One of my favorite pastimes (apart from beers down the pub) is cooking. I especially like cooking because it allows me to indulge several of my favorite pastimes all at once: shopping, cooking and drinking wine.
One of the problems anyone who cooks with any regularity faces, however, is leftovers. I hate leftovers. Despise 'em. But of course, you can't just throw them out because you paid good money for them, and it's wasteful. So they sit in the fridge, eating up space (and in our fridge, space is at a premium - I've bought shoes that come in larger boxes) until they're hairy and unidentifiable, and then they get thrown away.
But I've developed a new way to deal with leftovers: turn them into something completely new and different. This is what I call 'whipitupitude' - neither art nor science (or maybe a bit of both), but the act of combining otherwise unappealing leftovers in new and interesting ways.
Tonight, for instance, we had some leftover gammon steak (a salty, somewhat fatty ham), some leftover Dad's Famous Butter Chicken (see below), some asparagus, part of a week old leek, a few sorry cloves of garlic. These I turned into a really quite good meal by combining them in a cream sauce and serving them over pasta.
There's no point putting the recipie here, since it's unlikely that you'd have this particular combination of ingredients just lying around, and the whole point of this is to make use of the stuff you have in your own fridge, so it's probably not a commercially viable idea (though maybe we could make a game show where people bring in the contents of their refrigerators and we make something out of them).
I will, however, share with you a recepie that's one of our children's favorites - the aforementioned Dad's Famous Butter Chicken. When I make this, they eat it all without complaint and often ask for more. It has its roots in a desperate night back in Pennsylvania when all we had was chicken and I had to feed the kids. I've modified the recipie a bit over the years, but the basic principle remains the same.
One thing I'll point out here is that there are two things I always make sure I have in the house: unsalted butter and a bottle of vermouth. The butter is good for cooking, and, well, you never know when you'll need to make a martini at short notice.
Dad's Famous Butter Chicken
Chicken breast, washed and trimmed (use as many as you like)
Unsalted butter (it's OK to use salted if you don't have unsalted)
Dry Vermouth (Noilly Prat's the best. It's like 8 bucks a bottle. Just buy it.)
Salt and Pepper
Place the chicken breasts skin side down on a baking dish. Lay 1-2 tablespoons of butter on top of each. Sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste (the kids don't like pepper, so I leave that out). Splash on a little vermouth and bake at 350 for about 25 minutes.
Some fresh sage laid on top of the breasts gives the chicken a nice flavor, but the kids wouldn't eat that, so I only put it on the ones I'm making for Michele and me.
There you have it. Couldn't be easier. Enjoy. Let me know what you have in your fridge and I'll see if I can come up with an interesting dish for it...
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Wildlife
How educational is this living abroad. In America, we had deer, but they mostly stayed in the woods. In London, we have foxes. They live in our back garden. This morning, Caroline excitedly summoned me to the bathroom, where there's a window that looks out the back. There, on the roof of a neighbor's garden shed, were two foxes, their tails bushy, their fur gleaming a ruddy gold in the morning light. They circled and nipped at each other playfully. Wow.
Then, as we watched, fascinated, the larger of the two mounted the smaller one.
"What are they doing daddy?"
Uh, oh. Think quick. How to adequately explain foxes copulating on a roof to a six year old without giving too much away. "Um, they're playing, sweetie."
"What are they playing?"
"Uhhhhh...."
"Leapfrog?"
"Right, leapfrog. That's it. They're playing leapfrog."
"Oh."
At this point, Michael, never one to be left out, sidled in.
"Michael, look! The foxes are playing leapfrog!" exclaimed Caroline.
"Oh, wow!"
So we watched as the foxes played leapfrog. Repeatedly. Poor Mrs. Fox must've been exhausted from all the, er, leapfrogging. Next, we'll have to explain where all the baby foxes came from which will soon be living in the back garden.
Travel is so broading, don't you think?
Then, as we watched, fascinated, the larger of the two mounted the smaller one.
"What are they doing daddy?"
Uh, oh. Think quick. How to adequately explain foxes copulating on a roof to a six year old without giving too much away. "Um, they're playing, sweetie."
