Black-water Blues

Seeing that Kellogg’s, Weight Watchers and all the fancy sports clubs in Manhattan opened the year with declaring war on national obesity under the slogan “diet or die,” Starbucks joined in with a relevant “Skinny Latte” campaign too. I used to be a happy coffee drinker totally oblivious of such irrelevant facts as calorie contents - until now. Thank you, so much! I will add this one to my “Reasons Why I Hate the Starbucks phenomenon” list.
Then, I opened the Business pages of the New York Times today (after my four day boycott due to their public endorsement of the “appropriate” presidential candidates) and I found this heartbreaking story of Starbucks store closings. I got so excited after reading that they might potentially get rid of a hundred (!) under performing stores across the US that I almost skipped the main chart at the left bottom of the article. I was thinking, well finally 2008 may well be a lean year for dedicated weight fighters and the Coffee Predator too. Hahaa!
And then came the chart-shock which put the drama of the day into statistical context turning it into a tragicomedy. The coffee behemoth owns 15,000 stores around the world so closing a hundred is clearly a minute storm in the coffee cup. As the company realized that US coffee addicts suffer from Starbucks-fatigue, in 2008 it decided to focus on Starbucks-rookie overseas markets. (Yes, they will make coffee history in Hungary too this year, which will officially conclude our post-communist reintegration to the civilized world. It was high time.)
Nevertheless, the age of fatigue of some sort finally arrived at least to the US. Starbucks representatives said that the main reason behind the closings is the company’s recognition of the “cannibalization”, “over-saturation” and “commoditization” of the “Starbucks Experience.” A.k.a. vandalizing coffee culture and degrading baristas to chain-producer corporate slaves who are totally alienated from the caffeine-rich “output.”
After a historical drop in domestic Starbucks consumption, the marketing department finally realized that it might be a good idea to turn “back to back” as cozy coffee shops across the street are enjoying loyal customer support and steady demand with offering a set of, say, five coffee options instead of 150.
The fascinating thing about this phenomenon is the long circle the company made. It started with coffee it became an entirely different story with sugar-free cinnamon dolce syrups, smelly morning sandwiches and pre-packed chicken curry salads (what does THAT has to do with an espresso?) but now it is heading back to the original "coffee thing" again.
It's been a long way, indeed. It opened its first stores with the vision that one day its brand name will be the synonym of coffee. In many ways, and for many it is today indeed. To have a “Starbucks break” (i.e. coffee break) and to “grab a Starbucks” (i.e. have a coffee) have become an inherent a part of the American language, the two words being mutually exchangeable. But as we have seen dot com bubbles and housing bubbles burst, Starbucks had better swam than sank before a more painful downturn kicks in.
If this involves turning noisy glocal skim-latte factories into cozier coffee shops with better service, more to-stay options and shifting the focus from the branding process to the brewing process, all the better for the black-water buffs. If not, even the most addicted ones will learn how to make two inch high milk foam and a perfect espresso at home.

