Virtually everyone is familiar with “Parkinson’s Law” that
Work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion.
Fewer know about C. Northcote Parkinson’s background or his body of work.† Parkinson studied, and became an expert of renown in, the field of public administration, as the Brits call it.† We Americans refer to this arena most often as “government bureaucracies.”† Parkinson’s studies lead to his publication of many Laws, including the one for which he is most famous.† One of the lesser-known Laws is Parkinson’s Law of Triviality that provides:
The time spent on any item of the agenda of a public body will be in inverse proportion to the sum involved.
The political conversation this week is dominated by blustering, outrage, opinion and advice concerning AIG’s agreements to pay retention bonuses of up to $165 million to employees of the AIG Financial Products Group, the unregulated investment arm within AIG that is the cause of all of AIG’s problems.† Goodness help the poor soul who gets between a politician and a microphone this week.† Every politician has had or will have his or her say on the subject of the bonuses, from “bow deeply, apologize and commit suicide” (Senator Grassley) to “investigate all options to recoup” (President Obama) and everything in between.
The bonuses are, however, but a convenient target and a prime example of the operation of the Law of Triviality.† It’s hard to conceive of $165 million as trivial, yet it is in the context of the AIG mess.† AIG had a $2.2 trillion portfolio of custom derivative contracts and related trades and positions.† The size of the portfolio is almost beyond comprehension and that size is dwarfed by the complexity of the financial instruments comprising it.† The Law posits that officials will not talk about sums and concepts that are beyond their comprehension. studies zelnorm
And that is precisely what has happened with AIG.† On three occasions, two different administrations chose to use Federal Reserve and taxpayer funds to support AIG and its Financial Products Group — to the tune of $170 billion.† They decided the best course of dealing with AIG is to honor those derivative contracts rather than to break those contracts in a bankruptcy.† The government commitment and expenditures were made with little outcry and essentially no outrage from the politician class.
Yet put a very large, yet comprehensible number on a tiny piece of the AIG problem, one with faces of actual villains, and the outcry is both pervasive and deafening.
The politicians should think about several things before they continue wailing. The contracts were entered into more than a year ago, in a world where Wall Street-ish talent was valued much differently than today and long before any government intervention at AIG.† The payments causing outrage are the second round of payments under these contracts.† The amount involved with these contracts is minuscule in relation to the overall exposure at AIG.† $165 million represents only 0.0075% of AIG’s $2.2 trillion derivative portfolio — or $75 out of every $1,000,000.† The derivative contracts hemorrhage taxpayer dollars and will continue to do so.† There is no outcry to break individual derivative contracts or to tax the recipients of payments under them at prohibitive rates — nor should there be, as such a tactic runs contrary to the strategy of supporting the financial markets.
Our government elected to save a massively leaking ship.† Now we are surprised to find many more tiny leaks?† In the words of Captain Renault in Casablanca, “I am shocked, shocked.”
Eleanor Roosevelt once said “Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people.”† I have seen this statement quoted — and misquoted — many times over the past six months or so, usually in the context of the presidential election or the writer’s view of one political party or the other.
I could quibble with Ms. Roosevelt’s grammar; minds don’t discuss anything, people with minds discuss.† We sometimes refer to a person possessing a great mind as being simply “a great mind.”† I have never, however, seen one of small mind similarly denominated.† Rather, we refer to him or her as “small minded.”† I will assume that Ms. Roosevelt intended each sentence to begin with an understood “those with.”
The statement has an elitist tone to it.† It conjures up visions of the great minds (see?) of the Enlightenment spending their days in the coffee houses of London thinking and discussing Great Thoughts such as the perfect form of government, the intersection of science and religion or how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.† Based on my recent experiences, discussion of ideas encompasses much more.
I had the recent luxury of spending several days with friends I see too infrequently.† This week when I read Ms. Roosevelt’s words for the almost-one-too-many-eth-time, I reflected on the conversations we had with these friends.† Those conversations were filled with ideas — not Great Thoughts or Big Ideas, simply a collection of little thoughts, ideas and observations about our lives and the world around us.† I realized that the difference between gossip and a discussion full of ideas is one of degree and nuance.† Are people and events the focus, or are they the jumping off point for something less tangible, yet more real?
I returned from my time with these friends rested both physically and mentally.† That’s the power of ideas, to invigorate and refresh.† One of my resolutions for 2009?† I will spend more time with people who think.
We were a party of eight in an upscale restaurant on a Saturday night in a resort city. Well, not exactly a resort city, more like the world’s largest retirement center. Although it was in season, the restaurant was not quite full at 7:30. That was simply one more sign to me of the troubled economy — as if mile-after-mile of “For Sale” signs on expensive beach homes wasn’t clue enough.