"What are they playing?"
"Uhhhhh...."
"Leapfrog?"
"Right, leapfrog. That's it. They're playing leapfrog."
"Oh."
At this point, Michael, never one to be left out, sidled in.
"Michael, look! The foxes are playing leapfrog!" exclaimed Caroline.
"Oh, wow!"
So we watched as the foxes played leapfrog. Repeatedly. Poor Mrs. Fox must've been exhausted from all the, er, leapfrogging. Next, we'll have to explain where all the baby foxes came from which will soon be living in the back garden.
Travel is so broading, don't you think?
Saturday, January 26, 2008
RIF
Reduction In Force. Downsizing. Rightsizing. Restructuring.
Layoffs.
Words that strike fear into the heart of any corporate worker, American or otherwise.
Here, they call it 'redundancy', which strikes me as a particularly offensive and dehumanizing term. 'Bob was made redundant' seems to imply that Bob, as a human, has no value.
By now, you may have seen some of the news stories about impending RIFs at the various big banks. Even Goldman Sachs, which emerged relatively unscathed from the subprime debacle (there's an official who-knew-what-and-when investigation into why that is, by the way...), is expected to be axeing something like 5% of its staff. My own company is anticipated to reduce its staff by about 2%, which, frankly, strikes me as somewhat lower than I'd have expected. I hope it's true, but something tells me it isn't.
Let me hasten to say that, while anyone who thinks there's no risk to their job is a fool, I'm not especially concerned about losing mine at this point. But it's hard not to think about what would happen if I did.
I had a conversation with some single friends last night about what they'd do if they were made redundant. Some would take it easy, some would travel, some would use the opportunity to start over. I'd like to think I'd write that book I've had kicking around in my head for a couple of months. But realistically, the difference between me and these friends is that they're mostly single and I'm, well, mostly not. Not that being laid off is any better or easier or less of a blow to the ego when single, but it's a qualitatively different thing when you've got a family to support.
So, while I might like to write that book, or travel, or just relax in the park and feed the ducks for a while, I'd probably have to pull my socks up and get on with the search for a new job.
One of my friends thinks everyone should be laid off at least once. He's never been laid off, by the way. But he thinks it would be a good character building exercise. While this might be true, I think I've got enough character, thanks very much, and I like my security.
Thinking about it, I've spent a great deal of time and energy over my life trying to obtian security. I suppose that could be said of almost anyone, so I don't think it's that unusual. But at times like this, when there's a whiff of insecurity in the air, you're forced to admit that there isn't any real security to be had, because nothing's certain in life - there are simply too many variables.
This is especially true of the financial services industry, where most of our gains and losses are a function of nothing more than the confidence level of very large numbers of people. If you shift people's confidence enough in any direction, sums of money so large as to be incomprehensible shift along with it. Were all of the losses in the markets and the associated decline in the value of real estate directly attributable to defaults by sub-prime borrowers? I doubt it. Although there were certainly some real losses, I think a majority of the losses were because financial services types lost confidence and started selling off. And of course, this is natural. No one wants to be the last guy holding an instrument derived from a bunch of subprime loans because this will almost certainly be unsellable by the time everyone else has sold theirs.
I'm no economic theorist, nor did I stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night, but my view is that you can pass the bottle around only so many times before it's empty, and someone gets stuck holding the bag. The obvious key there is to get out just before the last guy takes a drink, but of course that's more difficult to predict when you're talking about money.
So if there's no real security to be had, why are we all so intent on trying to obtain it? I don't know, but maybe this calls for a little more enjoyment of the now, and a little less worry about the later.
Layoffs.
Words that strike fear into the heart of any corporate worker, American or otherwise.
Here, they call it 'redundancy', which strikes me as a particularly offensive and dehumanizing term. 'Bob was made redundant' seems to imply that Bob, as a human, has no value.
