Entries Tagged 'Food and eating' ↓

Three years ago, I did a post on newspaper inserts and the Super Bowl… and how snack manufacturers contort themselves to create a “big game theme” without ever actually mentioning the Big Game, which is a copyrighted product with big licensing fees attached. Looking at this past Sunday’s crop of FSI’s, it’s reassuring to see that nothing has changed. The nation’s economy may have melted down and the web has transformed marketing for most products, but for salty snacks and their teammates it’s still “game on”.

Smirnoff offers us a “smart choice for your super party”.  Newman’s Own wants you to “go natural for the big game”. Tums will let us “enjoy the game heartburn free” while Pop-Secret popcorn promises a “home field advantage” and Hersheys wants us to “treat your home team” to a “candy bowl blitz”.  Marie’s salad dressings invite you to “tackle the taste” and Dean’s Cool & Creamy exhorts you to “bring the ultimate dip to the ultimate game.”  You can also “score one for the home team” with Ling Ling egg rolls, say “it’s good!” [umpire with upstretched hands holding up two hamburgers] for White Castle or enjoy “football food… ready for game time in minutes” from El Monterey Taquitos.

It’s clear that the marketers are doing an end run around the NFL by not mentioning the Super Bowl by name, and that the NFL has dropped the ball by not figuring out a way to bring them into its licensed marketing huddle. But more important, there’s a flagrant violation by most of these marketers because they forget that coming up with a catch-phrase is not the same as selling a product.

And so the winner, in overtime, is an ad from Butterball cold cuts with the theme “One taste brings the party together”.  Because after all, the reason these marketers are trying to tie in their products to the Super Bowl is that you’re going to serve them at a party—and here’s one marketer with a generic ad (originally created around the election, maybe?) that says how their product is going to make your event a success. Touchdown!

Like CES, the January 2009 Fancy Food Show is down a bit in both attendees and exhibitors. But there’s still room for people like Mr. Bacon here, and his product Bacon Salt which is based on the premise that “everything should taste like bacon”. It’s all vegan and there is a bacon survival kit including bacon chapstick, bacon flavored vegan-aise etc for converted vegetarians who miss the taste of bacon.

Footnote: Fancy Food is where food purveyors, mostly regional distributors or mom-and-pop shops, come to present their offerings to potential retailers or food service clients. There are also a number of international country-sponsored booths though those are really down this year.

Cole slaw, that happy transformation of cabbage into a tart and appealing salad, has to be one of our most healthy, tasty and also inexpensive foods. So why is it that when we order a meal with a “side of cole slaw” these days it’s often served in a micro-cup that would be better suited to sample collection in the doctor’s office?

My theory is that this is related to the predatory financial practices that got us into our current mess. Once you’ve settled on a business model that markets home equity loans to widows on social security, why stop there?  Let’s wring a few more pennies from the populace by downsizing the cole slaw served with their early bird specials.

Which is all the more reason that the pictured side of cole slaw, at Compton’s in Saratoga NY, is so reassuring. This is what a side of cole slaw should look like. (Note also the romaine and 3 slices of tomato which are not even mentioned on the menu—a garnish reminiscent of a bygone day.)

I’ve been through multiple market downturns in my copywriting career. Each time, I had some clients who took the stance that you need to maintain or even increase your marketing budget because that’s when you buy market share, on the cheap, from competitors who are cutting back.

Compton’s is doing the same thing in their marketplace, and they’ve won my business. I’m going back at lunchtime for a burger… and a side of cole slaw.

So a chef brought a great tasting chardonnay blend to a party, and I wanted to have more of it. Fortunately I’d saved the bottle (Novella Synergy 2007) and started checking with the usual Bay Area sources where a chef might buy his wine including Ferry Plaza Wines, K&L, Wine Warehouse and Jug Shop. No luck with any of these so I stopped by the eclectic and wonderful Bi-Rite Market on 18th St and spoke to Joshua the wine buyer who expressed interest because it is a Paso Robles wine (one we don’t see as often as others) and offered to see if he could get it.

The next day he called me at home and said he had telephoned the winery and learned that the entire vintage had been sold to… Trader Joe! Which of course is the Walmart of crunchy gourmet stores, threatening to put the independent Bi-Rites of the world out of business, so it was even more remarkable that he passed this info along. Of course I am going to go over to TJ and buy a case, but I am also going to make a far greater attempt to give Bi-Rite my business including their 10% off a case sale next month.

