The Only Guy In The Restaurant

When you’re on the road a lot, you get used to skipped meals and eating at usual times. Today my travel to Boston meant that I didn’t eat anything until dinner time. By the time it got close to 6 p.m. I was famished, headed to a restaurant down the street from my hotel with book in hand, and once again found myself once again . . . . the only guy in the restaurant.

This happens from time to time. Still, it’s a little weird being the only guy in the restaurant. When you’re seated, they tend to put you in the rear, back in the shadows. Nobody wants to put a single, potentially creepy old loner reading a book up front, because it doesn’t send a fun-filled message designed to entice people passing by to stop in, unless the restaurant is eager to attract potential serial killers. A table of four or six laughing twenty-somethings will always get put in the front window; the bookish old nerd gets shunted to the back, where he hopefully won’t be seen by anyone until he finishes his food and slinks out of there.

This isn’t actually a bad thing, if you’re truly interested in reading your book. It’s quiet in the rear, and you aren’t disturbed by the hormonal antics or vapid conversation of young professionals out after work. You read your book, eat your food, and move on. And you try not to notice when the maitre d breathes a sigh of relief to see you head out the front door.

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Coffee As Candy

On our drive up to Maine, Kish wanted to grab a cup of coffee, so we stopped at your basic 7-Eleven in a small town in western Massachusetts.  It’s the first time I’ve been in a 7-Eleven in years.

7-eleven-coffee-stationIt’s safe to say that the current 7-Eleven coffee station, even in your basic 7-Eleven in small town America, is . . . elaborate.  In fact, incredibly elaborate would not be an exaggeration.  Whereas there used to be one little area with a few coffee pots where you could pour yourself a generic regular coffee or decaf coffee and add your standard creamer, sugar, or non-sugar sweetener, now there is a long row of different coffee options, depending on your preference in strength and flavoring, and then an extensive choice of creamers and additives that apparently is offered to allow you get your 7-Eleven cup of coffee as close to what a high-end coffee house barista might serve you.

My mind reeled at some of the flavoring options.  There’s hazelnut, of course, but cinnamon?  Marshmallow?  There had to be more than a dozen different creamer flavors, and that doesn’t even account for the dry materials you could add to your cup.  The standard creamer bin was totally outnumbered by a host of sweetening alternatives.

Coffee is increasingly becoming less like coffee, and more like candy or ice cream or dessert.  Americans apparently have such a sweet tooth that even the old cup of joe from a 7-Eleven store needs to be gussied up into some frothy, hyper-sweet concoction.  Is it any wonder that we’ve got an obesity problem in this country?

Beer Serape

In Ohio, we have cheap foam beer coozies. They don’t look great, but they do keep your beer cold — which is important.

Out here in San Diego, they’ve got much more classy coozies. In fact, they’re not coozies at all, but rather beer serapes. It’s the Corona covering of choice for any fiesta.

The beer tasted very good and went down easy, so I’m not sure whether my serape kept my beer “coozie cold.” It sure looked good, though.

What’s In It?

Every morning, I get up bright and early, stumble downstairs, and brew myself a fresh pot of coffee.  I then liberally coat the bottom of a coffee cup with powdery Coffeemate, so when I pour the coffee it automatically mixes with the Coffeemate and produces a hot, steaming concoction of caramel-colored goodness.  It tastes pretty good, too.

img_6278Coffee with Coffeemate in the morning is a matter of standard routine.  But today I thought — what’s in this powdery stuff, exactly?

The answer is written on the side of the container.  There’s corn syrup solids, hydrogenated vegetable oil (which, according to the label, might include “coconut and/or palm kernel and/or soybean,” just to keep you guessing), sodium caseinate (which the label helpfully discloses is a “milk derivative”), dipotassium phosphate (but fortunately, the label points out, “less than 2%” of that stuff), mono- and diglycerides, sodium aluminosilicate, artificial flavor, and “annatto color.”

Hmmmm . . . “sodium aluminosilicate”?  I suppose I at least should be happy that there is a “milk derivative,” and “corn syrup” and “vegetable oil” in there among the chemical compounds that Walter White probably lectured on in his high school chemistry class.

