This month’s home work: Get out more

Recently I attended a conference where everyone’s personality was diagnosed before the session. One of the speakers’ contention was that people whose personalities are better served at work than home sometimes feel the need to present a PowerPoint presentation when asked by their spouse, “How was your day?” If only my husband, Ed, would watch one. I’d love to talk about work, but my husband refuses to listen.

I worked for a newspaper when my kids were small and they loved to hear all about my office dramas (Had I known at the time they would eventually grow up and leave home, I wouldn’t have stopped at three). I did sometimes, however, blur the lines between work and home. My comment at the time was: “You know you’re a workaholic if you get teary eyed at office birthday parties—‘I can’t believe Bob’s turning 39 already!’—and you can’t wait to go home and tell your children the cute thing a coworker said.”


The art of invisibility

The first Friday of every month, I twist my husband’s arm to go to Hudson, Wis. It’s not that he has anything against Hudson, he just doesn’t like our first stop—an artists’ co-op that hosts an open house once a month. Ed immediately heads for the beer and hors d’oeuvres—come on, you knew there had to be another reason why he was willing to go.

The food is always very hip and contemporary, no chips and dips or veggie platter for these people. I stay away from the food as much as possible because I don’t want my hands sticky when I touch all the artwork, plus our next stop is almost always the San Pedro Cafe.

The last time we were at San Pedro, Chef/Owner Michael Goodman spotted us sitting at the counter overlooking the open kitchen and asked Ed if he worked for Foodservice News. I thought for a moment Goodman was psychic—but one stool off. It turned out, he was noticing Ed’s shirt with the Foodservice News logo—the shirt is too big for me, so I let Ed wear it because it doesn’t need to be ironed.

I piped up that I worked for Foodservice News and that I had met him when I took his photo at Pazzaluna for an ad (most editors don’t take pictures for ads, but I’m an overachiever). He had no clue who I was, which led me to the conclusion that I would make a great restaurant reviewer. Not because I have the necessary skills, but because I would never have to wear disguises like former-New York Times reviewer, Ruth Reichl, author of “Garlic & Sapphires: The Secret Life of a Critic in Disguise.”

(Actually, I don’t expect anyone to know me when I’m out dining, so I’m more surprised if someone does recognize me than if they don’t. The surprise happened a couple of weeks ago when a restaurant owner knew who I was by the name on my credit card and actually kissed me on the cheek in excitement.)

But even so, I will be in the front row when Dan “Klecko” McGleno gives the keynote address at our Women in Foodservice Summit June 7, so I can learn the secrets of self-promotion from a master. And, I guess I should ask for the shirt off my husband’s back—before he starts promoting himself.


A tale of two cities

Last month I attended two trade shows —one in Palm Springs and one in Mexico City. In Palm Springs, I had trouble finding flavorful food, even at some of the best restaurants in town. It didn’t help that Publisher Mary Jo Larson told me about her breakfast meeting in the hotel’s dining room, where the coffee pot was delivered to the table with cockroaches attached. The host apologized, but made no effort to rectify the situation as they fled the restaurant. Not customer service at its best, by any means.

In Mexico, the food was fantastic. I was careful about only drinking bottled water—Mexico City, by the way, has the toughest bottles to open I’ve ever encountered. While I had blisters on my feet in Palm Springs from wearing cute shoes to walk in all day, I had blisters on my hands in Mexico from the water bottles.

By my second day in Mexico I had gotten over my fear of being kidnapped (note to husband: I’m obviously not overspending on clothes), and started to jump into cabs with reckless abandon. While the dinner at La Valentina certainly beat the food in Palm Springs the week before—cilantro soup, chicken mole and marinated fish tacos—even more nourishing was the outing the next day.

On the way to the airport, Erik Premont, a French Canadian with Boston’s Pizza who speaks Spanish better than the natives, took us to the Basilica of Our Lady Of Guadalupe to see the site where a miracle happened around 475 years ago. There is no scientific explanation of how the frail cloak of Juan Diego could have survived all these years with the image of the Mother of God permeated into the fabric. It’s been declared a supernatural occurrence.

The “painting” hangs on a rock wall with moving walkways to keep the hordes of visitors passing by in a timely manner. Perhaps because I’m a business writer, or a cynic, I found it surprising there was no entrance fee, no free-will offering. Even the entrepreneurial photographers snapping pictures of tourists in front of lavishly decorated sets of Our Lady of Guadalupe took our picture with my camera without asking for so much as a tip.

After witnessing one miracle, we later were privy to a minor one. We ordered street tacos while we waited for Erik’s driver to return, and we were handed the food on plastic plates and told to eat first, pay later. Four beef tacos with fresh salsa and lime juice were $3.70, less than the grande Starbucks drink cost me earlier in the day. I can’t imagine a NYC hot dog vendor watching with paternal pleasure as a customer downs a hot dog on a busy street corner before paying for it.

Perhaps he who dies with the most toys doesn’t really win.