Our party ranged in age from 40 to 60. One couple were year round residents of the area, he a prominent public official; one snowbirds in residence from January 1 to April 30; two northerners escaping for a long weekend in the sun. Our table lowered the average age of guests by many years; every other table I saw was populated with octogenarians.
We were in festive moods. My wife and I only get to see the Snowbirds and the Other Escapees a few times a year. We were meeting the Year Rounds for the first time. The Other Escapees and Year Rounds have been friends for decades but hadn’t seen each other in several years. The Snowbirds and Year Rounds have become friends through their mutual friendship with the Other Escapees.
Our time at the restaurant started pleasantly enough. Our server took the drink order of the last arriving couple who were not served in the lounge and presented the wine list to one of the other men in the party.
As the server left, he announced loudly to the holder of the list, but directed to the entire table (and anyone else on that side of the dining room), “if you need any assistance with the list, I am fairly familiar with it.” What? This joint doesn’t have a sommelier. Isn’t his job to be quite snow angels dvdrip download familiar with the list? As I replayed his announcement in my head, I studied the words less and the tone more. There was something dark, almost malevolent about that tone. Uh, oh, I thought.
And sure enough, he re-appeared a few minutes later, nearly pouncing between two of the women who were in full catch-up conversation. Shouting to obtain the attention of the table. Shushing two others who did not stop their conversation immediately. And told us that when he had our full attention, he would then recite the specials of the evening. I felt like one of the nuns had rapped me across the knuckles for talking in class. And as I looked around the table, so did everyone else; seven pairs of confused eyes returned my glances.
The interval from dressing down to his return to take our orders seemed interminable. We were getting the cold shoulder for no reason I could discern. It was just as well, we had a chance to recover a bit of our light moods. The order taking proceeded without incident. And then our server simply disappeared, not to be seen until our meal ended. Someone else delivered our food and took our pastry order. It was just as well; no telling what his next trick might have been.
This server did reappear to drop the check without incident. One of the other men and I split the tab. I should have shorted the tip. In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. My hosts have been fairly regular guests at this place, and I would never embarrass them.
On our way out the door, a manager complimented that she liked my new eyeglasses. I should have stopped and said something to her. As I was near the center of our group, I decided not to hold up our exit. I may still send a note to the restaurant about our experience.
I wasn’t sure the extent to which others in our party paid attention to the treatment we received from that server.† Because our hosts picked the restaurant, I certainly wasn’t going to say anything.† As soon as we got into the car for the ride home, the others commented on our server’s performance and the effect on our evening.† I needn’t have worried about embarrassing our hosts.† They were as appalled as I was.
I was, and still am, shocked at the contrast between the unprofessional conduct of this server and the service I wrote about in this post.† Perhaps the sole reason I decided to write about this experience was that I wrote about the other.† These two experiences occurred precisely one year apart in the same town.† Skeeter and Janet work in restaurants that can charitably described as dives.† And they deliver an unparalleled service experience to their guests.† On the other hand, a place with aspirations hires some jerk with an attitude to serve its guests.† Maybe I’ll suggest to the restaurant’s manager that he send his service staff to either Skeeter’s or Janet’s place for remedial training.† Or find a few employees who can find the word “hospitality” in the dictionary.
Postscript:† To close a loop from last year’s post, Skeeter did permit me to pick up the drinks tab at her place the previous night.
The Christmas party of my father’s family has been held on the Sunday before Christmas Eve for more than sixty years.† The first thirty or so instances were held at my grandparents’ home, and the guests included all the decendants of my paternal grandfather’s parents.† Although I recall bits of earlier parties, my first firm recollection of this party is from either 1964 or 1965.† My father and I made the 90 minute trip and attended alone, my mother having stayed home with my four younger siblings to whom I had given a Christmas gift of chickenpox.
After my grandparents sold the home in which they had raised their ten children, the party rotated for a few years among the homes of uncles living in Louisville, Kentucky.† It was at that time that the guest list was pared to include only my grandparents and their descendants.† I will admit to having missed one or two instances of the party when it was held at these temporary venues.
Twenty-plus years ago, my mother took over hosting this family party.† As my sisters and brother married, had children and moved from place to place, a rule developed, solely by operation of practice — celebrate Christmas in your own home and city, or anywhere else for that matter, but be “home” and attend “The Party” the weekend before.† I don’t recall any of us ever having violated that unspoken rule.† Over the years, the number of attendees from outside my immediate family has dwindled as the membership of my sisters’ families has swelled.
