to serve the best coffee in San Diego. They roast their own -- a great sign. I'd read about this place, then forgotten about it, remembered, forgotten.
The problem was that it closes at 3, which is usually around when I get out of the house.
Well thanks to this charming jet lag, which has turned me into an early riser if I ever saw one, I got to try it out yesterday. I had a macchiato. And it was grand. Not bitter or overroasted. Just lovely. And a satisfying foam to milk to coffee ratio.
I headed back today, and when I ordered my cappuccino a thought occurred to me: frequent buyer card!
"Do you have one?" I asked.
"No, sorry," the guy behind the counter said.
I don't remember exactly how the conversation went from there, but a few minute later, he remembered he has something slightly different: a prepaid card, where you buy 10 and get 1 free.
So I went for it. The coffee is good enough, the atmosphere is calm enough to let me work, and the location is convenient enough to ensure I'll be back many times. Plus, they have a credit card minimum -- which annoys me, but I sympathize with. Prepaying is a reasonable way to help them avoid fees.
The card isn't advertised or available for all to purchase. He took it out of a drawer behind the register and scribbled my info on it: "10 macchiatos prepaid." If I hadn't asked, I wouldn't never have become a card holding member of Calabria.
Special, I know.
Gained: $1.85, i.e. price of a macchiato!
For months, I'd been wanting to try out Caffe Calabria, which is rumored to serve the best coffee in San Diego. They roast their own -- a great sign. I'd read about this place, then forgotten about it, remembered, forgotten.The problem was that it closes at 3, which is usually around when I get out of the house.
Well thanks to this charming jet lag, which has turned me into an early riser if I ever saw one, I got to try it out yesterday. I had a macchiato. And it was grand. Not bitter or overroasted. Just lovely. And a satisfying foam to milk to coffee ratio.
I headed back today, and when I ordered my cappuccino a thought occurred to me: frequent buyer card!
"Do you have one?" I asked.
"No, sorry," the guy behind the counter said.
I don't remember exactly how the conversation went from there, but a few minute later, he remembered he has something slightly different: a prepaid card, where you buy 10 and get 1 free.
So I went for it. The coffee is good enough, the atmosphere is calm enough to let me work, and the location is convenient enough to ensure I'll be back many times. Plus, they have a credit card minimum -- which annoys me, but I sympathize with. Prepaying is a reasonable way to help them avoid fees.
The card isn't advertised or available for all to purchase. He took it out of a drawer behind the register and scribbled my info on it: "10 macchiatos prepaid." If I hadn't asked, I wouldn't never have become a card holding member of Calabria.
Special, I know.
Gained: $1.85, i.e. price of a macchiato!
April 28, 2009
Close the door to your stinky cafe?
April 28. Day 302.
I was jetlagged, still sick, and buried under deadlines. What I really wanted to do was sleep more. Instead, I crawled out and went to Lestat's for some tea and a bagel, not my usual combo, but it seemed like comfort food. I worked for a few hours, and it was going well, but there was one small problem... the smell.
Ashtrays and old cigarette butts.
I wandered around the cafe sniffing around (looking, I hoped, like a befuddled scholar taking an inspirational stroll, and not some smell obsessed maniac picking up the wafting chemicals in the air). I didn't see any emptied ashtrays (and it's no smoking inside, so I was a little perplexed), and finally I wandered to the back door and it was clear -- the smokers congregated outside, and it smelled like they hadn't emptied the trash all weekend. Somehow the smell traveled 100 feet to where I was sitting, on the other side of the building.
I sidled up to the counter.
"Hey!"
"Hi."
"I was wondering, is there any way we could close the back door, or does it have to stay open for some reason?"
He looked at me a little curiously, since I had been sitting on the far side of the cafe, and then replied, "We usually leave it open."
I hesitate a few seconds before turning around. But I decided not to push it, because the smell was subtle, even if unpleasant. And people were coming and going through the open door with drinks and food. Is my convenience really worth the inconvenience of 15 smokers?
I also didn't push it because I was getting a little tired again. Needed a change of scenery. Like my bed.
So I left it at that half-assed ask and left.
Gained: nothing.
I was jetlagged, still sick, and buried under deadlines. What I really wanted to do was sleep more. Instead, I crawled out and went to Lestat's for some tea and a bagel, not my usual combo, but it seemed like comfort food. I worked for a few hours, and it was going well, but there was one small problem... the smell.
Ashtrays and old cigarette butts.
