For God's Sake ... We Need To Reorder Pepper RIGHT NOW ... !!!

I really like pepper.

And I really love fresh ground pepper.

Fresh cracked pepper on a turkey or a tuna sandwich, good stuff.  Pepper, along with other condiments, makes the omelet for me.  Fresh, fruity pepper on a perfectly cooked steak ... nothing better.

The smell of it, the pungent aroma of it when its newly ground from a mill, gets the 'ole taste buds salivating.  Goes without saying I use it in a majority of my recipes. And liberally.

Regular table pepper (when I can't get the freshly ground stuff) is a necessity at a meal.  Even in a fast food joint, I pepper where it's appropriate.  French fries, for example.  Curiously (or, maybe, not so much) I might use more pepper on my fries than I do salt.

Which is exactly the case while dining at The Melt in Folsom recently.  I nabbed a couple packets of pepper to spread on my order of fries and happily began partaking.

In front of me were a couple of unused packets of pepper and I looked them over while eating ... and noticed something rather curious ...

See the photo above?  Take a look at the top packet and, in particular, the following wording printed on it: "reorder #4043295."

Odd, I thought.  I mean ... think about it a moment:  When Melt needs more pepper, think they pick up the errant packlet out of a box of many and look for the order number on it in order to acquire more?  Or do you think they already have some sort of form available to resupply more?  Don't you think that's a bit odd?

You don't have a reorder number on the bottom of your favorite shoes so when they begin to wear out you can easily requisition another pair, right?  You don't find any sort of identification anywhere in you car stating "To get another, here's the send off number to make it easier for you! You're welcome!"  There's nothing on the side of the pen barrel you're using for fill out that report indicating "At some point you're going to run out of ink ... so you better get to gettin' and put a request in for this, your very favoritest pen."  How 'bout an imprint on a banana stem saying:  "Is this your last banana?  Avoid the annoyance of running out by accessing this code right now!"

Or ... maybe I'm just thinking about the imprint on the pepper packet a bit too much ...

 

.......... Ruprecht ( STOP thinking so much ...)

Frustration

Look: I don't go out of my way to create monkey business. 

(Well ... that's not entirely true. I'll do so in the spirit of amusement. And often. More exactingly I'll do it in the spirit of self-amusement if it gives me a personal chuckle. But I like to share my experiences as you well know. The more the merrier, after all!)

But monkey business in and of itself is rampant everywhere. It's all over the place, often a daily occurrence. You can find it at home, at work, on the street, on the radio, in the news, at that fast food joint you frequent.

It's that last item where monkey business is constantly looming I've chosen to discuss today. Specifically at the largest quick-service chicken restaurant chain in the United States, Chick-fil-A. And let me tell you something ... there's a lot of it going on at these restaurants, I figure. I know there is at the one I walk into on occasion in bustling Folsom, CA.

Now, I can't honestly state I've ever said or thought to myself "Self? You know what I'm craving today? A Chick-fil-A chicken sandwich." And there's a reason I haven't ever thought that. Because I'm simply not thrilled with the restaurant. Sure ... their chicken sandwiches and other fare are fine if you like that sort of thing, but their foodstuffs aren't must haves for me. The place is just okay, nothing more. It's others I'm with who suggest we head to a Chick-fil-A when we're out and about and we're looking for a quick meal on the go. It's never me making that suggestion. I'll rarely counter the decision to eat there but, deep down, I'll wish there was an alternative choice offered. (But I'm realistic. It can't always be about "me." I'm giving and fair and I know the importance of "going along for the ride" when the need arises.)

But over the course of the last handful of times I've been to a Chick-fil-A (two of which I've documented here and here) I've come to the conclusion the staff of the place is on a mission to drive me over the edge. Case in point ...

My usual was ordered: A spicy chicken deluxe sandwich.

Now ... for illustrative purposes, I've provided an actual screen shot of the item for your perusal, taken directly from Chick-fil-A's website. I want you to take a gander at it for a moment and read its description (click on the image to enlarge):

Simple question: Can you tell me what's on the sandwich? I bet you can. But just in case you don't read English (in which case I don't know what you're doing on this blog other than looking at various color schemes and pretty pictures) let me humor you - the sandwich, in short, consist of a boneless breast of chicken with dill pickle chips, lettuce, tomato and pepper jack cheese.

So riddle me this: Why in the world would the following conversation take place?

Chick-fil-A Dude Behind The Register: "And you sir? What can I get you?"

Me: "I would like the spicy chicken deluxe sandwich, please."

Chick-fil-A Dude: "Would you like American, Swiss or Pepper Jack cheese on that?"

Me, confused: "The pepper jack ..." 

Chick-fil-A Dude: "And it comes with lettuce, tomato and pickles. Is that all right?"