The constant feature of The Party (other than perhaps the menu) is a visit from Santa.† As the event is quite close to Christmas Day, the children have come to understand that The Party is neither the time nor place to present Santa with wish lists.† Rather, by tradition each child performs for Santa by singing a song, reciting a poem or telling a story.† For the past 7 or so years, I have taken on the role of Santa.
The Party was special this year as we welcomed a new generation to the family and to The Party.† Just before Thanksgiving, niece number 2 gave birth to a son; and, of course, baby and his parents made the 100 or so mile drive to attend.† Sister number 1, and grandmother to new baby, presented the newest family member to Santa while the family sang “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” in recognition of the reindeer slippers baby was wearing.
As I held that little child, it occurred to me that one or the other of my sisters with children would likely soon take over The Party.† The guest list will likely be pared yet again.† And something very old will be new again.† Life goes on.
 Santa and Baby
I probably posted about my telephone experiences last week a bit early because on Friday afternoon I had a conversation at least as interesting as either I reported on.
I spent almost all of Friday afternoon at a business function (OK, it was a very elegant holiday party given by a friend and colleague) with my phone muted.† When I returned home and looked at the phone, I had several voicemail messages.† I recognized the numbers of a few customers and suppliers but did not recognize one particular number or area code from which a message had been left.
My curiousity got the best of me, and I listened to that message first.† The voice of the caller was that of a pleasant, professional woman.† Interesting, I thought, wondering what she wanted and how she got to Just Cured.† Then, my blood ran cold.† She was calling to check on the status of an order she had placed and was obviously just a bit irritated.† I didn’t recognize her name; and the only recent order I had shipped to her state was to a family friend.† I frantically checked all the interfaces to the Just Cured web store and confirmed that I had shipped every order received.
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I returned her call; and immediately after I identified myself as Michael returning her call, she began asking about her order and why she hadn’t received it.† I tried to concentrate on her words, but my mind was racing.† How could this have happened; what am I going to say to her; what can I do to make her happy; please tell she didn’t order for a party this weekend.† Wait!† Did she say “chemicals”?† I gave her my undivided attention; sure enough, she mentioned chemicals and the application for them.
“Excuse me ma’am,” I interrupted.† “I am confused.† I have an online business that makes and sells artisanal smoked and cured salmon.”
“Ummm, this is really embarassing,” she replied as I detected a broad, appealing smile in her voice.† “I am calling about an order I placed for chemicals for my septic system.† The order confirmation says ‘processed by Michael.’† So, when your voicemail greeting identified a Michael and a Michael returned my call, it never occurred to me I might have dialed the wrong number.”
We joked for a bit and finally determined that her vendor’s toll free number is one transposition off Just Cured’s.† As we terminated the call, I invited her to visit the website.† I was so relieved that I may have imagined her saying that her family loves smoked salmon.
So, Joan, if you find your way here, even though our conversation made my heart stop, it was another highlight in a day filled with only highlights.
 
This afternoon, I walked past the Hamilton County Board of Elections.† At 1 pm, a full hour after they closed off the line (early voting hours ended at noon today), early voters were queued down Broadway, along Reedy and around the corner onto Eggleston.† I estimate there were 400 people in line waiting to vote.† I am guessing that the people at the end of the line will still be there at 5:00 this afternoon.
Halloween was one of my favorite holidays when I was a child.† Perhaps it was the limitless quantities of candy I was permitted to consume.† Perhaps it was the chance to be someone different for the day, or a few hours.† Perhaps it was that Halloween is the one holiday that is just for kids.† Certainly, it was some combination of all this and more that made the day so special.† And although it has been many years since I have participated in Halloween celebrations, I still have a soft spot for the day.
I recall only glimpses of the Halloweens that preceded our moving into the house that is still the family home.† It is the Halloweens that immediately followed that move that I recall so vividly.† I am not sure I remember everything about the first Halloween in that house; but I know my new friends instructed me on the homes where the most generous helpings of sweets could be had, and we mapped out a plan to maximize our take.
It was only a couple of years later that we sponsored a haunted house in our basement.† The scary face painted in day-glo colors adorned the enormous furnace until it expired many, many years later.
It has been many years since I have seen a trick or treater.† My wife and I live in a Halloween disadvantaged neighborhood — few children, no sidewalks, no streetlights, houses set back from the street with intervening trees, and stupid, crazy drivers on the street.
And so tonight, my wife and I returned to that same childhood home to help my mother pass out treats and control her energetic, adolescent goldendoodle.† For two hours, the stream of trick or treaters was unabated.† I served up treats to supermen, batmen, spidermen, football heros, ghosts, goblins, witches, warlocks, wizards, pirates, grim reapers, fairies, princesses, ballerinas, lions, tigers, leopards, bears, dinosaurs and goodness-knows-what-else.† Virtually every costume was well conceived and executed.† Many of the children took a short break and played with the dog.† More than a few children and parents stopped to chat a bit before heading to their next destination.† All but one or two kids remembered to speak a clear “thank you.”