This is another example (the first was from Timbuk2) of a company giving extraordinary, old-fashioned personal service which is all the more distinctive, and consequently more valuable for both the customer and the vender, because others are dumbing down their service. Compare, for example, to this experience with Electronic Arts, when I found my 11 year old has discarded the paper with our CD key for an electronic game and asked EA if I could have a new one if I sent them the receipt and a photo of the original disks to prove we own them. They responded with an email that told me to go to a web page to read the response there, always a bad sign, where I found:

If you have not register the game and if the Registration code/Serial
Number/CD Key for the game has been lost or misplaced then you will need to
purchase another Registration code/Serial Number/CD Key from our warranty
department, please mail our Warranty department the following information:

-The [Proof of Purchase] page from the manual, or if that is not available
the game disk.
Note: If you send the game disk, please send it using a traceable method as
Electronic Arts is not responsible for products lost in transit.
-A letter explaining that you need a replacement serial number.
-A money order for $10.00 USD.
-Note: We do NOT accept cash, checks, or credit cards.

So EA is going to make me spend basically the original price of the game to get satisfaction, while Bi-Rite is sending me to a competitive store. The cost of the EA response was minimal, the cost of Bi-Rite’s probably $5 when you consider Joshua’s time and his phone calls. But in terms of future buying behavior from me that might result in profits to the vendor, Joshua’s approach makes far better sense. Bi-Rite is at 3639 18th St (parking difficult). If you need wine suggestions, call (415) 241-9760 and ask for Joshua.

I spend a lot of time on the SF Chowhound board, where (just to pick a random example) “Best Bun Cha in the Bay Area” recently accumulated 37 quick posts. So when I wanted to know how the food is at the iconic Highland Park Cafeteria, recently reopened in Dallas, I naturally clicked over to the Texas CH board.

And how many posts did I find there? None. In fact, the most recent post on Highland Park Cafeteria was my own back in January, lamenting its closing, with no more recent messages to correct me. A wider search of the web found only stories about the restored portraits of the Presidents in the waiting line, and a couple of quick comments on personal blogs. This is a temple of Southern home cooking that has served some 36,000 diners since it reopened a month ago (based on published stats of 1200 meals a day) and not a single one has been moved to share their experiences in any depth.

In the Bay Area, online chatter about a restaurant event like this would have melted the copper in the DSL lines. Texas, as we see, is different. I happen to think the Bay Area has the right idea (which is why I’m here and not there, where I was born). But the purpose of this article is to note how really different groups of people can be, with this minor data point to prove it. Something to think about next time you fall into the copywriter’s trap of writing to yourself, AKA thinking everybody has the same priorities that you do.

I gave my mother the highly-touted new edition of the Joy of Cooking for her birthday, and bought a second copy for us to have at home. I like to leave the book open for reference when I’m cooking, and soon I noticed I was doing a lot of squinting and carrying the book into brighter light. Could it be that the type had gotten smaller?

A comparison of two identical passages shows that’s exactly what happened—20% smaller in fact. (Count the characters in the first line of the new edition, at left in the picture, and compare to the 1975 edition, at right.) I can understand why they didn’t want to make the book too unwieldy with all the new additions. But I’m too preoccupied to memorize the recipe before I cook it, and too finicky to be satisfied when I misread and put a tablespoon of salt in when the recipe calls for a teaspoon. Sorry, but the type’s too small.

This is why I advise my students and clients to double-check the work of their designers. If it looks too pretty, it probably is—something’s been sacrificed for the sake of great design. If there’s a coupon, try filling it in to be sure there’s room to write—or better yet, have your art director do it.

I’m finishing up a project that had me writing web product copy for over 150 different cuts and preparations of beef, pork and lamb. I need to describe each one in a way that makes the reader understands how it’s unique. A lot of this has to do with taste. Or does it?

So much great food writing is about the experience surrounding the eating—the origin of the ingredients, the way they’re prepared, the environment in which they’re consumed. Tasting itself is when all these elements come together—it’s the payoff for being in this place, at this time, eating this food. And if it’s good, that first bite and the flavor released becomes a time capsule or shorthand for remembering the entire experience.