Me, holding back several sarcastic comments: "That will be fine, thank you ..."

Why? WHY???

Why, when I order anything at a Chick-fil-A, am I continuously bombarded with questions about my selection that make no sense whatsoever? The description of the item is as plain as day, right there in front of me. I see what the sandwich is, I see what's on it. Why do the employees of Chick-fil-A feel the need to talk me into something different? Are they bored? Do they get incentives or some sort by doing so?

If I wanted a different kind of cheese on my selection I would have asked if it was possible to make a substitution. If I had an aversion to pickled cucumbers, I would have requested they be stricken from my sandwich. If I preferred eating my choice sans lettuce, I would say so ... right? If I wanted an opt-out on commonly sliced fruit I would make that information known forthwith.


I mean, let's take it a step further: Why offer the bun at all? Why not ask if I'd prefer the item without the bread it goes between? Maybe I prefer my tomato on the bottom of the sandwich, nestled underneath the chicken breast instead of atop it. Wouldn't it be helpful if they suggested all the individual pieces to the item be handed to me unassembled so I could put the thing together to my liking? We could go on like this for hours ...

For criminy's sake ... I CAN SEE WHAT'S ON MY PREFERENCE! JUST RING UP MY PICK AS IS, PLAIN AND SIMPLE! Cripes and cripes ... how difficult can it be ... ??!??!?

And the answer to that question is: Pretty damned difficult, as it turns out ... 

What Part Of "Barq's" Don't You Understand?

Two weeks have gone by and - Wouldn't you know it? - I find myself back at Chick-Fil-A once again.

*sigh*

Not my choice of a quick dinner while on the go. (As a matter of fact, the next time we're out, I'm picking the eatery for a change of pace.)

You know ... I never have understood the attraction of Chick-Fil-A. I've frequented their locations a handful of times - the majority in the last year - and I haven't yet had anything that strikes me.

Well that's not necessarily true. When there those few weeks ago I included a side of coleslaw with my order. It would have been completely unremarkable except for one thing: Chick-Fil-A shaves their slaw into such small particles it has the consistency of chewing grains of sand. It's barely coleslaw; it's more like eating flavored shavings. Yeah, that was the impression the stuff left me with. At least, I can say I've tried it. And no need to go back to it again.

Anywho, everyone else had ordered and I was last up. I requested the same thing as previous, a spicy chicken sandwich meal. This time noted there was hot sauce available as one of their condiments. I could make the sandwich taste as if there was a bite to it being the description ("spicy") was deceiving. (Interesting Side Note: This time around I was asked by the service person what type of cheese I wanted on the sandwich. The image displayed and stated on the menu board plainly states the item comes with pepper jack cheese. Being given a choice point blank upon ordering leads me to conclude Chick-Fil-A simply enjoys messing with my head.)

Understand: As far as fast food joints go, the place isn't bad. It's just, well ... dull. There's nothing that stands out about it. (And even that's not completely true. The employees? They're overly nicey-nice. They exude a kind of suspicious scrubbed-clean fakery to the point they lean toward a somewhat creepy side. They're kind of like a clean version of "children of the corn" - you know they're going to show up at your doorstep in the middle of the night to do you harm. (Of course, I jest ... I think ...)

At any rate, my order put in, I was asked what drink I wanted with my meal. "Barq's, please" I responded.

"What?" the service kid asked me quizzically.

"Barq's" I said once more.

The kid leaned closer to me obviously befuddleded and asked again. For the third time I said "Barq's." I was speaking English and I know I was speaking loudly enough for him to hear me; I wasn't privy why there was a disconnect. He looked at me with a bit of a crinkle in his brow, appearing not to want to ask a forth time. 

"Barq's Root Beer, please" I explained.

"Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't even know that's what it was called," he fumbled.

Inwardly I sighed to myself, but didn't say anything. My drink was filled and given to me. I thanked him and went on my way.

"Why didn't you just tell him you wanted root beer?" I was asked by a member of my dinner group.

"Look: The founders of Barq's have done a hell of a job branding their product and establishing a niche in the soft drink arena. I would be doing them a huge disservice if I called out Barq's with the common terminology of "root beer" ... which their beverage isn't precisely. Not to mention if there were any Cajuns within earshot they would have lambasted me ... and understandably so with regard to my lack of respect toward the product ..."

I was rewarded with an eye roll.

Yes ... I know: Sometimes I'm a freak.

.......... Ruprecht ( will not STOP calling it "Barq's" ) 629

I Had A Rash ...

... well ... actually, I experienced a rash. Let's put it that way.

And not that kind of rash.

The kind experienced was one of overly-concerned people questioning me about my food choices. This rash has come in a clump - two instances of genuine concern and a third which turned out to be puzzling to say the least.
  