Fine American Gastronomy

If I say “American cuisine”, most Europeans endowed with rich gastronomical culture would cynically giggle and think of nasty sodium-filled hamburgers, occasionally de-Frenchised, but “all-American” fries, on-the-go hot dogs, cholesterol ridden barbecue ribs and thousand-calorie triple chocolate cookies. Today, even the mere term “American cuisine” sounds a little too elegant in view of the culinary clichés associated with the US, suggesting that microwave-ready junk meals and fast food belongs to the gastronomical premier league.
But strikingly enough, most Americans I talked to about US cooking culture were swollen with pride about their amazingly tasty “authentic” meals like a good Tex-Mex or cheese steak. I overheard American remarks in the finest restaurants in Paris how much they are longing for a good bucket of Buffalo Wings. I snobbishly rolled my eyes thinking they know nothing about good food, these people. Then traveling around this vast country I came to two basic realizations.
Number one: the maxim is indeed true that “what is food to one, is to others bitter poison.” Some fall for steaks and some fall for snails. Both can be ill-prepared and well-prepared. I happen not to go nuts for steaks, BBQs, fries, casseroles, doughnuts, corn flakes and fudge. But millions here do and maybe it’s just a matter of conditioning your taste buds and tummy to more hearty dishes.
Number two: Americans do have their own heritage of quality cuisine it just happened to be systematically shattered by the golden-arched junk food culture that is both cheaper and more time efficient.
Today, 96 per cent of kids recognize Ronald McDonald (only Santa tops him) and the world famous “golden” M is more widely recognized in this most religious Western country than the Christian cross (see Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food Nation on other shocking culinary observations).
It has not always been like this.
Before Big Mac conquered the hearts of Joe, before Happy Meal started to mean nuggets and cheap toys, before women entered the labor market to generate more disposable income… American moms had and took time to cook and they cooked a variety of tasty meals. Back in the 1940s when GM was associated with automotives and not jumbo size yellow tomatoes of questionable origin, less than one fourth of American’s food dollars went to meals-away-from-home. Nowadays almost half of the average American household’s food spending contributes to the thriving of fast food chains, restaurants, delis, etc.
Waist-sizes doubling, diabetes booming and the nationwide obesity epidemic are its domestic implications. But as internationally the gastro-flagships of America became KFC, Pizza Hut and MacDo, the image of US cuisine around the world degraded to the lowest quality of consumable foodstuff that one can imagine. No wonder most people think that “American” and “cuisine” is an embellishment, oxymoron or a bad joke.
Too bad, because there’s some good stuff that tastes great over here that’s as American as apple pie.

East Side Story

One of the many things I loved about my CFR internship was its East Side location. Every Thursday morning when I stepped out from Bard Hall on West 58^th Street I felt a hint of energy boost. It’s 20 minute walk across Midtown, along the Southern end of the Park, then up north on Fifth Avenue reaching my final destination twenty blocks and a world away from my home in Midtown West.
Once you reach the East Side, things get both prudently humane and callously classy. Streets get wider, buildings get lower and people’s walking pace slows down a little…only a little, of course. Full-time moms who all look like Vogue models right off the covert of the magazine coolly walk their cat-size dogs and take their wellington booted GAP kids to nationally ranked Interschools down the street.
West Side Chinese, Thai and Mexican takeaways are replaced by cozy French patisseries, Italian specialty stores, hundred-bucks-a-bouquet flower shops and a plethora of nail and spa salons.
Time is money but apparently people (or at least people’s wives) have sufficient reserves of both of them on the Upper East. So you would think that once you can afford to live on the East Side, you’d know that you made it.
Actually, it’s not the case or at least less and less so. They say that the East Side moves more and more East across the river, and up the hill, all the way to Brooklyn Heights. A visit to the neighborhoody Park Slope and Prospect Park will suffice to understand why.
Life’s less exquisite in the usual “Manhattan way” but the quality of everydays is more alluring. Those who are ready to give up the row of chic boutiques, celebrity neighbors and absurdly pricy restaurants get taxi-honkless nights and days, relatively tourist-free environment, blue sky, green parks and fresh air. As Brooklyn Heights is rezoning, refurbished and reborn, an increasing number of Manhattanites with or without kids are set to make the trade-off. An average median price of $400-$500 per square foot sounds much better than the Upper East Side’s $1,100. Inevitably, the affluent’s migration, however, is gradually pushing up property prices over the river and might potentially spoil the distinctive ambiance of Brooklyn’s most adorable quarters. But that will be the problem of the next generation of the privileged.