By now, you may have seen some of the news stories about impending RIFs at the various big banks. Even Goldman Sachs, which emerged relatively unscathed from the subprime debacle (there's an official who-knew-what-and-when investigation into why that is, by the way...), is expected to be axeing something like 5% of its staff. My own company is anticipated to reduce its staff by about 2%, which, frankly, strikes me as somewhat lower than I'd have expected. I hope it's true, but something tells me it isn't.
Let me hasten to say that, while anyone who thinks there's no risk to their job is a fool, I'm not especially concerned about losing mine at this point. But it's hard not to think about what would happen if I did.
I had a conversation with some single friends last night about what they'd do if they were made redundant. Some would take it easy, some would travel, some would use the opportunity to start over. I'd like to think I'd write that book I've had kicking around in my head for a couple of months. But realistically, the difference between me and these friends is that they're mostly single and I'm, well, mostly not. Not that being laid off is any better or easier or less of a blow to the ego when single, but it's a qualitatively different thing when you've got a family to support.
So, while I might like to write that book, or travel, or just relax in the park and feed the ducks for a while, I'd probably have to pull my socks up and get on with the search for a new job.
One of my friends thinks everyone should be laid off at least once. He's never been laid off, by the way. But he thinks it would be a good character building exercise. While this might be true, I think I've got enough character, thanks very much, and I like my security.
Thinking about it, I've spent a great deal of time and energy over my life trying to obtian security. I suppose that could be said of almost anyone, so I don't think it's that unusual. But at times like this, when there's a whiff of insecurity in the air, you're forced to admit that there isn't any real security to be had, because nothing's certain in life - there are simply too many variables.
This is especially true of the financial services industry, where most of our gains and losses are a function of nothing more than the confidence level of very large numbers of people. If you shift people's confidence enough in any direction, sums of money so large as to be incomprehensible shift along with it. Were all of the losses in the markets and the associated decline in the value of real estate directly attributable to defaults by sub-prime borrowers? I doubt it. Although there were certainly some real losses, I think a majority of the losses were because financial services types lost confidence and started selling off. And of course, this is natural. No one wants to be the last guy holding an instrument derived from a bunch of subprime loans because this will almost certainly be unsellable by the time everyone else has sold theirs.
I'm no economic theorist, nor did I stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night, but my view is that you can pass the bottle around only so many times before it's empty, and someone gets stuck holding the bag. The obvious key there is to get out just before the last guy takes a drink, but of course that's more difficult to predict when you're talking about money.
So if there's no real security to be had, why are we all so intent on trying to obtain it? I don't know, but maybe this calls for a little more enjoyment of the now, and a little less worry about the later.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Rant
The kids are driving me nuts today. And it's only 7:30. Between Michael's constantly wanting things he can't have or, perhaps more frustratingly, things we can't find ("Waaaah! I want Mr. Green Duck!!" What the hell is Mr. Green Duck?!?), and Caroline's newly acquired obstinate negativity on just about everything except, perhaps, watching television, I might just have to put them out on the street.
Really, I guess, my irritation with them stems from just a few things.
1. The are early risers. 6:00 on a weekend is just too goddamn early, I don't care what anyone says. But do they get up at 6:00 during the week? No, of course not. We're waking them up at 7:15 during the week. That discrepancy is a secondary source of annoyance. It would be better, I think, if they were consistent with the kickoff of the bickerfest.
2. They are loud. Whether they're playing or arguing, they always seem to be yelling, banging or thumping most of the time. This is especially galling at early hours (see point #1 above).
3. They are messy. Now I'm not the world's neatest person, but pound for pound, these children produce produce more little bits of paper than the Hammermill Paper company. Most of these end up on the floor or on the kitchen counters. And of course, since these represent the formative artistic endeavours of our cherished offspring, we can't simply throw them out. No matter how insignificant, these must be saved, framed or laminated, and put on diplay for all to admire. (Don't tell the kids, but I usually just toss them after a few days, unless they are really, really good. Those I toss after a few weeks.)
4. They are helpless. Yes, all children are dependent, but it's irksome when they come to me to solve problems that they could easily solve themselves. "I don't want to watch Johnny and the Sprites!" (do something else!) "I can't find bear!" (in your hand!) "I can't reach the box of napkins" (walk around the table!) "I can't find any black crayons!" (there must be 500 crayons in that box, odds are at least one of them is black, LOOK IN THERE!).
