Tag Archives: Julie Seyler

Popped My Cork Over Restaurant’s “Cakeage” Fee

27 Tuesday Aug 2013

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Cakeage fees. Per slice.

Cakeage fees. Per slice.

BY JULIE SEYLER

A couple of weeks ago, I went out to dinner at a Turkish restaurant on the East Side of Manhattan. There were nine of us celebrating the birthday of a mother/grandmother/aunt who was turning 87. We were hungry and thirsty, so cocktails were ordered, a couple of bottles of wine were drunk, five or six appetizers studded the table, four different types of salad appeared, and everybody ordered an entree. We were stuffed to the brim before the main course was served, but we couldn’t resist devouring every morsel because the food was delicious.

We allowed about five minutes to pass so we could digest, and decided it was time to bring out the vanilla and chocolate Carvel ice cream cake that the birthday girl’s daughter had picked up. It’s her Mom’s favorite. The waiter came over, and promptly announced that the restaurant charged $2.50 per person to serve the cake. Like corkage charges for opening a bottle of wine, the restaurant industry has adopted the phenomenon of a “cakeage” fee. I was clueless, but what I gathered from the other dinner guests is that this has become a well-known and common practice. So common that it is accepted with a sigh.This was not my immediate reaction.

I was outraged. The restaurant doesn’t even serve birthday cake. If you don’t bring your own cake you have the option of sticking a candle in any of the following dessert choices:

Baklava-  very thin layers of dough with walnuts in between layers.

Kadayif -shredded wheat with pistachios soaked in syrup.

Kayisi -poached apricots stuffed with whole almonds and turkish heavy cream.

Keskul -almond pudding made with milk and cracked almonds.

Kunefe -shredded wheat with pistachios and cheese soaked in syrup.

Revani -semolina-based pistachio cake soaked in honey syrup.

Sutlac -baked rice pudding made with milk, rice, and sugar.

Now, really! If you want the look and feel of a simulated party with birthday cake do you want to put a candle in some pistachio-studded shredded wheat? I am sure every option is yummy, but they sound like breakfast foods- absolutely not fitting for a someone who was born in 1926!

I acknowledge that $2.50 is not an excessive amount to charge especially since online research reveals that some restaurants charge $10.00 per person for a “cakeage” fee. So the fact that an additional $22.50, plus the standard city tax of 8% would have increased the bill by $25.00 is hardly worth getting upset over.

But what is awful, at least in the opinion of my right-sided, 50-year-old soul, is the idea that after wining and dining in a convivial setting where you have willingly, and joyfully, overpaid for cocktails and wine, and are aware that an 18% tip will be automatically applied to the bill, the restaurant has the nerve to feel justified in charging a fee for slicing a birthday cake. It just feels like unnecessary gouging. But that’s that’s life in 2013. We pay to have our baggage put on and off the plane. We pay to get two more inches of legroom once seated in the plane, and we pay for food to be served to us halfway through the flight. These small amenities used to be standard, but the “Pay for It Plan” has been so successful that the hotel industry is jumping on the bandwagon.

A recent article in The New York Times reported that hotel management has devised a fee for checking out early. Excuse me? The joy and pleasure of my hard-earned vacation dollars are being ruled by whether I have to pay $20 because I decide to drive to the Rocky Mountains on Saturday instead of Sunday? You’ve got to be kidding me. It may only be $20 but it’s the relentless constant inch-by-inch movement in this direction, and the attitude that we will pay because we have no choice.

All I can think if is that song “Money Makes the World Go ‘Round,” sung so brilliantly by Joel Grey in “Cabaret.”

In any case, it is nice to remember that we once lived in a world where the philosophy of good business was in the offering of a lagniappe.

Do I Really Need My Hip Roadster?

22 Thursday Aug 2013

Posted by in Confessional

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Eight years later.

Eight years later.

BY JULIE SEYLER

By the time I turned 49, I had acquired a co-op apartment, and a cat, but no kids. So when I turned 50, I decided to buy myself a birthday present: a two-seater car with a convertible top. It was a really cute car, and I assumed that my body, unlike my face, would never change. (My legs would always possess the supple flexibility needed to get in and out of the car. Ha Ha!) After receiving a diagnosis of bone-on-bone arthritis last year, I was humbled. My brand new hip joint is mighty fine, but I am not sure I would have chosen the same automobile if I knew then what I know now – namely that at some point after one’s 5Oth year, the body becomes less obedient. In any event, the total hip replacement restored my mobility, and agility sufficiently enough that I’m back to jauntily tootling about in my pint-sized roadster.

