Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
This is complete BS.
By Beau Cadiyo
I just read this article about FirstEnergy's plans to send out two light bulbs to customers in Ohio. They will be mailed or hand-delivered. Great, right? Nope - the bulbs will be paid for by the customers, who will be charged $.60 per month for the next THREE YEARS. As I calculate it, that's $21.60 for two light bulbs.
This is a rubbish practice, and both FirstEnergy and the state regulators should be ashamed of themselves. Clearly, FirstEnergy stands to gain a lot of money. At this website, bulbs are as low as $1.90 - thus, FirstEnergy is making $8.65 per bulb. Since they're sending out 4 MILLION bulbs, they would clear $34,600,000 - and that's at retail rates, which I'm sure they're not paying. I'm not sure what could have motivated the regulators to approve this plan. They should give customers the option of receiving the light bulbs and paying $10.55 per bulb - they shouldn't impose this exorbitant cost on them.
Write to your state representative, senator and Governor Strickland and tell them that this is unacceptable.
Beau
I just read this article about FirstEnergy's plans to send out two light bulbs to customers in Ohio. They will be mailed or hand-delivered. Great, right? Nope - the bulbs will be paid for by the customers, who will be charged $.60 per month for the next THREE YEARS. As I calculate it, that's $21.60 for two light bulbs.
This is a rubbish practice, and both FirstEnergy and the state regulators should be ashamed of themselves. Clearly, FirstEnergy stands to gain a lot of money. At this website, bulbs are as low as $1.90 - thus, FirstEnergy is making $8.65 per bulb. Since they're sending out 4 MILLION bulbs, they would clear $34,600,000 - and that's at retail rates, which I'm sure they're not paying. I'm not sure what could have motivated the regulators to approve this plan. They should give customers the option of receiving the light bulbs and paying $10.55 per bulb - they shouldn't impose this exorbitant cost on them.
Write to your state representative, senator and Governor Strickland and tell them that this is unacceptable.
Beau
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Chief Pittsburgh Correspondant: August Henry's City Saloon
(412) 765-3270
946 Penn Ave
Pittsburgh, PA 15222
www.augusthenrys.com
By Edward Sandwichhands
James Beard wrote of the Club Sandwich:
“. . . it is one of the great sandwiches of all time and has swept its way around the world after an American beginning. Nowadays the sandwich is bastardized because it is usually made as a three-decker, which is not authentic (whoever started that horror should be forced to eat a three-decker three times a day the rest of his life), and nowadays practically everyone uses turkey and there's a vast difference between turkey and chicken where sandwiches are concerned.”
That is exactly how I would describe my club sandwich (the “Saloon Club”) at August Henry’s: bastardized.
My sandwich was boring. Like meat and potatoes boring. Like NASCAR boring. If I wasn’t really hungry due to a nasty hangover, I probably would have just gone to sleep in the restaurant after suffering through a cup of flavorless bisque. However, I somehow managed to wolf down the two pieces of white bread with slimy lettuce, grainy tomato, reasonable turkey, unnoticeable ham, and decent bacon. My lunch included lousy potato chips, a tub of mayonnaise, greasy roasted red pepper bisque, and no pickle – no pickle!!! When I finished I declared to my lunch partner that I would never come to August Henry’s again. He was similarly disappointed by his flavorless mussels.
The lousy jerks who made my sandwich should be forced to eat it three times a day for the rest of their lives. That way James Beard won’t be forced to haunt the staff of August Henry’s from beyond the grave.
946 Penn Ave
Pittsburgh, PA 15222
www.augusthenrys.com
By Edward Sandwichhands
James Beard wrote of the Club Sandwich:
“. . . it is one of the great sandwiches of all time and has swept its way around the world after an American beginning. Nowadays the sandwich is bastardized because it is usually made as a three-decker, which is not authentic (whoever started that horror should be forced to eat a three-decker three times a day the rest of his life), and nowadays practically everyone uses turkey and there's a vast difference between turkey and chicken where sandwiches are concerned.”
That is exactly how I would describe my club sandwich (the “Saloon Club”) at August Henry’s: bastardized.