Le Monde de Manhattan

As much as they hate Americans, “Ze French” are omnipresent in this city. Even with Manhattan being one of the most un-French places of America. First of all, people work a lot here. Second, they don’t take time to eat. Third, they tend to work out on a daily basis. Therefore, once experiencing the real art de vivre in France, I thought New York would definitely not be their place.
Well, I was wrong. It just so happens that French is the third most spoken foreign language here, after Spanish and Chinese. (Provided, of course, that we still consider Spanish a foreign language in this country.) They come in massive floods, more than three hundred thousand a year from L’Hexagone to visit. Many of them decide to stay for good and join the exclusive community of bienhereux French expat metropolitans.
What I adore about French expats, though, is their obstinate reluctance to adopt American habits and their deep commitment to their own culture. It’s both entertaining and enviable.
You occasionally meet one or two in the gym but they are the laziest ones in class. (…the French don’t work out.) You see them in line in Whole Foods, but what do they buy? Roquefort and French imported wine. (…the French don’t eat American crap) They pack the halls of museums, but they faithfully stick to Cezanne, Monet, Renoir and Co. (…the French have an adequate amount of of world class painters, why would they care about American artists?)
They’re also there in the best cafes that serve coffee in real mugs and they pack the most excellent dance performances of the Joyce Theater. They’re also all out in Central Park when the weather is idyllically pleasant, oh no, not jogging of course: simply enjoying the intense unseasonal sunshine.
Wherever they go, they tend to flock together and speak French, which is the only reason you can tell there are so many of them. French language, one that everyone must speak even in New York is the indistinguishable symbol of their national pride. For them it is perfectly natural to start and end a conversation without even trying to switch over to the local language. The mere fact that you are able to reply, give directions, chit chat or joke in their native tongue in a city that is not even on their continent hardly ever impresses them. Not that I mind practicing but a little back-patting never hurts. Even so, French two-sentence-conversations became such an ordinary part of my days that sometimes I honestly forget what the official language of this country is. Then I quickly realize that in fact, there isn’t one.

Day of Crude Reckoning

Taking a yearend look at crazily bouncing crude oil prices of the passing months, “Drive less, walk more, change to hybrid” probably would win the 2007 New Year resolution Contest. Econ headlines this fall sounded like a broken record, one from America’s not-so-favorite selection, with a tuneful “$100-a-bar-rel” being the all-repetitive hit verse.
I remember several days at CNN, anxiously anticipating that crude will hit the magic two zero number in just any moment, and then of course it always failed to. So we had to end the day with just another semi-boring market wrap up perversely highlighting the non-event of “we were almost there today.” I honestly felt the nerve racking excitement (one that only sick business people and even sicker business media people feel) those days that I too will be there, in the middle of everything when history is made.
Irony of fate: history was made once I was finally out of there. In fact, being the furthest down South in the Sunny State, I can’t possibly be more out of there now. Irony of irony: Wall Street did not crash, Bush is tranquil in his Oval-o and Americans still drive around their comfy SUVs. (I swear they do, I saw tons them on the highway driving back from Orlando today.)
So the world did not stop revolving around itself. Well, at least not yet. The hardcore trickledown effect is still ahead, as the unusually icy January that freezes scrumptious Florida strawberry fields and scares away even the most devout Disney fanatics has only just begun.
Think tanks and market analysts up in the less sunny capital have long warned that it’s just a matter of time until we see a three digit number on flashy stock billboards that bulls have also been hypnotizing 24/7 for so months. But as soon as the clear and present danger was over and people wiped the sweat of oily stress off their foreheads, they quickly forgot about ugly-bugly market numbers and switched up gears with the usual sense of all-American “I-can-still-afford-it” comfort.
When the closing bell rang yesterday, crude oil finished slightly under $100 again, in the psychologically safe zone of the nineties. So, probably few Americans will suffer from neurotic nightmares of flying hundred-dollar bills, SUV-less Wal-Mart bus trips with sadistically laughing Saudi princes.
Alas, we’re not as far from these wakeful nights as many would wish. So, those who traded weight-loss promises to greener gas pledges on New Year’s Eve, will definitely have more sleep this winter.