5. They are antagonistic. They've both developed a killer instinct for finding the one thing that will most annoy the other at any given time. The trouble is, the anoyee inevitably comes to me to resolve the issue and frankly, I don't really care that Michael's copying everything or that Caroline is teasing. You each give as good as you get, so go somewhere else and let me drink my coffee.
On the other hand, they do make me laugh sometimes. For example, yesterday, as we were leaving to go to the pantomime (more on this in another post), Michael began taking off his shoes, saying that he didn't want to take Caroline's marble with him; whereupon he produced a marble, two doll's purses and a seashell from his shoe.
OK, so maybe I won't turn them out just yet.
Really, I guess, my irritation with them stems from just a few things.
1. The are early risers. 6:00 on a weekend is just too goddamn early, I don't care what anyone says. But do they get up at 6:00 during the week? No, of course not. We're waking them up at 7:15 during the week. That discrepancy is a secondary source of annoyance. It would be better, I think, if they were consistent with the kickoff of the bickerfest.
2. They are loud. Whether they're playing or arguing, they always seem to be yelling, banging or thumping most of the time. This is especially galling at early hours (see point #1 above).
3. They are messy. Now I'm not the world's neatest person, but pound for pound, these children produce produce more little bits of paper than the Hammermill Paper company. Most of these end up on the floor or on the kitchen counters. And of course, since these represent the formative artistic endeavours of our cherished offspring, we can't simply throw them out. No matter how insignificant, these must be saved, framed or laminated, and put on diplay for all to admire. (Don't tell the kids, but I usually just toss them after a few days, unless they are really, really good. Those I toss after a few weeks.)
4. They are helpless. Yes, all children are dependent, but it's irksome when they come to me to solve problems that they could easily solve themselves. "I don't want to watch Johnny and the Sprites!" (do something else!) "I can't find bear!" (in your hand!) "I can't reach the box of napkins" (walk around the table!) "I can't find any black crayons!" (there must be 500 crayons in that box, odds are at least one of them is black, LOOK IN THERE!).
5. They are antagonistic. They've both developed a killer instinct for finding the one thing that will most annoy the other at any given time. The trouble is, the anoyee inevitably comes to me to resolve the issue and frankly, I don't really care that Michael's copying everything or that Caroline is teasing. You each give as good as you get, so go somewhere else and let me drink my coffee.
On the other hand, they do make me laugh sometimes. For example, yesterday, as we were leaving to go to the pantomime (more on this in another post), Michael began taking off his shoes, saying that he didn't want to take Caroline's marble with him; whereupon he produced a marble, two doll's purses and a seashell from his shoe.
OK, so maybe I won't turn them out just yet.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Nothing in Particular
I should probably write something meaningful about something important, but anh, what the hell.
Tesco's raised the price of their chocolate chip cookies by 4p. This may not sound like all that much, but when you plow thru a sleeve of 'em a night, it really adds up. Although some of the food here takes some getting used to, the Tesco brand chocolate cookies are hands down the best thing about living in London. Well, them and the proximity to the Continent. With a nice cup of tea, they are a great way to end the day. Bleah. Now I feel sick.
So it's back to work, and no rest for the wicked here. December is like Friday. You get a bit of work done in the morning, go out for a long lunch, have a nice chat with your friends in the afternoon and then head down the pub for a nice finish while the sun's still out. January, on the other hand, is the Monday of the year. Everyone's back from vacation, energized and ready for work, so you have no choice but to pull your socks up and get on with it. It's been a busy two weeks here, which is actually good, since being busy does make the days go faster.
My grandmother sent me a clipping the other day from Time magazine about Boris Johnson, one of the candidates for London mayor. If I could vote, I just might vote for this guy. He's sharp, eccentric and endearing. Speaking of elections, what's going on in the US? I have to say, I kind of like this Obama guy. He seems real. Or maybe that's just what the media over here want me to think. It's hard to tell.