Concern #1 came Sunday morning while at a Mimi's Cafe. I rarely frequent Mimi's (I think the last time I dined in one was 5 years ago or so) but it was the brunchy establishment of choice that morning. (If memory serves it was the only real game in town at the time with regard to a sit-down eatery.) An omelet was the order of the day and I requested one of Mimi's "French inspired" selections, the "Omelette Basquaise." This little number contained Andouille sausage, roasted red peppers, caramelized onions, mushrooms and Jack cheese topped with sauce basquaise, a slightly spicy tomato sauce.

My waitress (who could have been the twin of Camryn Manheim circa The Practice years) asked if I had had that particular dish previously. I responded I had not. "It's rather spicy," she informed me, to which I grinned goofily.

I waved her revelation toward me with exaggeration. "Bring it on. Thanks for the warning but when it comes to spicy foods I highly doubt it will faze me." She said something about it being too spicy for her and acknowledged my response with a smile.

When the dish was served and I'd tasted it, I noted it did have a tangy bite. But that was all. I would bet dollars to donuts that the average person who states a dish is hot would have considered this breakfast indeed to be too hot for them. But it wasn't. It was pleasant enough. It didn't even require a glass of water to help make its way down. It was just fine.

"How is your omelet?" the waitress asked at one point.

"Not nearly spicy enough. But it's just right for me this morning," I answered. 

Concern #2 came later that evening. Out and about all day, the meanderings ended at a Chicago Fire Restaurant which specializes in pizza, salads and wings. I'd never been to one but I was in the (extremely rare) mood for pizza for some reason, something that comes about once every other blue moon. Scanning their menu, I decided on a titular "Chicago Fire" pizza. This little number came with hot Italian sausage, Giardiniera peppers, habanero sauce and jalapeno peppers, the description alone indicating it was on the hot and zesty side.

And again, when the waiter came 'round to take the order, I was asked if I'd had the pizza before. "It's really hot," he decried. "Too hot for me." And, again, I told him to bring it on, thanking him for the warning.

I asked rhetorically of my dining companions what the deal was with my welfare where fiery foods were concerned and left it at that.

And I'll admit: The pizza was hot. But far from unpleasantly so. It was enjoyable in that I was happy with my selection. (I've had cravings for pizza previously and ordered pies which not only were lacking in flavor but were actually steps backward in my desire for future pizza orders.) I'll will further admit it was hot enough to wash down with a second 22 ounce beer. Hot, but not too hot ... and but thoroughly tasty and agreeable.

It was at the last place this week that spurred me to write about the frets various wait staffers had for me, however. Because this one truly befuddled me. 

With errands to be accomplished, it was decided Chick-fil-A was the accepted fast food joint to grab something, eat quick and go. Not having been in a Chick-fil-A many times, I scanned the menu thoroughly. The preferred item turned out to be a spicy chicken sandwich, precisely what I ordered from the scrubbed and attentive cashier behind the counter. But the order came with a question:

"It's all right that the sandwich has pepper jack on it, right?" he queried.

Now ... what I really wanted to do was shoot a snappy comeback at him. (I knew I was a bit tired from a strenuous bike ride earlier and I could tell I was somewhat peckish.)

"Well ... be that as it may, I not only speak English but I can read English well enough to comprehend the menu up there behind you. Thus, I can plainly see Chick-fil-A's spicy chicken sandwich comes with a slice of pepper jack cheese - which is commonly of the zesty cheese variety. Not to mention the description for the item states it's "spicy" so, yes ... pepper jack on the sandwich would be acceptable. I mean, being that I'm ordering that particular item ..." 

Because that's what I really wanted to say.  

I wondered: Did I not appear as if I knew what I was ordering? Was there a confused look on my face when I offered my option? Did I hem and haw while voicing my desire? Was there a weak, uncertain timbre in my response such that I may have been vacillating on what I wanted? Was there some random person standing next to me wearing an "I'm With Stupid" T-shirt with an arrow pointed my way?

But, instead, I simply said "Yes ... that's fine" and accepted the drink cup he offered me with a smile. I didn't understand why he asked that question but I let it be. There was no need.

And, as it turned out, the spicy chicken sandwich at Chick-fil-A wasn't spicy in the least. 

.......... Ruprecht ( won't STOP his "spicy" retorts ... but curbs them every now and again ... ) 961

Taco Hell, Indeed

A long time ago ...

It was late in the afternoon on a sunny Southern California day. We had been running around all over the place on various errands. No breakfast had been eaten that morning and, all of a sudden, we realized we were famished. We needed to stop right then and there to get something to eat and the only thing visible was a Taco Bell. Not our favorite fast food place, but it was quick and easy and we weren't going to be particular about it at that very moment.