My sandwich was boring. Like meat and potatoes boring. Like NASCAR boring. If I wasn’t really hungry due to a nasty hangover, I probably would have just gone to sleep in the restaurant after suffering through a cup of flavorless bisque. However, I somehow managed to wolf down the two pieces of white bread with slimy lettuce, grainy tomato, reasonable turkey, unnoticeable ham, and decent bacon. My lunch included lousy potato chips, a tub of mayonnaise, greasy roasted red pepper bisque, and no pickle – no pickle!!! When I finished I declared to my lunch partner that I would never come to August Henry’s again. He was similarly disappointed by his flavorless mussels.
The lousy jerks who made my sandwich should be forced to eat it three times a day for the rest of their lives. That way James Beard won’t be forced to haunt the staff of August Henry’s from beyond the grave.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Au Bon Pain
200 Public Sq
Cleveland, OH 44114
(216) 771-0869
www.aubonpain.com
by Beau Cadiyo
This will be brief. I had a spicy tuna salad sandwich at ABP, which was, surprisingly, very good. The bread was ok, the filling was phenomenal, the price was high. Fine. Done.
I write to warn you of chips. I purchased the Food Should Taste Good Potato and Chive Tortilla Chips. These were, by far, the worst potato chips I've ever had. I shall elucidate:
1) Statistics prove, prove that you've one...no, wait. The bag had a drawing - a DRAWING - of the average chip inside, which it boasted was enlarged to show texture. Yet it was the same size as the chips inside. A small complaint, but telling. Of what, I do not know.
2) The texture was of gritty, wet cardboard. They did not crunch so much as yield with difficulty.
3) They tasted of the cardboard, heavily salted, with other odd flavors here and there. Sometimes I tasted the corn of the tortilla chip; sometimes I thought I detected a potato essence. Mostly, however, it was bland and dull. Combined with the texture, it was downright unpleasant.
4) Hope springs eternal: I finished almost the whole bag. I was hoping I would grow to like these. Frank Dumbrys, a workmate, tried one and discarded half of it. He then tried another, and discarded that half.
The name of the company states something true: food should taste good. Unfortunately, we are sometimes grievously disappointed.
Cleveland, OH 44114
(216) 771-0869
www.aubonpain.com
by Beau Cadiyo
This will be brief. I had a spicy tuna salad sandwich at ABP, which was, surprisingly, very good. The bread was ok, the filling was phenomenal, the price was high. Fine. Done.
I write to warn you of chips. I purchased the Food Should Taste Good Potato and Chive Tortilla Chips. These were, by far, the worst potato chips I've ever had. I shall elucidate:
1) Statistics prove, prove that you've one...no, wait. The bag had a drawing - a DRAWING - of the average chip inside, which it boasted was enlarged to show texture. Yet it was the same size as the chips inside. A small complaint, but telling. Of what, I do not know.
2) The texture was of gritty, wet cardboard. They did not crunch so much as yield with difficulty.
3) They tasted of the cardboard, heavily salted, with other odd flavors here and there. Sometimes I tasted the corn of the tortilla chip; sometimes I thought I detected a potato essence. Mostly, however, it was bland and dull. Combined with the texture, it was downright unpleasant.
4) Hope springs eternal: I finished almost the whole bag. I was hoping I would grow to like these. Frank Dumbrys, a workmate, tried one and discarded half of it. He then tried another, and discarded that half.
The name of the company states something true: food should taste good. Unfortunately, we are sometimes grievously disappointed.
How do you eat your sandwiches?
Reflections by Patty Foccacia
The other day, I was making myself a nice decadent turkey and ham sandwich. I am a big fan of dressing up my sandwich - two slices of multi-grain bread, a few slices of deli turkey and ham, tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, onions, cheese, topped with yellow mustard. Hmm, delicious.
As I was eating my huge creation of a sandwich, I noticed that I ate the crusts first and then worked my way to the middle. I realized I did the same with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And for soft tacos.
Some people discard their crusts. I remember back in fifth grade, this kid would bring four PB&J sandwiches for lunch. When finished, he'd leave a huge mountain of crusts, which probably equaled to two whole slices of bread. What a waster, I'd think.
Of course some people eat their sandwiches top-down. They'd get a a little bit of the crust, then the middle, the crust again, and work their way down the sandwich. How neat and methodical and ... normal.