I was particularly drawn to a fairy of about three who would have stayed and petted the dog for the entire evening but for her older sisters’ desires to score more candy and a grim reaper who would have done the same despite his mother’s entreaties that he would be late for his band performance at the high school football game.† This young man with Down’s Syndrome turned out to be the youngest son of the friend who mapped out the prime trick or treat houses for me all those years ago.† The joy the son felt and projected tonight was valuable far beyond all the treats given or consumed.
Did I really write just a few paragraphs ago that Halloween is just for kids?† Tonight I reminded myself that while Halloween is all about kids, it is for
all of us.
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Much has been made of the transformation of the U.S. economy from its manufacturing base to one of “service.”† Well, this weekend, I suffered through too many instances of the new economy’s version of customer service.
I endured four circles of voice mail hell yesterday before being transferred to a polite woman.† All that to speak the four digits that updated the expiration date of my credit card on file with New York’s E-Z Pass authority.† Of course, had I remembered my six digit account number and four digit PIN, I would not have needed customer service at all; I could have served myself by updating my information online.† All of which she impatiently reminded before agreeing to do what I called for.
I had a similar experience with the cable company.† Don’t even get me started on the airlines.
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In many industries customer service doesn’t exist any longer.† In the push to increase productivity and reduce headcounts, the companies with which we do business have pushed customer service back to the consumer.† I am sure that the companies find this to be terribly efficient.† The trouble is, I don’t.† They save thousands (or tens of thousands) of man hours by forcing us to invest increments of minutes, usually quite inefficiently.† We are directed to a poorly designed web site to search for answers to simple questions.† We must listen to complex menus of call center options, none of which describes precisely the purpose of our calls, and guess which menu choice leads to a live person and which to an automated system that invariably perfoms a function other than the one required.
This new model of customer service represents service by a thousand frustrations.† Yes, it is wonderfully efficient, dare I say even liberating, to use these self service systems when we know our precise needs and have all the necessary inputs at hand.† But, when we don’t know what we need, we require service from the companies we patronize — not another email form or level of cascading menus.
I suppose that I am frustrated because this self service model bears such stark contrast to the brand of guest service I experienced last week.† My wife and I got away for a few days to visit one of our favorite parts of the country, the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York, and some of our favorite people, the staff at the Lake Placid Lodge.
The Lodge is in the throes of a re-opening after a devastating fire destroyed the original main lodge buildings nearly three years ago.† They are opening spaces in the building as the contractors finish the spaces with a complete re-opening scheduled for December 15.† I could, and should, be impressed by — and describe in detail here — the fantastic design of the new building, or the fine craftsmanship evidenced in the construction, or the exquisite materials incorporated, or the beautiful new china, silver, crystal and linens, or the food that is as beautiful as it is tasty.† The one thing, however, that continues to impress me is how the people who work there make me feel — that they are committed to serve me both as a guest and as a person.
It makes no difference whether I interact with a staff member I have known for years or for minutes.† They know not only my name, but that I prefer to be called by my first name rather than Mr. or a shortened version of my first name; which tea I prefer; where I like to sit and read and the newspapers I read; what I drink before dinner; the few foods I don’t particularly enjoy; and countless other details.† They act on my preferences seemingly without effort.
That the house cares enough to collect, disseminate and use this information makes me feel that my patronage is important to their business.† The staff’s willingness to share a bit of themselves makes me feel that each member cares about me as a person. From one’s love of watching the brown trout swim up the brooks to spawn and his favorite place to watch, to another’s picture of her leashed cat’s rubbing noses with a deer, and from a chef’s sharing how he developed a special dish, to the GM’s golden retriever’s adopting us for daily hikes, they draw me into their lives and their passion to serve.
You arrive at this place as a customer and leave as a member of an extended family.† That’s a kind of customer service that is almost unheard of but that others should aspire to — and a joy to experience first hand.
My wife and I rarely go to dinner in restaurants.† We used to do so; but got out of the habit as I cooked more and better and as her mother required daily attention.† Even when we dined out, we almost never went to a restaurant on a Saturday night — too crowded, too hit-or-miss, too impersonal an experience.