Is there value in these kinds of product labels?  I think so, especially if you’ve got allergies to certain foodstuffs and want to find out whether a particular product might provoke a reaction.  But labels that list a bunch of chemical compounds — a group which includes virtually every label these days — aren’t especially illuminating.  I’m not going to research “dipotassium phosphate.”  Instead, people tend to make judgments based on products they know.  Mom had Coffeemate, in both its liquid and powdery forms, around the house in the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s, and I doubt that the formula has changed much over the years, so it seems like a safe option to me.

And that dipotassium phosphate and sodium aluminosilicate really hits the spot!

Mayonnaise Daze

Sometimes my friends do and say things just to get me charged up.  A good example is a recent email from Mr. PIB, who sent me a link to an article about Hellman’s effort to encourage people to put mayonnaise on sushi.  He innocently said “I thought you might be interested in reading it, too,” having read my briefly expressed views about mayonnaise in a prior blog post.  Pretty smooth, Mr. PIB!

mayonnaise-spoonfulSo I read the article, and I, too, became one of the people who are disgusted by the thought of people putting white mayonnaise on sushi.  But then, I’m pretty much disgusted by the thought of people putting white mayonnaise on anything that will later be consumed by a human being.  In fact, I wouldn’t feed white mayonnaise to a starving dog.  Its phlegmy, sweaty appearance, its texture, its fundamental blandness, its globbiness on a spoon — these are all sure sensory warnings to attentive humans that mayonnaise is a substance that shouldn’t be eaten.  The fact that some poor misguided people use mayo as a binding agent for potato salad, chicken salad, tuna salad, Waldorf salad, and no doubt plenty of other “salads” just shows why I don’t like or eat any of those things and avoid “salads” on general principles.

I recognize, as the article points out, that some places make sushi with spicy mayonnaise.  That doesn’t make any difference in my book, for two reasons.  First, spicy mayonnaise is as different from white mayonnaise as brown mustard is different from the cloying yellow variety.  And second, the thin, almost translucent sheen of spicy mayonnaise daintily brushed onto sushi by some master sushi makers is dramatically different from the quivering, heaping blobs typically applied by the white mayonnaise lover.  There simply is no comparison.

In my book, sushi is one of those foods that should never be touched by white mayonnaise — or even be in the same room as it.  In that regard, sushi joins a list that includes steak, hot dogs, any baked good, fresh fish, apples, and for that matter any other appetizing item that humans might see fit to gobble down.

And don’t get me started on “relish” — the most inaccurately named food in history — either.

The Random Restaurant Tour (XVI)

Sometimes, the story of a restaurant isn’t about the good food you’ve enjoyed — it’s about how you never got to sample the fare because the place went toes up before you ever got a chance to visit.

The restaurant business is a notoriously difficult one, particularly for stand-alone start-ups. Statistics show that more than half of newly established restaurants will be out of business within three years.  The most common reasons for failure, according to the experts, are lack of sufficient cash flow and capitalization, a concept that doesn’t work, a bad location, and poor quality food.

In our little section of downtown Columbus, we’ve seen several restaurants close their doors recently.  Stack’d is one that I never got a chance to try.  Located at the corner of Third Street and Lynn Alley about a block from our firm, Stack’d billed itself as “The Flavor Architects” and offered a diverse menu of sandwiches, salads, pizzas, chips, and smoothies.  It was open for a few months, then posted a sign saying that management had gone south for the winter, then a sign that the restaurant could be rented for training, and finally the “for sale” sign that is there now.  Why did Stack’d fail?  Who knows?  The only word-of-mouth I heard about Stack’d when it was open, from one person, was that the food was good but the ordering process was complicated and patrons had a lot of decisions to make.

The story was different for another restaurant that closed recently.  The Carvery, located directly across Gay Street from the firm, offered sandwiches and soups that were very good.  It seemed to do a thriving business and was always bustling when I was there.  But then it apparently experienced some kind of significant plumbing problem, posted a sign that it was temporarily closed — and never reopened.

We’ve heard that another restaurant will be opening at The Carvery’s former location, and I’d expect some other food-loving entrepreneur will eventually take a stab at opening up where Stack’d used to operate.  I wish them good luck, and hope they stay open long enough for me to visit.