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 )
This post, seen this morning by award-winning photographer Teresa Porter, was too good not to share. I'm not shy about being in front of the camera (obviously) but I still learned from it. By reading it, I hope others will be as well. Now ... say "Cheese!"
I ventured into Claro's Italian Market early Saturday afternoon to pick up a couple sandwiches my cousin ordered. I was greeted by a full house, everybody and his brother seemingly "shopping Italian", looking for authentic foodstuffs for the weekend ... or to possibly whip up that special Valentine's meal two days hence.
Wandering over to the deli counter, I realized I needed to grab a number for "more efficient service". Understand, this isn't your standard "gimme half a pound of mortadella" and you're out the door; the folks purchasing meats and cheeses and whatnot linger and consider and question. So, if you're in a hurry, Claro's isn't the best choice for you to get in, get out.
A good 12 minutes in, my number was finally called: "Number 76!" by a loud and bit gruff deli dude. I tossed my number in a throw-away bucket and told him I was here to pick up a call-in order.
"Dude: You should have told me as soon as you got here ... you didn't have to wait around," he stated. As it turned out, it wouldn't have made a difference as they hadn't even started the sandwiches called in 30 minutes prior.
"Look ... sorry ... let me do this: I have some excellent roast beef on the slicer. Want a sample?" He was obviously in a mode to make up for the faux pas.
"Only if you have a little horseradish jack you can slap atop it," I commented.
"Done," he answered.
Inside 15 seconds, I was munching on a thinly sliced, rolled up layer of roast beef with an equally thin slice of exquisite tangy white jack nestled within. It was deli heaven.
"Isn't that outstanding?" he cajoled. "Now, I don't know about you, but make a grilled cheese out of that particular jack, add some hot tomato soup along with it and you have something satisfying." He slapped the counter. "Your sandwiches will be up in a minute ..."
But, before he left, I told him: "You know, you're good, you. You're a salesman. And not in a bad way. Give me a quarter pound of beef and cheese, please."
He smiled. "Thanks. Tell my boss I'm good. He's right behind you, down the aisle there ..."
I proceeded to do just that. I walked half an aisle down and confronted his superior while he took care of my order. His boss looked up as I approached, seeing I wanted his attention.
"Hey guy ... I just wanted to let you know: That gentleman there?" I pointed at him behind the counter "He's good. You might want to keep him around for a while."
The Boss smirked. "Good to hear. Because I was gonna fire his ass at the beginning of the week. Thanks." We both smiled at each other and as I returned to the counter, I was handed my sandwiches and my meat and cheese, professionally, tightly and neatly wrapped.
And that's what customer service is all about: Servicing the customer. Pleasantly offering advice ... samples ... friendliness to a stranger ... unencumbered assistance.
Deli Dude did his job and knew he did it well, made an extra little sale to boot.
And I got something I wasn't expecting:Faith and assurance there are still people out there who know how to work customer service in the big, bad world ...
The fact that you're here, that you're reading this blog, says something about you.
You could have gone off on your own and went somewhere else. No one twisted your arm to come here.
You could have said “Enough is enough! I can't sit in front of the computer another minute!”, gotten up and walked off in a huff.
You could have decided a restroom break was in order …. a drink needed to be procured …. the dog needed walking. You could have decided any number of things.
But, instead, it was two simple things that kept you here:
1) It was the ease in which the link to this blog was effortlessly clicked; and
2) It was the succulent looking Velveeta image above that called your name silently and beckoned you to stay.
Admit it. You know exactly what you want. Nothing more or less. It was the cheese you wanted – right? It’s all right. No need for embarrassment. No need to shun your inner need for the cheese.
It’s the warm gooeyness that attracts you. The tang of sharp cheddar that holds sway over you. The creaminess of it all when cheesy warmness dribbles over some foodstuff made all the better with a creamery goat cheese concoction. It’s the cheese from Philadelphia you slather on that toasted bagel in the morning that you long for. It’s the stringy stuff on your baked potato you adore so much. It’s the pepper-infused “moots” you wedge up and add to your antipasto. And you know it.
Now … some say (as I often do): “Use Velveeta … go to jail.” That should be a constitution everyone should hold dear to their hearts. So … why do I use the image above? I use the Velveetaname and image not for the taste factor … but for the cheese factor.
Yes. The cheese factor. Or, rather, the cheesy factor.
‘Cause there ain’t nuthin’ “cheesier” than Velveeta, let me tell you. And I ain’t talkin’ taste, folks.
Not. One. Bit.
So getcher nachos out, guys. (No … that wasn’t a euphemism.) Unwrap them Triskets and Melba toastsis and Cheeze-Its.
‘Cause the “cheese” is comin’. And it don’t smell like teen spirit.
It smells like Limburger, baby ….. and it's oh, so good.
................................ Ruprecht ( STOP the cheesiness )