Last weekend, we not only went out to dinner, but did so on a Saturday night.† It was a beautiful day and evening, and my wife and I both wanted to do something a little bit special.† Earlier on Saturday, I attended part of the Red Bull Soapbox Derby in Mt. Adams.† While I was on the hill, our friends David and Liz Cook talked about the effect 36 hours of street closures were having on their weekend business.† I recounted their words to my wife; and we decided to make the weekend a bit less costly for the Cooks.
I really enjoy everything about Daveeds at 934 — the food is imaginative and always well prepared, the room is attractive, the back patio is more than comfortable, the staff is warm and engaging.† Our meal that evening, chosen from a limited menu, was special.
But this post isn’t a restaurant review or intended to describe that meal in detail; it is about something more universal, and more important.† That meal reminded me of an opinion that I have long held, that I want to express, and that I solicit commentary upon.
I believe that fine dining and near-fine dining restaurants represent the best value for your dining out dollar.† These restaurants are expensive, I agree.† You simply get more for the extra dollars you spend there as compared to <insert the name of any number of ubiquitous chain restaurants here>.
A three course dinner (appetizer, main course and pastry) plus two glasses (or a half bottle) of wine at a fine dining restaurant in this part of the country will cost approximately $100 per person.† A similar meal in a near-fine dining restaurant will be perhaps $10 or so dollars less.† I don’t frequent the chains, but I have looked at more than a few of their menus, and a comparable meal at one of those places probably runs $60.
All these meals are a stretch for the average diner or couple.† What makes the fine or near-fine dining restaurant worth the extra money, and in my view a bargain?
Your food will be prepared from ingredients of uniformly high quality, often grown or raised by local farmers.† Taste the food critically, you can taste the difference that quality ingredients make.† Or ask a few chefs; they’ll tell you that, all else being equal, the guy (or gal) with access to the best products is the “best” chef.† These high quality ingredients also make for a more healthful meal; the chains resort to tricks, usually in the form of added fat, to make lesser ingredients tasty.
Your food will be individually prepared for you by trained chefs and cooks.† These cooks have a passion for their craft and take great care to deliver your meal exactly as you request it.† These cooks pay attention to every detail of every item on your plate; the vegetable garnish and the sauce receive at least as much attention as the protein.
You are most likely to be served an appropriate quantity of food.† Chefs and owners of places with aspirations take great pride in serving meals with balance and finesse.† Chains create the impression of value by serving outsized portions.† You are not going to lose weight dining out regularly.† Fine dining, however, isn’t nearly the diet buster that many perceive it to be.
The menu will reflect the personality and background of the chef or owner.† You can learn a great deal about your host from the food he or she chooses to offer you.† What you can learn at the chains is that it all tastes the same — in Cincinnati, Chattanooga or Colorado Springs.
The wine selections will be chosen specifically to complement the food.† You may not recognize the names on many of the labels, generally because the restaurant may choose small volume producers who don’t advertise.† Don’t fret; there is someone on staff there to guide your choices.† Please take advantage of his or her skills and passion; you may as well learn a thing or two as long as you are paying for your meal.
The china, crystal, silver and linens will be of very high quality.† These items represent a huge investment by the restaurant.† The owner thinks they will make a difference in your dining experience.† So, pay attention to the weight of the silver in your hand and the way the light plays off the crystal.
The decor will be unique and a reflection of owner and the style of dining.† More importantly, every aspect of the decor is intended to enhance your dining experience — rather than to provide entertainment or distraction.
The staff will be knowledgeable about the menu and the wine.† Moreover, they will be professional; every action they take will be to make your meal more enjoyable.† They recognize that they are there to serve you, not to become your new best friend.
In short, the fine and near-fine dining meal is akin to a couple hour vacation.† Lesser restaurants will quell your hunger; the best will nurture and refresh your spirit.
The difference between the fine and near-fine dining experience and everything else certainly has a cost that exceeds the modest price differential in the meals.† And, in my mind, the added value those restaurants deliver dramatically exceeds that modest price differential.† That proposition is, however, an opinion.† I wonder how many others agree or disagree with me.
Our city is innundated with chain restaurants.† We also have a thriving population of independent restaurants, the owners of which contribute greatly to our community.† Virtually all the fine and near-fine dining options available to us are provided by those independent operators.† Given the state of the economy and the events of the past several weeks, I fear that more and more guests are not going to appreciate the value that the best restaurants deliver.† And we will all be the poorer if my fears come to pass.
I ran across this group on my way from a morning meeting.
This is a group of students from the Art Academy of Cincinnati receiving their first instruction in the use of the 4×5 view camera. The location is Vine Street between 12th and 13th.
I admit to having the giggles at the thought of this old (and old fashioned) guy snapping a photo with his iPhone of a bunch of very young men and women learning the operation of a camera incorporating technology that is about 170 years old.
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