Prepared dishes are easier to describe because the flavors play off against each other. The other day for lunch, for example, I had the Pork Bacon Sandwich at Cam Huong in Oakland’s Chinatown. The crunchy baguette lends crispness while showering my lap with crumbs. Mayonnaise adds sweetness and lubrication. Cucumber sliced and pickled daikon and carrot shreds provide coolness, crunch and slight acidity. Jalapeno means more crunchiness plus the anticipation of a delayed reaction mouth tingle from the aromatic chili oils. And all this is a backdrop for two meats. The “bacon” is one of those Asian special-pork concoctions that has very little taste but the slippery mouth feel that we love from fat. And the other pork, shredded, is cooked with salt and red spices and ends up with a gamy intensity which we recognize as the essence of meat. The day laborer who’s grabbed the seat opposite me asks how is it, and I say “great”.

By comparison, how does a New York steak taste? I find myself writing about musculature and where the beef comes from on the animal in part to make the reader an expert so they’ll feel comfortable presenting this expensive meat to their guests. And when it’s time to deliver an institutional message it comes through sounding like this:

“Eating dry-aged beef is as sensual and satisfying as drinking well-aged wine. The flavors have deepened and mellowed. The taste is concentrated, an effect brought about by moisture loss and by changes in the meat itself. Natural enzymes in the meat break down the fibers, enhancing the taste with a delicious nutty flavor and tender texture.”

So, science and nature come together to make magic which translates to user satisfaction. Appealing? I hope so. One of the greatest challenges, I found, is that there are actually only two words that describe this experience—“taste” and “flavor”. Can you tell me some others? Another word, “tenderness” which is universally used as a compliment for really good steak, is more closely related to the amount of fat than anything else. While “texture” is a promise, that when you bite into this stuff it WILL be tender, or perhaps crunchy, or maybe it will coat your tongue with the eggy creaminess of a rich sabayon.

Food writing may be hard, but it is easy and fun to read because it is so experiential and suffused with the joy of life. My personal favorite example, and in fact a book that was mentioned by many of the chefs I interviewed, is Heat by Bill Buford (that’s an Amazon.com ordering link). Buford, whose day job is an editor for The New Yorker, decides to see what life is like as a line cook at a Mario Batali restaurant. Before we know it, he’s made a lifelong commitment to a summer job carving meat in a Tuscan village. Go get it, and read it. But be sure you go hungry.

I’ve been working on a project that has caused my to read Michael Pollan’s “The Omnivore’s Dilemma” and re-read “Fast Food Nation” by Eric Schlosser. I’m pretty much in agreement with the pro-natural food, anti-factory food arguments made in both books. However, I found the polemicizing in one book far more compelling for reasons that are worth noting by marketers.

Pollan follows four meals from farm to table and makes commentary along the way as to how the food is raised and processed. The first meal is fast food, and the villain is “big ag” which seeks to coopt sustainable sources, organic standards, traditional family farms and foods free of drugs and pesticides in order to deliver something that follows the letter of the law while totally disrespecting the spirit by which honest, healthy meals have traditionally come to the table. So far so good.

The problem is that his is a holistic outrage; you need to totally buy into his argument to accept each part of it. And while in most cases I was nodding my head, at one point I found myself thinking “that’s actually pretty cool” when he described all the things you can make with corn. This is preaching to the choir and to the extent that Pollan wants to make new converts, I don’t know that he is doing it.

Schlosser, by contrast, adopts a “but wait, there’s more” approach to layer on the outrages of eating at McDonalds et al. It starts modestly, even acknowledging that the stuff can taste pretty good. Nothing here to make a Big Mac lover put down the book. But he gradually adds outrages and pulls you in. “You don’t like the feces in the beef? Well, let me tell you about the factory workers that get their limbs chopped off.” You’re led to agreement in baby steps, and thus potentially converted.

We direct marketers are happy to ignore the 98% or so of our audience that doesn’t pay any attention to our work, and focus on tweaking and maximizing our message to the remaiing 2%. It’s probably a worthy goal for a polemicist to get 2% of his or her readers to change their attitudes somewhat. I think Schlosser does a better job, but I recommend you read both books and decide for yourself.

(This post has been edited. There are four meals described in Pollan’s book and I want to make it clear his fast food outrage is specifically about the first meal, thus offering an apples-to-apples [or fries-to-fries] comparison with Schlosser. Be sure you read on about the other three meals, and don’t miss Angelo and the pigs.)