Then there is me, who eats the crusts first and then the middle. I don't particularly like eating crusts. They are a bit dry. The mustard or peanut butter never gets spread all the way to the edge of the crust. I also need dressings to top my sandwiches in order for them to be edible. Therefore I wondered why I ate the crusts first.
Oh, I knew perfectly why. You know when you stick lettuce and cheese (and other miscellaneous toppings) in the bread, they tend to stick out on the sides? I hate that. Especially when you eat them the "normal way," a bit of them would slow migrate out of the sandwich. By the time you're almost done, you realize you have this huge chunk of lettuce or tomato that is just sitting there. I also hate when excess olives or sauce drips out of the sandwich and most likely fall on my lap. With my luck, I'd probably be wearing khakis or a nice skirt on that day.
So, I'd eat the fringes and crusts first so that my teeth marks would create a seal to my sandwich. Think of it like a crimping machine. I am such a dork, I know. I also like the idea of saving the best for last, so not only do I 'crimp' my sandwich to a nice neatly-edged square, I am also left with a juicy, plump sandwich with moist bread. No crusts.
Finally I can enjoy the rest of my sandwich and have a satisfying finish. What a life. Delicious.
So I guess a simple thing like eating a sandwich revealed a little aspect of how I think and how I like things done.
Did you know Brazilians eat sandwiches (and pizza) with forks and knives? A quote from maria-brazil.org:
"Brazilians will usually use a fork and knife for pizza, open sandwiches, and even chicken. They are amused and even amazed - like my friend Cesar in Columbus, Ohio - at the American way of eating such foods with their hands."
Or maybe you just think I'm an utter dork and think too much about little things. I really don't. :)
The other day, I was making myself a nice decadent turkey and ham sandwich. I am a big fan of dressing up my sandwich - two slices of multi-grain bread, a few slices of deli turkey and ham, tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, onions, cheese, topped with yellow mustard. Hmm, delicious.
As I was eating my huge creation of a sandwich, I noticed that I ate the crusts first and then worked my way to the middle. I realized I did the same with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And for soft tacos.
Some people discard their crusts. I remember back in fifth grade, this kid would bring four PB&J sandwiches for lunch. When finished, he'd leave a huge mountain of crusts, which probably equaled to two whole slices of bread. What a waster, I'd think.
Of course some people eat their sandwiches top-down. They'd get a a little bit of the crust, then the middle, the crust again, and work their way down the sandwich. How neat and methodical and ... normal.
Then there is me, who eats the crusts first and then the middle. I don't particularly like eating crusts. They are a bit dry. The mustard or peanut butter never gets spread all the way to the edge of the crust. I also need dressings to top my sandwiches in order for them to be edible. Therefore I wondered why I ate the crusts first.
Oh, I knew perfectly why. You know when you stick lettuce and cheese (and other miscellaneous toppings) in the bread, they tend to stick out on the sides? I hate that. Especially when you eat them the "normal way," a bit of them would slow migrate out of the sandwich. By the time you're almost done, you realize you have this huge chunk of lettuce or tomato that is just sitting there. I also hate when excess olives or sauce drips out of the sandwich and most likely fall on my lap. With my luck, I'd probably be wearing khakis or a nice skirt on that day.
So, I'd eat the fringes and crusts first so that my teeth marks would create a seal to my sandwich. Think of it like a crimping machine. I am such a dork, I know. I also like the idea of saving the best for last, so not only do I 'crimp' my sandwich to a nice neatly-edged square, I am also left with a juicy, plump sandwich with moist bread. No crusts.
Finally I can enjoy the rest of my sandwich and have a satisfying finish. What a life. Delicious.
So I guess a simple thing like eating a sandwich revealed a little aspect of how I think and how I like things done.
Did you know Brazilians eat sandwiches (and pizza) with forks and knives? A quote from maria-brazil.org:
"Brazilians will usually use a fork and knife for pizza, open sandwiches, and even chicken. They are amused and even amazed - like my friend Cesar in Columbus, Ohio - at the American way of eating such foods with their hands."
Or maybe you just think I'm an utter dork and think too much about little things. I really don't. :)
Monday, August 24, 2009
Double Down
Opinion - Reuben Dagwood
A typical approach to marketing is to create a product that “isn’t your father’s [whatever]”. This is not a new phenomenon to our generation. In fact this has been going on for decades. It’s a simple way to add life to a product by attempting to appeal to “the younger crowd”.