I didn’t really need a car in Manhattan. I bought it to drive back and forth to Allenhurst, New Jersey between Memorial Day and Labor Day. After relying on the North Jersey Coast Line for 17 years, and arranging with my girlfriend to pick me up every Saturday morning, I was ready to take matters into my own hands. I wanted to enjoy the New Jersey Turnpike from behind the wheel of my car.

So the car only gets exercise for about three months of the year. Otherwise, I don’t drive. In fact I don’t really like driving, and I really detest driving in New York City. The atonal symphony of screeching horns, the zig-zagging cab drivers, the lumbering pushiness of tourist buses and MTA buses, the bike riders on testosterone, and maniacal pedestrians that dart out in the middle of the street – all vying for the same sliver of real estate – leaves me sitting clenched at the edge of my seat clutching that steering wheel for dear life. I am never so happy as when I pull into my garage and gleefully turn the valet key over to the parking attendant.

Given my driving routine, it makes complete sense that the odometer reads less than 28,000 miles eight years after the car was purchased. I cannot consider selling it because based on my per annum mileage accumulation, I will only have 112,000 miles on it by 2030. I can then register it as an antique. Of course I’ll be a bit antiquish by then, but who cares especially if 75 is the new 55.

Floating Along for Nine Months

19 Monday Aug 2013

Posted by in Art

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Buoys on a boat

Buoys on a boat. Photo by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Here’s to friends, families and followers of The Write Side of 50, who, much like buoys on a boat, preserve and moor us. You have helped to keep us afloat for nine months now. Thanks.

Hey Bartender, Where’s My O’Doul’s?

15 Thursday Aug 2013

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P1170652

BY JULIE SEYLER

I have a friend who, for one reason or another, and many in between reasons, has given up alcohol. She has no complaints but one. When going out to eat, she would love to participate in the cocktail hour with a delicious non-alcoholic beer, and no, she does not want a virgin Bloody Mary. She wants a beer – the nice malty carbonated taste of hops, sans the alcohol.

She’s on the West Coast and I’m on the East Coast. We got together recently for a mini-reunion. We stayed at a great hotel in a resort town on the beach. We went out to dinner every night, but it didn’t matter if it was upscale, or downscale, she could not score the drink of her choice. Not one restaurant stocked non-alcoholic beer. One proprietor explained because there is so little demand, he simply does not bother. We refused to drop the topic, and asked would it be that big a deal to keep one case of O’Doul’s or St. Pauli Girl on hand? He said he would consider it.

I promised her that when I got back to New York City, I would start a campaign to raise restaurant awareness that non-alcoholic beers should be included on the drinks menu.

So now whenever I go out, I ask for a non-alcoholic beer. If they do not have any, I go through my spiel about how there are non-drinkers in the world who still want the option of having an alternative to a Coca-Cola or a virgin Bloody when they dine out, and restaurants should accommodate them.

On behalf of my buddy in LA, please spread the word.

No Matter How You Slice It (or Rip It), Bread Rules

13 Tuesday Aug 2013

Posted by in Food

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bread at fisherman's wharf

BY JULIE SEYLER

There are bread people and non-bread people. Bread people eschew store-bought packaged brands as a tasteless waste of carbs, BUT completely justify gobbling up an entire loaf from their favorite bakery because of the divine indulgence imparted from well-baked kneaded flour.

Bread people swoon over seeing a loaf with a golden-brown crackly crust, while envisioning the crunch as that first chunk is ripped off to start nibbling on before they’ve even paid the cashier.

Tearing open bread

Tearing open bread.

They debate the merits of this loaf:

bread1

With that loaf:

bread2

And if they can’t decide which is tastier, they buy both, and compare and contrast each until each loaf has vanished in their stomach.

And they definitely know not to buy one of these loaves:

bad bread

The lack of pop, crackle and crust is all too obvious and sad.