This has nothing to do with marketing, but I think the occasion must be commemorated: last night I had the worst meal of my life at Steak Escape, a “food court” store in the Denver Airport. Worstness is here defined not by the savoriness or healthiness or preparation of the food, but by the total indifference of the staff.

I had time before getting on the plane in Des Moines and thought about picking up a known quantity, a Quizno’s classic Italian from their store right next to the airport. Then I decided that taking a sandwich on the plane to eat 3 hours later was too food-obsessive and I’d just roll the dice when I made my connection in Denver.

I chose the “Steak Escape” because they were right by my gate in Denver and they advertised an Italian sub. I asked the counter person what was on it. He could not tell me. He darted his eyes around the food prep area, and I could tell he wasn’t finding anyone or anything that could help me. Finally he took a stab in the dark: “It’s salami… ham… and some other kinds of meat.”

So I ordered a known quantity, a Philly Cheesesteak. It came bare and I stopped the counter person just as she was about to slather it with mayonnaise. I told her I wanted mustard instead. She said, “we don’t have any mustard.” A cheese steak place without mustard? Impossible. But turned out she was just being lazy… SHE did not have any mustard and her station, and did not feel like stepping over to the next station on a slow night to get some. But a guy cleaning the place heard the conversation and produced a big box of packets. Hope he gets a better job soon because he deserves it.

The food was just as awful as you’d expect, but the non-service described above is what makes this the world’s worst. Here is their phone number: (303) 342-3445. Why not give them a call and ask them a question about their food?

This afternoon I was in Pasadena for a meeting that ended early, so on the way to the airport I slipped into the mysterious zone between the Golden State Freeway and the Alhambra hills to visit A-1 Eastern Pickles, on Johnston St. As I’ve done several times since I saw their phone number scrawled on the wall of a Greek deli in the 1980s below the word “pickles”, my plan was to buy a case of 4 1-gallon jars of fresh kosher dills for the ridiculous price of less than $12, then try to eat and share as many as I could before they became too bitter to enjoy.

But—today I discover they stopped selling the gallon cases 2 years ago, because “nobody was buying them.” The kosher dills are now available solely in a 5 gallon drum, hardly airline carry-on material.

I stumbled out in to the hazy sunlight and moved on to my next ritual stop, the subs at Giamelas on Los Feliz just east of the Golden State, a few miles north. Would these be gone too, perhaps my fault because I haven’t told people about them or eaten them more frequently? No. The subs, price list and even the serving and kitchen personnel were exactly the same as when I was last in town in July.

Here’s what I order and my ritual: the Italian Cold Cuts sandwich, no mustard or mayonnaise (why do they even ASK?), Italian dressing on the side, plus lots of their little yellow chili peppers and the carrot sticks which become flavored by association when they are wrapped with the peppers. The “regular” is $4.50 and the large is $4.95—ooh, tough choice!

The kitchen, which has not changed since I first went to Giamela’s some 20 years ago, is perfectly organized for preparation of this meal. The cook splays a soft sesame roll on the counter, like getting a diaper ready for a baby. He reaches into the reefer and pulls out a setup of mortadella, coppa and provolone on wax paper. He whacks the setup lengthwise with the back edge of a knife to score it and make it easier to mold to the bread. Then scoops of diced tomato, lettuce, pickle and onion are added with an artful chorography involving a slotted spoon dancing up and down the bread.

I used to get my sandwiches dressed but they got too sloppy before I was ready to eat them. So now I bring down a little jar with a tight lid and transfer the dressing from Giamela’s flimsy container (which once popped open in the Hertz parking lot—disaster) to my own more substantial one. Then it’s on to the plane with my sub. Tonight I was back in Oakland and on the freeway home at 7 so I spread a towel on my lap, poured on the dressing, and ate as I picked my way toward the Bay Bridge. Perfection.

I don’t really want to insist this is the world’s best sandwich. A Burger House cheeseburger and Carnegie Deli pastrami are also pretty good. But meanwhile, who’s interested in going in on a 5 gallon tub of pickles? We’d need to bring our own gallon jars, convene before A-1 closes at 3 pm (the neighborhood’s not safe after that anyway), then offload from the tub in order to avoid paying a hefty deposit.