Sometimes, this approach involves nothing more than a change in marketing campaign. Take the same product and make some hip young ads for it. It’s a relatively inexpensive way to appeal to a whole new batch of customers.
Another approach is to make some dramatic decisions regarding the packaging and the composition of the product itself. This can be a bit more expensive, but also, in essence, creates a whole new product, eliminating any concern of offending the loyal followers of your original item.
And then, there is the third variety: the face raping destruction of an icon. And, in this vein, I submit to you the attempt to do so to our beloved idea of a sandwich by the American company, KFC: The Double Down Sandwich.
A typical approach to marketing is to create a product that “isn’t your father’s [whatever]”. This is not a new phenomenon to our generation. In fact this has been going on for decades. It’s a simple way to add life to a product by attempting to appeal to “the younger crowd”.
Sometimes, this approach involves nothing more than a change in marketing campaign. Take the same product and make some hip young ads for it. It’s a relatively inexpensive way to appeal to a whole new batch of customers.
Another approach is to make some dramatic decisions regarding the packaging and the composition of the product itself. This can be a bit more expensive, but also, in essence, creates a whole new product, eliminating any concern of offending the loyal followers of your original item.
And then, there is the third variety: the face raping destruction of an icon. And, in this vein, I submit to you the attempt to do so to our beloved idea of a sandwich by the American company, KFC: The Double Down Sandwich.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
What About Bob’s?
38233 Glenn Avenue
Willoughby, Ohio 44094
(440) 951-9700 (phone orders available)
by Beau Cadiyo
Bite: the best sandwich deal in Cleveland, if not America.
"Movies make me want to go back to California. Visiting reminds me of why I left."
This was my Facebook status the morning after watching Lords of Dogtown. The magic, beauty, and excitement of being in California - of being young in California - were all there on the screen: the ocean, the streets, the people, the parties. I grew up in San Diego and knew all of those people when I was young, just like how, when I was driving to my new home in Cleveland and I stopped in hotels and turned on MTV, I recognized every face. Every night, I knew all the rich fucks partying on Laguna Beach. They were types, but apparently they were everywhere, and I laughed as I recognized my friends beaming out from the screen. They were the ones that made California the promised land to viewers around the world – the people I met in China, Wales, Spain or Mauritius who said that they always wanted to move to Los Angeles, or Santa Barbara, or San Diego, and get away from their unexciting, unromantic, uninteresting homes.
What is it about the human heart that makes the grass greener? Does this serve evolution, or reproduction? I think everyone must want to be happy where they are; the problem is actually accomplishing it.
California’s great advantage over other states is the media. People who work in movies, television and radio - so often people from other states or countries - have a wonderful ability to imagine what it is like to grow up in California, unencumbered by reality. The aspects of California culture they portray undoubtedly exist – the people, places, sun and sand, but the romantic figures are, like Tom Sawyer, cobbled together from others. Moreover, modern media does not possess Samuel Clemens' compunctions - writers now don't tell you when they change reality to suit their vision. Instead, they imagine a Southern California youthful experience, and through screens and stereos around the world, it becomes the reality. Ignored, minimalized, or more often romanticized, are the bad things about living in SoCal – drugs, crime, traffic, social pressure, ennui, spiritual desolation . Without a comparable portrayal of, say, Iowa or Idaho, Columbus or Cleveland, the rest of the world sees only the reality of their own existence and compares it to the ideals they see on their screens. It's like looking at David and bemoaning our own puny muscles.
The next morning, I woke up and pulled on some shorts for work. It wasn't my usual work attire, but I was going to a warehouse to look at files, and the woman who organized our files said it would be hot. In California, at my old firm, this was the uniform; when I started, they'd just banned flip-flops from the office, but the outcry from the secretaries was so great that they rescinded the rule: no flip-flops when carrying boxes up and down stairs.
I was nostalgic.