I have been a bread person since, well, since as long as I can remember. I used to have the nickname, “Bread,” coined by one of my best friends in 5th grade. It may be a gene thing because the entire maternal line waxes romantically over baked dough. When my mother moved back to the city after a 50-year hiatus, she spent endless hours tracking down the best rye breads ever.

A bread person is lucky to live in Manhattan because of the cornucopia of establishments that feature fresh baked bread:

le pain quotidienne
maison kaysereli zabar copy

Anyway, this whole line of bread thought came to mind because a recent article in The New York Times reported the declining consumption of bread amongst the French. It has caused much so much consternation that the bread lobby organized a campaign to reinvigorate consumer desire in the baguette. The advertisements promote eating bread because it is “rich in vegetal protein and fiber and low in fat.” It is good for your social life, and most importantly, patriotic, because bread is the symbol of French culture and heritage. It is true that there is nothing more wonderful then wandering through the streets of a small village in France in the early morning while the aroma of bread wafts through the air.

So, while Parisians are being bombarded with the merits of eating bread, New Yorkers are going to court over the size of a soft drink cup. C’est la difference!

Hey TSA: Don’t ‘Wave Me Up, Pat Me Down

07 Wednesday Aug 2013

Posted by in Opinion, Travel

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Scanned

Scanned at the airport.

BY JULIE SEYLER

It is standard fare: the excitement of a flight-based vacation tempered by the prospect of wending one’s way through the layers of security imposed by the Transportation Security Administration (TSA). Actually, dealing with security issues begins at home, when we have to remember to not inadvertently pack that new 6.5 ounce tube of toothpaste in the carry-on bag, and ends when we remove our footwear so that we can stroll through the device that detects gadgets hidden in the nether regions of the body. It is unpleasant, but necessary, given the harsh and horrible reality that there are people out there bent on designing ways to blow up airplanes.

For years we have been walking through machines that detect only metal objects. But because they were ineffective against plastic, gels, ceramics and other solids, new technology arose in the form of whole-body scanners. Setting aside issues of privacy (and there are many), these machines pictorially undress you and scan and scope the body for everything. After the hue and cry that the government was deploying radiation in the name of security, and simultaneously increasing every traveler’s chance of cancer by so many leaps and bounds, we are now subjected to scans that operate on millimeter wave technology. According to the TSA and various other Web sites, millimeter wave technology is perfectly safe because it does not use ionizing radiation to zap you.

I did not know all this when I went to Puerto Rico in March 2013 with a friend for a 4-day trip, but I knew the basic ritual. I was directed towards the body scanner, or as I prefer to call it, the ‘Wave Machine. It looks like a silver cylinder pod, somewhat reminiscent of the transformer from Star Trek. At the time, I had heard vague buzz that these scanners were not so safe, but the TSA guard pooh-poohed me. She explained the machine operates on microwaves, not Xrays. No fear of being irradiated in the name of safety.

I waltzed into the pod, held my hands up, was microwaved, and cleared security. I met my girlfriend on the other side. She said she would never go through one of them, and had opted for the pat down.

I said, “Why? I was just assured how safe they were.”

She rolled her eyes and said, “Hah!”

Fast forward five months, and I am back in an airport having to go through security. I see the ‘Wave Machine, and I see the standard issue metal detector, and recalling my girlfriend’s, “Hah!” I proceed to walk through the metal detector. I am immediately halted by the TSA guard.

“You cannot use this machine. You need to use that machine.” He pointed to the ‘Wave.

“But I do not want to go through the ‘Wave Machine.”

“Well, then you have to get patted down.”

“Fine.”

“You might have to wait.”

“Fine.”

So as I am waiting, I see a woman sail through the metal detector. I figure the TSA guy must have made a mistake, so I try to walk through again. And again I am halted.

“How come she gets to go through?”

“She has a child.”

“So what!”

“Only adults with children, and employees, are allowed to use these machines.”

“Whoa, you have got to be kidding me!”

“No. Those are the rules.”

Hmmm. Is the TSA practicing a little unequal protection on the bodily harm spectrum? Even though the online literature repeatedly states that non-ionizing radiation is perfectly safe, does the TSA know something else? Has it perhaps determined that the organs and tissues of little lads and lasses, as well as employees of the TSA, are too delicate and vulnerable to be microwaved, but the rest of us wear invisible armor that protects against the assault of the people scanner?