I wandered around the cafe sniffing around (looking, I hoped, like a befuddled scholar taking an inspirational stroll, and not some smell obsessed maniac picking up the wafting chemicals in the air). I didn't see any emptied ashtrays (and it's no smoking inside, so I was a little perplexed), and finally I wandered to the back door and it was clear -- the smokers congregated outside, and it smelled like they hadn't emptied the trash all weekend. Somehow the smell traveled 100 feet to where I was sitting, on the other side of the building.
I sidled up to the counter.
"Hey!"
"Hi."
"I was wondering, is there any way we could close the back door, or does it have to stay open for some reason?"
He looked at me a little curiously, since I had been sitting on the far side of the cafe, and then replied, "We usually leave it open."
I hesitate a few seconds before turning around. But I decided not to push it, because the smell was subtle, even if unpleasant. And people were coming and going through the open door with drinks and food. Is my convenience really worth the inconvenience of 15 smokers?
I also didn't push it because I was getting a little tired again. Needed a change of scenery. Like my bed.
So I left it at that half-assed ask and left.
Gained: nothing.
April 19, 2009
Tell your mom and dad they're great cooks?
April 19. Day 293.
Our first night in Nice we walked by a restaurant called Gargamelle, which looks like an
innkeeper's dining hall from the times of Rabelais. Cozy carpets, low burning candles, pewter chalices, hand scripted menus, the works.
That Friday we asked for a table, but the woman who greeted us replied she was closing. "It's a slow night, so we're cutting out early," she explained.
I asked if she had any ideas for where else we could go. She told us about a bunch of places in the neighborhood, and because of her generous honesty, and how cute the place looked, we resolved to come back another night.
Tonight.
We had a great dinner. I devoured the traditional fish soup which seemed to have a touch of cognac -- a nice twist. My mom had salad with crostini.
As we ate, I considered that I hadn't asked for anything all day and I figured this would be a chance.
Only I was low on inspiration. Under other circumstances, I might have asked her to let me visit the kitchen, or spend a morning with her prepping. But time was tight. It had to be now or never. What could I ask that would have an immediate result? What did I need or want, after such a pleasant meal?
And it occurred to me that in the kitchen, which was slightly visible from where I was sitting, I could seen an older couple barking orders at one another, wearing all black and looking very tense indeed. It takes hard work to put together a meal like this. So why not tell let them know it's appreciated?
I inquired if it's a family owned business - it was - and I asked the waitress/hostess to extend my compliments to the chefs. Her mom and dad.
Gained: expressed my appreciation for a fine meal. Not cutting edge asking or negotiation... but offering a compliment has an immeasurable value of its own.
Our first night in Nice we walked by a restaurant called Gargamelle, which looks like an
innkeeper's dining hall from the times of Rabelais. Cozy carpets, low burning candles, pewter chalices, hand scripted menus, the works.That Friday we asked for a table, but the woman who greeted us replied she was closing. "It's a slow night, so we're cutting out early," she explained.
I asked if she had any ideas for where else we could go. She told us about a bunch of places in the neighborhood, and because of her generous honesty, and how cute the place looked, we resolved to come back another night.
Tonight.
We had a great dinner. I devoured the traditional fish soup which seemed to have a touch of cognac -- a nice twist. My mom had salad with crostini.
As we ate, I considered that I hadn't asked for anything all day and I figured this would be a chance.
Only I was low on inspiration. Under other circumstances, I might have asked her to let me visit the kitchen, or spend a morning with her prepping. But time was tight. It had to be now or never. What could I ask that would have an immediate result? What did I need or want, after such a pleasant meal?
And it occurred to me that in the kitchen, which was slightly visible from where I was sitting, I could seen an older couple barking orders at one another, wearing all black and looking very tense indeed. It takes hard work to put together a meal like this. So why not tell let them know it's appreciated?
I inquired if it's a family owned business - it was - and I asked the waitress/hostess to extend my compliments to the chefs. Her mom and dad.
Gained: expressed my appreciation for a fine meal. Not cutting edge asking or negotiation... but offering a compliment has an immeasurable value of its own.
April 08, 2009
Shopping day in LA
April 8. Day 282.
So, I'm in LA now, since I had to get my passport renewed. I decided when I set out that I'd try to ask for something at every transaction, to stay on my toes. Here goes:
1. Passport agency in the Federal Building. I am told to return Friday to pick it up. Easy question: "Can you please have it ready later today? So I don't have to spend 4 hours driving again?"