I worked all morning, then headed down the street to downtown Willoughby for lunch. Parking was easy, even on a beautiful day at noon, and I first walked up to Enclave coffee house (http://www.myspace.com/enclavecoffeehouse). I asked if they had sandwiches, and the pretty, tattooed, multicolored-haired girl behind the counter replied in a slow, lilting voice that they didn't. She recommended another place as "good - and cheap." I started to walk out, past two middle-aged women doing something on laptops and a man on the cafe's desktop, past black tables and chairs and a plywood stage with two acoustic guitars propped up on it, strings broken and dangling, when I thought, "I've been here before." All coffee shops look the same, yes, but that this was exactly the type of place Kassia and Jarmilka and Ananda and Roselva and Agata and Saskia and Aujah and Karina and I used to go in Pacific Beach, drinking too much coffee, running around through the tables playing tag, playing guitar for our friends. I walked out. The street was beautiful: old brick buildings that had stood for four generations were real, not facades created to imitate establishment. They have the aura of history and uniqueness and architectural attention put into their construction that one never sees out west, where it's almost impossible to get away from strip malls filled with franchises and housing divisions with three or four floorplans. I crossed the street.
In the sub shop, four people - likely family - labored behind the counter while a family two mothers with two children ate at a table. Four businessmen ordered, joking in the uncomfortable way businessmen joke, the way teenagers hear and vow to never be like. Switchfoot came in over the speakers, the way they might do anywhere. The woman taking my order was a fairly attractive middle-aged woman in a tie-dyed shirt, blonde hair and silver necklace. The subs were cheap - $3.99 for a foot-long. I sat outside on the sidewalk. It was hot, so I took off my polo and sat in a wife-beater. When I went in to collect my sandwich, a 20-something MILF was bending over to sweep up her child's crumbs, revealing a tramp stamp of a colorful ocean scene.
Bob's Ultimate Original Sub was excellent. First, the bread was incredible - crisp crust, chewy center. Second, it was stuffed - layers and layers of meat, cheese and lettuce with a vinegar-based sauce. The textures were sublime - my teeth sheared easily through the meat, the lettuce was crunchy and the bread was hard and soft at the same time. I'm a heavy eater, but I couldn't even start the second half.
I went back to Enclave to pick up a cup of coffee. As soon as I walked in, the man at the desktop shouted, "He's back!" and the girl echoed him. They asked about the sandwich. The man, Traveling Frank, opined that the bread was not left to proof long enough, and began to explain the process of bread-making. The girl started complaining about her one experience at Bob's ordering a Chicken Salad Sandwich, and I ended up speaking with them both about relationships, travel, business, and all the good reasons to live in Cleveland. Traveling Frankhit one on the head: the people are friendly, the kind of friendly that stands in a coffee shop for a half-hour casually talking to strangers.
Back at the warehouse, I noticed large square windows in the wall every twenty feet, all looking out into dense greenery surrounding the building. Then I thought of my friend Frank Sharp, who recently started a business in San Diego that rips up lawns and replaces them with green plastic turf. He can’t keep up with demand and is already behind in orders. It made me smile: the grass may be greener, but that doesn't mean it's real.
Willoughby, Ohio 44094
(440) 951-9700 (phone orders available)
by Beau Cadiyo
Bite: the best sandwich deal in Cleveland, if not America.
"Movies make me want to go back to California. Visiting reminds me of why I left."
This was my Facebook status the morning after watching Lords of Dogtown. The magic, beauty, and excitement of being in California - of being young in California - were all there on the screen: the ocean, the streets, the people, the parties. I grew up in San Diego and knew all of those people when I was young, just like how, when I was driving to my new home in Cleveland and I stopped in hotels and turned on MTV, I recognized every face. Every night, I knew all the rich fucks partying on Laguna Beach. They were types, but apparently they were everywhere, and I laughed as I recognized my friends beaming out from the screen. They were the ones that made California the promised land to viewers around the world – the people I met in China, Wales, Spain or Mauritius who said that they always wanted to move to Los Angeles, or Santa Barbara, or San Diego, and get away from their unexciting, unromantic, uninteresting homes.
What is it about the human heart that makes the grass greener? Does this serve evolution, or reproduction? I think everyone must want to be happy where they are; the problem is actually accomplishing it.
