The Irascible Chef

Where have all the rocket scientists gone?

First, of all let me start by saying that what I’m about to tell you happens to me every time I go into the deli section of most grocery stores in California. Second, I do enjoy eating (Fig Newtons and) cold-cuts, thinly sliced, to melt in your mouth, cold meats—deli meats, for you young kids!

Second, I only have a pleasurable experience one time in a hundred—I’m not going to try to kid you, I’m a demanding pain in the ass—what can I say!

Third, one must ask, why put myself through this excruciating process on a regular basis (yet at all) when the results are for the most part the same. Is the one in a hundred chance at a thin slice of heaven worth all the trouble? Something that one might ask them self is why does it matter so much? Hundreds of thousands of people around the country, maybe millions, take it the way it comes, without a whimper everyday.

What am I driving at? Where am I going with all of this? Let me just give you the average experience—happened just yesterday.

I’m in Safeway (some of you are saying—that was my first mistake!) in Los Gatos, California, telephone number (408) 559-5750. The plan isn’t to go to the store to go to the deli and put myself through this. As it happens the deli is in the last isle of the store and of course I must go down every isle just in case I’m forgetting something, or that something might jump out at me, or that something I usually buy is on sale this day and I’d miss it, causing me great grief and regret that I may share with you on another occasion.

By the way, last side note I promise: in California they don’t slice the cold meats to order, they slice it up hours ahead of time, to save the kind of time they don’t seem to need in New York for example. The generic California delis have heaping platters of already sliced, drying out, way to thick to be appreciated mounds of meats and cheeses. The idea is that when someone orders say, a quarter lb of pan roasted turkey breast, the drone on the other side of the counter, who has no idea what a quarter of a pound is, let alone a third, or half of a pound of anything equates to on the scale anyway—can plop it on the scale.

It’s at this point with the scale reading 0.45lbs, at which they look at you with the blank stare and ask, “is that okay?”
To which you have 2 choices: to have them handle your meat one more time with the plastic gloves they’ve been wearing since their shift started 6.5 hours ago—the same gloves they use when tying their shoes, or doing one of the million cleaning duties they have, the same gloves they used when wiping the sweat off their brow or nose—don’t even get me started about what happens in the bathroom with those gloves… Second choice, actually there’s no second choice, you just say, “Thank you. That’s fine,” because that already took 15 minutes and you can’t imagine another 5 minutes with their hands, fiddling with the meat with those gloves, trying to eyeball the removal of a fifth of a pound of turkey which they also have no idea of the decimal equivalent. Ughhhhh!
I’m sorry for that. Back to my experience of the other day.

The deli plan is simple and as follows:

Look for a line: because there’s no order other than deli staff asking 5 people who’s next and the people on the other side of the counter looking at each other trying to figure it out.
If line: figure out another plan of action, the experience itself is so painful that the hardship of waiting could compound the pain, which could result in incalculable collateral damage.
No line: Proceed to the counter to survey the deli personnel.

If jackass deli personnel: cause of previous bad experience is behind the counter.
Decide if: you want to give them a hard time or a second chance.

If you give them a second chance: the minute they start pissing you off or fucking it up—tell them forget it with utter distain! (which as it happens also kills the first bird)
If Helpful personnel: is there or a fresh competent looking face is behind the counter, smile and make them feel like the most important person in the store (because they can be) and proceed.

This is where I was at yesterday; fresh competent looking face is behind the counter, very hopeful, well I was full of hope anyway.

“I would like a quarter of a pound of prosciutto sliced VERY thin,” This was followed by my newest hope walking to the walk-in to get a different piece of prosciutto than the hunk that was in the deli case.

The new arrival prosciutto required: removal of protective plastic and some minor trimming, then, the wiping down of the slicing machine that should have already been wiped down, then, some tinkering with the thickness dial and a few trials, until finally a sample for review…

Now, it wasn’t as thick as say a slice of Oscar Myer bologna, but it wasn’t thin like a sheet of paper either—the way I like it, the way it should be to be at it’s optimal thickness for enjoyment!

So, I say, losing hope rapidly, “no it needs to be much thinner.” He holds the slice up to the light to see why I could possibly be looking for it to be any thinner.

He looks at me blinks twice and says, “I can’t make it thinner. You mean you want me to make it shav-ed?”

I’m like what, shav-ed? You mean like Shannon Elizabeth?
Now, before you say, he must know what the reasonable expectations of slicing meat technology are. I grew up in New York where slicing meat at the deli counter was done a million times a day, TO ORDER, SLICED PAPER THIN if asked for, every deli hour of operation each day. Not to mention I’ve logged more hours than I can remember on a slicer over my career—it’s possible!

So, I say, broken and realizing what reasonable expectations for this day are, “yeah, shav-ed.”

“I can make it shav-ed, why didn’t you just say shav-ed?”

Because, I wanted many single paper-thin-sheets of translucent cured pork that would melt in my mouth and only require minimal chewing. Shav-ed is a million little pencil sharpener scraps.

He puts the shav-ed pile on the scale which reads 0.40. “Is this okay,” as he starts to reach into the bag to fiddle.
“No! That’s fine,” I say calming myself down.

And just as he’s about to end my reoccurring nightmare by delivering the package into my hands, he places the price sticker on the top—It hit’s me. My eyes open wide. I’m in like slow motion, jumping to the counter, Noooo is coming out of my mouth while my hands and arms are waving-off not to his next move. It’s too late, he pounds the pile of shav-ed pieces flat like particle board like he’s doing me a favor by saving me space.

It’s not over…

“No,” I’ve had quite the emotional experience; I couldn’t dare challenge myself like that back-to-back, “but thank you and have a nice day.”

It’s over now.
“Would you like any cheese with that?”

Shav-ed—like Shannon Elizabeth—ahahahahahahaha!

By the way I blame management not the kind souls that are doing the kind of work most Americans won’t do… It’s all about training, training, and training. As Gene Hackman said in Crimson Tide, “you can teach the Lipizzaner Stallions to deal cards with the right training. It’s a simple matter of voltage!”

My pain continued though, when I got home to find all the trial slices of thick meat were also included on the bottom. I found this when prying apart the particleboard slab—I was charged for all of this.

Maybe it has nothing to do with rocket science—maybe it’s just a simple matter of voltage!

On the other hand I went to Lunardi’s in Los Gatos, California The Day After Tomorrow. 408-358-1731
WOW, what a difference a mile makes. Take a number versus guessing who’s next, bigger selection and better quality of meats and cheeses, all sliced to order, prices in line with the big chains, and my customer experience:
First, took a number, so I felt like there was some order and assembly.
Second, waited 3 minutes to be called.
Third, asked for a quarter pound very thinly sliced rosemary ham.
Fourth, received 0.25 of the most beautifully paper layered translucent ham that literally melts in your mouth—Fan-dabee-dosey-tastic! My mouth is watering right now! Thank you Lunardi’s!

So, out of the goodness of my heart I go from deli to deli to help, you the eater, by letting you know which management cares enough about you to train their people. Look for me—I’ll be looking to add you to a list. A very clear list that can be found anywhere in the world.

Which list will you be on?

—iChef

Technorati Tags: Deli, food, Gene Hackman, Grocery Store, iChef, Meat, Safeway, Shannon Elizabeth, The right way, Work

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