The US elections seem to be viewed with the sort of amused wonderment one might bestow on a group of teenagers, hats turned sideways and trousers down to their ankles falling off their skateboards repeatedly. The attitude here is 'we don't understand it, but it's fun to watch anyway'. That's exactly how I feel about cricket. Except for the 'fun to watch' part.
I'm now the resident expert on the US political system. Don't tell anybody, but explaining the US primaries is about the limit of my knowledge of said political system. Fortunately, no one here knows much more about their own system, so we all just merrily roll along, making up whatever sounds good.
People here don't seem to mind giving their bank details to just about anyone. We've had a remarkably persistent campaigner for some save the children organization knocking on our door about twice a week. Michele did some research, it appears that the organization is legit, so she wrote a cheque. But they don't want cheques, they want to direct debit our account. Let me think about that for a minute. Umm. No. I'm already uncomfortable with the phone company being able to just whack out whatever amount they feel like every quarter. Why they can't just take out the amount of the actual bill is beyond me, but they take out what they think is reasonable. Last month they took out twice what I owed. I got it back of course, but it's still deeply disturbing. I certainly don't want some random charity to be able to pull out some arbitrary amount, but this seems to be standard practice here. On the other hand, the bank did send a guy to our hotel to set up our accounts, so I guess there are advantages to the British banking system, too.
Well, sorry this post is completely random and without point. There's 5 minutes of your life you'll never get back. But you can't say I didn't warn you, what with the title and all. Oh, you thought that was something with a clever, well thought-out hidden meaning? Sorry.
I've finished the cookies and now there's nothing left to do but go to bed and wish I hadn't eaten them all. Bleah.
Oh, I saw a guy riding a bike today wearing a velvet and gold crown. Really.
Tesco's raised the price of their chocolate chip cookies by 4p. This may not sound like all that much, but when you plow thru a sleeve of 'em a night, it really adds up. Although some of the food here takes some getting used to, the Tesco brand chocolate cookies are hands down the best thing about living in London. Well, them and the proximity to the Continent. With a nice cup of tea, they are a great way to end the day. Bleah. Now I feel sick.
So it's back to work, and no rest for the wicked here. December is like Friday. You get a bit of work done in the morning, go out for a long lunch, have a nice chat with your friends in the afternoon and then head down the pub for a nice finish while the sun's still out. January, on the other hand, is the Monday of the year. Everyone's back from vacation, energized and ready for work, so you have no choice but to pull your socks up and get on with it. It's been a busy two weeks here, which is actually good, since being busy does make the days go faster.
My grandmother sent me a clipping the other day from Time magazine about Boris Johnson, one of the candidates for London mayor. If I could vote, I just might vote for this guy. He's sharp, eccentric and endearing. Speaking of elections, what's going on in the US? I have to say, I kind of like this Obama guy. He seems real. Or maybe that's just what the media over here want me to think. It's hard to tell.
The US elections seem to be viewed with the sort of amused wonderment one might bestow on a group of teenagers, hats turned sideways and trousers down to their ankles falling off their skateboards repeatedly. The attitude here is 'we don't understand it, but it's fun to watch anyway'. That's exactly how I feel about cricket. Except for the 'fun to watch' part.
I'm now the resident expert on the US political system. Don't tell anybody, but explaining the US primaries is about the limit of my knowledge of said political system. Fortunately, no one here knows much more about their own system, so we all just merrily roll along, making up whatever sounds good.
People here don't seem to mind giving their bank details to just about anyone. We've had a remarkably persistent campaigner for some save the children organization knocking on our door about twice a week. Michele did some research, it appears that the organization is legit, so she wrote a cheque. But they don't want cheques, they want to direct debit our account. Let me think about that for a minute. Umm. No. I'm already uncomfortable with the phone company being able to just whack out whatever amount they feel like every quarter. Why they can't just take out the amount of the actual bill is beyond me, but they take out what they think is reasonable. Last month they took out twice what I owed. I got it back of course, but it's still deeply disturbing. I certainly don't want some random charity to be able to pull out some arbitrary amount, but this seems to be standard practice here. On the other hand, the bank did send a guy to our hotel to set up our accounts, so I guess there are advantages to the British banking system, too.