California’s great advantage over other states is the media. People who work in movies, television and radio - so often people from other states or countries - have a wonderful ability to imagine what it is like to grow up in California, unencumbered by reality. The aspects of California culture they portray undoubtedly exist – the people, places, sun and sand, but the romantic figures are, like Tom Sawyer, cobbled together from others. Moreover, modern media does not possess Samuel Clemens' compunctions - writers now don't tell you when they change reality to suit their vision. Instead, they imagine a Southern California youthful experience, and through screens and stereos around the world, it becomes the reality. Ignored, minimalized, or more often romanticized, are the bad things about living in SoCal – drugs, crime, traffic, social pressure, ennui, spiritual desolation . Without a comparable portrayal of, say, Iowa or Idaho, Columbus or Cleveland, the rest of the world sees only the reality of their own existence and compares it to the ideals they see on their screens. It's like looking at David and bemoaning our own puny muscles.
The next morning, I woke up and pulled on some shorts for work. It wasn't my usual work attire, but I was going to a warehouse to look at files, and the woman who organized our files said it would be hot. In California, at my old firm, this was the uniform; when I started, they'd just banned flip-flops from the office, but the outcry from the secretaries was so great that they rescinded the rule: no flip-flops when carrying boxes up and down stairs.
I was nostalgic.
I worked all morning, then headed down the street to downtown Willoughby for lunch. Parking was easy, even on a beautiful day at noon, and I first walked up to Enclave coffee house (http://www.myspace.com/enclavecoffeehouse). I asked if they had sandwiches, and the pretty, tattooed, multicolored-haired girl behind the counter replied in a slow, lilting voice that they didn't. She recommended another place as "good - and cheap." I started to walk out, past two middle-aged women doing something on laptops and a man on the cafe's desktop, past black tables and chairs and a plywood stage with two acoustic guitars propped up on it, strings broken and dangling, when I thought, "I've been here before." All coffee shops look the same, yes, but that this was exactly the type of place Kassia and Jarmilka and Ananda and Roselva and Agata and Saskia and Aujah and Karina and I used to go in Pacific Beach, drinking too much coffee, running around through the tables playing tag, playing guitar for our friends. I walked out. The street was beautiful: old brick buildings that had stood for four generations were real, not facades created to imitate establishment. They have the aura of history and uniqueness and architectural attention put into their construction that one never sees out west, where it's almost impossible to get away from strip malls filled with franchises and housing divisions with three or four floorplans. I crossed the street.
In the sub shop, four people - likely family - labored behind the counter while a family two mothers with two children ate at a table. Four businessmen ordered, joking in the uncomfortable way businessmen joke, the way teenagers hear and vow to never be like. Switchfoot came in over the speakers, the way they might do anywhere. The woman taking my order was a fairly attractive middle-aged woman in a tie-dyed shirt, blonde hair and silver necklace. The subs were cheap - $3.99 for a foot-long. I sat outside on the sidewalk. It was hot, so I took off my polo and sat in a wife-beater. When I went in to collect my sandwich, a 20-something MILF was bending over to sweep up her child's crumbs, revealing a tramp stamp of a colorful ocean scene.
Bob's Ultimate Original Sub was excellent. First, the bread was incredible - crisp crust, chewy center. Second, it was stuffed - layers and layers of meat, cheese and lettuce with a vinegar-based sauce. The textures were sublime - my teeth sheared easily through the meat, the lettuce was crunchy and the bread was hard and soft at the same time. I'm a heavy eater, but I couldn't even start the second half.
I went back to Enclave to pick up a cup of coffee. As soon as I walked in, the man at the desktop shouted, "He's back!" and the girl echoed him. They asked about the sandwich. The man, Traveling Frank, opined that the bread was not left to proof long enough, and began to explain the process of bread-making. The girl started complaining about her one experience at Bob's ordering a Chicken Salad Sandwich, and I ended up speaking with them both about relationships, travel, business, and all the good reasons to live in Cleveland. Traveling Frankhit one on the head: the people are friendly, the kind of friendly that stands in a coffee shop for a half-hour casually talking to strangers.
Back at the warehouse, I noticed large square windows in the wall every twenty feet, all looking out into dense greenery surrounding the building. Then I thought of my friend Frank Sharp, who recently started a business in San Diego that rips up lawns and replaces them with green plastic turf. He can’t keep up with demand and is already behind in orders. It made me smile: the grass may be greener, but that doesn't mean it's real.
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