We got something. I remember having ordered some sort of super taco or some such. When our food arrived, we were like hyenas at a fresh kill - we tore at the wrappers to get at the food tucked within them and we scarfed that first bite as if we hadn't eaten in days.

Two bites in, I detected some sort of funk, something I felt just wasn't right with my food. I didn't immediately recognize what it was but something wasn't jake. I looked at my taco while working around a mouthful of food:

There, staring at me from the end of my last bite, was meat and cheese, just waiting for me to take another gobble. But it was the cheese that drew my attention: On a majority of the strands there was a fine, fine "fur" of the most delicate mold you could possibly imagine. It surrounded each strand almost completely and the mold itself had started to ever-so-slightly discolor. It was causing the bright orange of the cheddar to take on a dull hue. You could see the cheese beginning to go grey overall. It wasn't anywhere near there yet, but you could see it coming.

I immediately spit out my food, wiped all around my mouth with loads of napkins and downed copious amounts of beverage to wash out the unpleasantness.

I vowed right then and there never to eat at a Taco Bell ever again. Unbeknownst to me (and in retrospect) this was the start of my continuing harp (which I carry on about to this very day) about using the words "always" and "never" ... because that vow was a hollow one, an untrue one I would violate years later, despite the fact I had uttered it. Despite the fact I would tell the story time and again over the months which immediately followed "The Hairy Cheese Incident" (as I've "lovingly" referred to it over the years).

Fast forward three and half years or so: I was in Utah. The kids wanted to stop at a Taco Bell we were driving past. I involuntarily shuddered, but quickly reasoned that: 1) I hadn't been in one of the establishments for years; 2) that previous incident was an aberration which couldn't happen again, and 3) I simply needed to put on my big boy pants and suck it up no matter what my thoughts about the place were.

Now ... understand what I've stated above: It was the better part of 4 years since I last stepped foot in a Taco Bell and it was some 700 miles distant from the one I was about to step in this time. What could possibly go wrong?

Let it be known it wasn't a taco I had ordered this time around. It was something else entirely. Yes ... there was cheese in it, but it wasn't a taco, the very thing that could have sent me back to that terrible time all those years ago to relive the fear of that episode once again.

But it didn't make a difference ...

Food ordered and served, I unwrapped whatever my choice was. There, looking at me like a long, lost friend, was that familiar shredded cheese ... complete with a familiar fine fur of encroaching mold beginning to encase it. I felt my stomach lurch; I involuntarily swallowed, wrapped the concoction back up and pushed it away from me.
 
Seriously: What were the chances "The Hairy Cheese Incident" could possibly rear its ugly head once more?

But it did. And right then, I put my foot down and promised myself I would NEVER go into a Taco Bell again.

My name is Michael and I'm here to tell you I have kept that promise to myself. For the better better part of a decade I have not gone near a Taco Bell ...

.......... Ruprecht ( STOPped eating at Taco Bell long ago ) 

I (might) Play A Small Part

... and then, a bit later in the morning, this happened several hours after Rupe submitted his posting.

Which only goes to show Rupe may be "part of the problem" ...

And then maybe not ...

Ronald, being nothing more than a mascot at the corporation can field calls ...
... but there's nothing he can really do about the website ...

.......... Ruprecht ( Did Rupe help McSTOP the site? )

I Can't Think For Myself Any Longer ... And Neither Can You

2013.  Two thousand thirteen.

Pivotal year.

It's the year we became dumb.  Really dumb.

And dumb with regard to some of the most personal aspects of what we do. 
 
You see ... in 2013 we suddenly became dumb about our lifestyles.

Ronald wonders: "Why are you so dumb?"

How do I know this?  Because a fast food corporation is telling us how to live instead of our own selves telling us how to live, that corporation being McDonald's.  Here are some examples:

• McDonald's is advising us against eating hamburgers, fries and sodas because they "are typically high in calories, fat, saturated fat, sugar and salt and may put people at risk for becoming overweight."
• McDonald's further states "in general, people with high blood pressure, diabetes and heart disease must be very careful about choosing fast food because of its high fat, salt and sugar levels."

Yeah.  I know.  Do you get the picture in reading those points it's obvious we became incapable of any rational thought?  Because that's being screamed at me loudly and clearly.

Ronald asks: "What's the point of rushing into 2014?"

I figure I might as well toss out any hopes and dreams about 2014 right now, having them join a place right next to the discard McBurger wrapper and the drained McCoke container in the waste bin.  You, reading this, might want to do same.

I mean ... what's the point of continuing on if we're incapable of exercising rational McThought?  You're already in the throes of a food coma anyway with the holidays still going strong ... right?

Ronald says: "You're in a food coma already, anyway ..."

Oh. And ... Happy New Year ...

.......... Ruprecht ( we must figure out how to McSTOP our incapabilities )