Answer: "We're not allowed to do that." He explains that would mean prioritizing people's applications by hometown rather than departure date. My take: That still doesn't answer if you're under or over capacity; if you are not overloaded, why not help a sista?
Verdict: Drive to LA twice in three days for an errand? Cruel and Unusual Punishment. I am so renewing by mail next time, a year ahead.
She tells me the first are yuck, the second and third are so-so -- and the fourth. "Wow, that color looks great on you!"
They're a smokey gray, $6 -- I pay up and wear them out the door.
3. SKYLA, a few doors down. I see SALE and dash in. Right in the front, all leather Italian strappy sandals in a succulent grapefruit sorbet color -- $45. I ask if I can have them for $40 since they were the display pair and their last pair in my size. The cashier checks a book (of discounts? customer service guidelines?) and says she's sorry. $45 is the lowest they can go, after dropping from $110 to $55 to $45. I ask if we could skip the sales tax. She says sorry again.
I pretend to hesitate, to try to get her to budge. Then I buy them anyway. Summer's a-comin. And I clearly, obviously need those shoes.
4. Peet's coffee, where I plunk down to do some writing. As I pay, I ask the barista: "Can you please not put tons of foam on my cappuccino? I always throw it away, and it's just a waste."
He replies "Of course," and then makes me a cappuccino with mountains of foam. WTF.
So, I'm in LA now, since I had to get my passport renewed. I decided when I set out that I'd try to ask for something at every transaction, to stay on my toes. Here goes:
1. Passport agency in the Federal Building. I am told to return Friday to pick it up. Easy question: "Can you please have it ready later today? So I don't have to spend 4 hours driving again?"
Answer: "We're not allowed to do that." He explains that would mean prioritizing people's applications by hometown rather than departure date. My take: That still doesn't answer if you're under or over capacity; if you are not overloaded, why not help a sista?
Verdict: Drive to LA twice in three days for an errand? Cruel and Unusual Punishment. I am so renewing by mail next time, a year ahead.
2. I head to Westwood, an area near the Federal Building. The plan -- hang out until this afternoon, and drop by the passport agency again. Maybe by some miracle it's ready?
First stop, Kaitlyn, a clothing boutique. Full of name brand jeans that subsidize all the other smart-priced, stylish duds. I spot a table full of cute shades. The problem: need a second opinion. "Can you be my shopping buddy for like 30 seconds?" I ask the cashier.
She tells me the first are yuck, the second and third are so-so -- and the fourth. "Wow, that color looks great on you!"They're a smokey gray, $6 -- I pay up and wear them out the door.
3. SKYLA, a few doors down. I see SALE and dash in. Right in the front, all leather Italian strappy sandals in a succulent grapefruit sorbet color -- $45. I ask if I can have them for $40 since they were the display pair and their last pair in my size. The cashier checks a book (of discounts? customer service guidelines?) and says she's sorry. $45 is the lowest they can go, after dropping from $110 to $55 to $45. I ask if we could skip the sales tax. She says sorry again.
I pretend to hesitate, to try to get her to budge. Then I buy them anyway. Summer's a-comin. And I clearly, obviously need those shoes.
4. Peet's coffee, where I plunk down to do some writing. As I pay, I ask the barista: "Can you please not put tons of foam on my cappuccino? I always throw it away, and it's just a waste."
He replies "Of course," and then makes me a cappuccino with mountains of foam. WTF.
5. Peet's coffee, two hours later. A girl is sitting next to me, studying anatomy or neurology or something. Pictures of brains and bodies. "Excuse me, can I ask you a question? I was wondering if you could model these for me, since I'd like to feature them on my website."
"Sure!"
I hand her my new sunglasses, she puts them on and strikes a pose.
6. The passport pick-up window is closed when I go back, around 4. Time to head back to San Diego. Only, now there's horrible traffic. Back to Westwood. At South Street, I order a 6 inch cheesesteak for lunch/dinner and eventually they bring me a 9 incher. The woman is about to take it back to the kitchen when I ask, a bit exasperated by now, "Could I just have that? So I don't have to keep waiting?" She gives it to me. I earn about $1 of a soggy, nasty sandwich. But I actually I only eat half, wasting $3.50. Come on, Zagat. How could you give these people a sticker???
Gained: Shoes, shades and plenty o' coffee foam, all at full price. And a discounted overpriced "cheesesteak." Grrr. Still... it was a lovely day. And looks like I'll be back Friday!