Well, sorry this post is completely random and without point. There's 5 minutes of your life you'll never get back. But you can't say I didn't warn you, what with the title and all. Oh, you thought that was something with a clever, well thought-out hidden meaning? Sorry.
I've finished the cookies and now there's nothing left to do but go to bed and wish I hadn't eaten them all. Bleah.
Oh, I saw a guy riding a bike today wearing a velvet and gold crown. Really.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Towards a New Holiday
Michael likes to give us presents. Today he wrapped his bear, three rubber balls and a matchbox car in a box and gave it to me.
"Thanks, Michael. What's this present for?"
"I Love You Day."
Hey, what a great holiday!
January's a crappy month. January is cold and dark and grey. January is the Monday of months. It needs a decent holiday. Oh, sure, you US residents have your Martin Luther King Day and all, but how do you celebrate that? Do you go to the library to read up on the late Dr. King's tireless efforts to help America's blacks better their status without resorting to violence? Do you spend time in quiet contemplation of your great good fortune? Hell, do you even have a barbeque?
Yes, I think we'll celebrate I Love You Day every year from now on. I hope you'll join us. Here's the tradition: you give something you already own to someone you love. You'll wrap it in something informal, like a newspaper or a blanket. Under no circumstances will you give a card. Hopefully this will keep those parasites at Hallmark from exploiting this holiday like they've done to so many others. If you need proof of this exploitation, consider Halloween cards. Give me a break.
Happy I Love You Day. I didn't get you anything, but I do love you.
"Thanks, Michael. What's this present for?"
"I Love You Day."
Hey, what a great holiday!
January's a crappy month. January is cold and dark and grey. January is the Monday of months. It needs a decent holiday. Oh, sure, you US residents have your Martin Luther King Day and all, but how do you celebrate that? Do you go to the library to read up on the late Dr. King's tireless efforts to help America's blacks better their status without resorting to violence? Do you spend time in quiet contemplation of your great good fortune? Hell, do you even have a barbeque?
Yes, I think we'll celebrate I Love You Day every year from now on. I hope you'll join us. Here's the tradition: you give something you already own to someone you love. You'll wrap it in something informal, like a newspaper or a blanket. Under no circumstances will you give a card. Hopefully this will keep those parasites at Hallmark from exploiting this holiday like they've done to so many others. If you need proof of this exploitation, consider Halloween cards. Give me a break.
Happy I Love You Day. I didn't get you anything, but I do love you.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Why I Hate the King of Prussia Mall
I suppose I should start the New Year with something upbeat - maybe wishes for peace on earth, good will towards men. All that crap. But I'm not in the right frame of mind for upbeat. I'm jet-lagged, I have a headache and the kids have far too many small toys with even smaller parts. I'm boycotting the family room while the rest of the family sorts out the mess. If I try to help, I'll just end up being snippy and that can't be good for anyone.
I'll spare you the travelogue of our trip to the states (we didn't stay anywhere more than two nights in a row, so it was a blur of packing, driving, lugging and laundering). But on our last day, we felt the need to exploit the favorable exchange rate before the US plunges into recession and the dollar starts to climb against the pound again. The King of Prussia Mall seemed the best place to empty our wallets, as it bills itself as the Largest Mall On The East Coast. This strikes me as somewhat weak and contrived epithet - it's like saying your restaurant has The Best Food On The Southwest Corner Of 7th and 50th. In other words, success is easy when you define your own criteria.
Anyway (oh, and incidentally, the Majestic Deli on the southwest corner of 7th and 50th actually does have pretty good food...), as we roamed the 400+ stores, I quickly remembered why I stayed away from the KofP mall when we lived there - because it sucks. Yes, the stores have a wide variety of bright, shiny merchandise, and yes, the mall is smartly decorated and nicely laid out. But add sales staff, and the place is a disaster. Take, for instance, the exchange I overheard between another customer and a member of staff:
"Do you have this in a 37?"
"Um, I'm not sure. You want me to check?"