I would love to see the risk assessment memos on this issue, penned by the lawyers and actuaries: Please analyze the monetary damages if a six year old successfully sues for wave damage vs. what would be incurred if a 60 year old sued.

The mere fact is that it would be so much more difficult to establish the link, so cause and effect on someone who has lived beyond 18 must have made it a no-brainer for the TSA to institute this policy. Or am I merely a right-side-of-50 cynic?

Fifteen minutes later the pat-down lady showed up. And on I went through security.

It’s Only Rock ‘N’ Roll, and I (Don’t) Like It

02 Friday Aug 2013

Posted by in Confessional

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the fountain of music copy

BY JULIE SEYLER

When Mick Jagger turned 70 on July 26, it seemed the entire population on the right side of 50 screamed, “Happy Birthday!” In unison. The “King of Rock ‘n’ Roll” remains a compact, sexy ball of youth.

But not only were we toasting him, somehow it became about us. If he is living proof that playing in a rock ‘n’ roll band de-fertilizes the creeping, creepy vine called “Age,” we post-50-year-olds are a testament that being faithful listeners to rock ‘n’ roll keeps us springy in spine, and open in outlook. The message came over loud and clear to my high school class, or at least to those of us who are planning to attend the party commemorating our departure 40 years ago from the hallowed home of the Spartans.

The reunion e-mail chain erupted with anecdotes about the healing and restorative power of rock ‘n’ roll, and the days when it ruled our lives. One women recalled that after seeing Black Sabbath at Convention Hall in Asbury Park, she had no choice but to bring her favorite Black Sabbath record into typing class. Without a whimper from the teacher, it seems the class learned the keyboard listening to “Fairies Wear Boots.” The advice was non-negotiable: revisit the musical landscape of the 1970s, or be doomed to overripe maturity!

I felt despair. I never really cottoned to rock ‘n’ roll. Perhaps my downfall was not taking that typing class. I figured I was about 99 years old on the chronological youth chart. I did not even have one good rock concert up my sleeve. While everyone else was (and still is) drinking from the bottomless pit of the greatest guitar hits of 1973, all I have to rely on are memories of endless hours listening to Billie Holiday sing Gershwin tunes.

I was lamenting my old age dilemma to my friend Lucy “Jagger,” who happens to be on the right side of 60.

She said, “Fear not my friend. I can help you rehash some of the greatest moments in musical history, and thereby start you on the path to reach the fountain of youth.”

She promised me I could borrow her greatest rock ‘n’ roll moments if I promised to watch only Mick Jagger videos on YouTube, and give up Richard Burton. Only kidding. She adores Richard Burton as much as I do, but would never be caught watching a YouTube video. But she did treat me to the vicarious thrill of her:

• Watching Jimi Hendrix play guitar at a Syracuse University frat party circa 1966-67.
• Attending the concert where Bob Dylan played electric guitar for the first time.
• Screaming her head off at the 1965 Beatles’ concert in Shea Stadium.
• Showing up at practically every single Rolling Stones concert that hit the United States in the ’60s.

As a cribber of Lucy’s tales of rock ‘n’ roll, I felt younger already. Whew!

Duane Reade: “Be My Guest.” No Thanks!

29 Monday Jul 2013

Posted by in Concepts

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Don't call me guest.

BY JULIE SEYLER

I am thinking about the most minor and insignificant of annoyances that pop up when what was once the common and the usual, shifts to a new code of unfamiliar nonsense.

At the moment, my pet peeve is being called a “guest” as in “next guest” at my local drugstore. Really? The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines guest as a person entertained in one’s house. Since Duane Reade is not an abode, and I am not visiting to be entertained, I am hardly a guest. I am merely someone who has stopped by to drop money on assorted sundries.

But my question is: when and why did my “customer” status morph into guest-dom? Did some marketing wizard send out a memorandum:

To all Employees:

Profits can be increased 50% if our paying public feels warm and cozy!

Give them the feeling that they are entering our living room!

Make them feel special and connected to the cashier.

They are our GUESTS!

But I do not want to be a guest. I just want to be told I’m next in line so I can move on. And get out of the drugstore.