"Uh, yes, please."
"Just a minute."
(the clerk disappears into the back room and time passes...)
"We've got it in a 35."
"Well, that won't do, I'm afraid."
"SIGH."
Mind you, the above conversation wasn't in Target, it was in Brooks Brothers, a store which sells six-friggin-hundred-dollar sport coats. Hey, Brooks Brothers, here's a tip. If you're selling high-end clothes, you really ought to staff the place with salespeople, not layabouts from South Philly with bad attitudes. I wasn't even acknowledged by any of the 5 other salespeople lolling around the place. Too busy texting their friends, I should imagine.
Here's another conversation, this one between me and the barrista at Starbucks pouring 2% milk into my cafe latte (yes, I like full fat milk in my $3.00 coffee - you got a problem with that?):
"Do you not have any whole milk?"
"We do, but you have to ask for it."
"Um, since when?"
"Since, like, October."
"OK, then, I'd like mine with whole milk, please."
"SIGH."
I didn't have to visit many stores in the mall to rack up a list of experiences like these. The guy in the Thomas Pink store (home of $180 shirts) who showed not the slightest inclination to help me until I practically pushed him into the back room to find my size. The salesman in Nordstrom's who waved his paw vaguely when I told him what I was looking for.
Napoleon disparagingly called the English a nation of shopkeepers. That may be true, but while salespeople here may not be the most knowledgeable, at least they're generally courteous, even in the least expensive shop. Is that too much to ask from America's shopkeepers?
I'll spare you the travelogue of our trip to the states (we didn't stay anywhere more than two nights in a row, so it was a blur of packing, driving, lugging and laundering). But on our last day, we felt the need to exploit the favorable exchange rate before the US plunges into recession and the dollar starts to climb against the pound again. The King of Prussia Mall seemed the best place to empty our wallets, as it bills itself as the Largest Mall On The East Coast. This strikes me as somewhat weak and contrived epithet - it's like saying your restaurant has The Best Food On The Southwest Corner Of 7th and 50th. In other words, success is easy when you define your own criteria.
Anyway (oh, and incidentally, the Majestic Deli on the southwest corner of 7th and 50th actually does have pretty good food...), as we roamed the 400+ stores, I quickly remembered why I stayed away from the KofP mall when we lived there - because it sucks. Yes, the stores have a wide variety of bright, shiny merchandise, and yes, the mall is smartly decorated and nicely laid out. But add sales staff, and the place is a disaster. Take, for instance, the exchange I overheard between another customer and a member of staff:
"Do you have this in a 37?"
"Um, I'm not sure. You want me to check?"
"Uh, yes, please."
"Just a minute."
(the clerk disappears into the back room and time passes...)
"We've got it in a 35."
"Well, that won't do, I'm afraid."
"SIGH."
Mind you, the above conversation wasn't in Target, it was in Brooks Brothers, a store which sells six-friggin-hundred-dollar sport coats. Hey, Brooks Brothers, here's a tip. If you're selling high-end clothes, you really ought to staff the place with salespeople, not layabouts from South Philly with bad attitudes. I wasn't even acknowledged by any of the 5 other salespeople lolling around the place. Too busy texting their friends, I should imagine.
Here's another conversation, this one between me and the barrista at Starbucks pouring 2% milk into my cafe latte (yes, I like full fat milk in my $3.00 coffee - you got a problem with that?):
"Do you not have any whole milk?"
"We do, but you have to ask for it."
"Um, since when?"
"Since, like, October."
"OK, then, I'd like mine with whole milk, please."
"SIGH."
I didn't have to visit many stores in the mall to rack up a list of experiences like these. The guy in the Thomas Pink store (home of $180 shirts) who showed not the slightest inclination to help me until I practically pushed him into the back room to find my size. The salesman in Nordstrom's who waved his paw vaguely when I told him what I was looking for.
Napoleon disparagingly called the English a nation of shopkeepers. That may be true, but while salespeople here may not be the most knowledgeable, at least they're generally courteous, even in the least expensive shop. Is that too much to ask from America's shopkeepers?
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