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January 4, 2002
Consumer Report: Kumeu River 1998 Mate's Vineyard Chardonnay
Consumer: Angela Ostrow Product: Kumeu River 1998 Mate's Vineyard Chardonnay
This past Friday I had a dinner date scheduled with a young lady named Vanessa Cross from an organization I belong to. It's the BMG Music Service. One would think it would be impossible to meet a woman this way, but evidently there are humans at the company who do in fact read and think about the selections you buy...or don't buy. Upon rejecting the offer for the latest Enya CD a few months back, I got a reply for the very first time: "I'm sending you this card back so you can check the box and get the new Enya CD. It's really good, and based on your bland tastes, I think you'll like it -- Vanessa"
I wrote back to her: "Listen, I bought those three CDs of whale songs to fulfill my contractual obligations to your employer. I can't help the fact that the only CDs you carry from before 2000 are greatest-hits records that I've owned for years. I don't need to buy an Enya CD. If you feel so strongly about it, why don't you just send it to me?"
"I can't send you the CD unless you check the box on the card. It's policy."
"I can't imagine harassing me into buying something I don't want is policy!"
Our correspondence went on for weeks until the motive behind Vanessa's letters was revealed.
"You're right. I'm sorry. It just seems like no one's buying Enya records anymore. She seems so frail and delicate that a drop in record sales might cause her to wilt. I figured you were a new-agey type and that you'd go for it. I'm also so bored here, this livened things up for me. I didn't mean to stress you out. Let me make it up to you. I'll cook you dinner. I know where you live, and I'll be visiting family out there soon."
I agreed to this simply because I knew I could use her for one of my reports. In her final note on BMG Music Service letterhead she gave me her phone number. I called and we chatted a bit. I can't say that she was my type, but I didn't want to let her down after all that. She was my Enya.
The day before the date I went to pick up a nice bottle of wine to go with the Chicken Divan she told me she'd prepare.
I purchased Kumeu River 1998 Mate's Vineyard Chardonnay because the label was pretty and it was pricey. I rarely use my reports for my own benefit, but I needed to observe a consumer of this potent potable immediately. I began my search for a guinea pig within the immediate vicinity of the wine store. If the wine was a success with the subject, I would need to grab a second bottle from the store. If it wasn't, I would need to buy a more expensive one and run the scientific method through a second cycle. Since the pet store was closed, I went to take the $50 Chardonnay for a dry run at the only restaurant nearby: McDonald's.
Being a Consumer Reporter is not unlike being a government agent. You must spy, carefully record, and relate your observations while giving the outward appearance that you are doing none of this, and something entirely different to boot.
I ordered a Big and Tasty Extra Value Meal to try to blend in as an ordinary customer. I sat down and started scoping out the room. I needed to find a woman who a) was eating chicken, and b) fit Vanessa's description as she gave it to me over the phone. Knowing that time was against me, I spotted a very pretty girl eating a Filet O' Fish sandwich who looked vaguely like the computer-generated image I rendered from the description Vanessa gave me. Close enough.
I approached her. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"We're in a McDonald's. What sort of drink were you thinking of buying me?"
"I brought wine from next door. I was going to take it home but I'm a horrible lush and I can't make it that far without just sucking the cork right out of the bottle and drinking it on the nearest stoop. This is a very nice wine. I'd hate to have it confiscated by a police officer for violating the open-container law. So I thought I'd do the honorable thing and have it with a meal under the sanctuary of an establishment."
"My name's Ostrow, Angela Ostrow. Have a seat. I'm only doing this because it's a wacko experience I can probably use in a guide entry I'll make someday."
"Guide entry?" I was intrigued.
"I write something I like to call a 'restaurant guide.' I go to meals with people and I write about the establishment from observing their reaction to it--food, atmosphere, everything. I work as the 'straight man,' laying low and being a complimentary dining companion so my personal influence on the situation doesn't affect the entry. Of course, since you know what I'm doing I'll have to include a disclosure for my article and hope that you forget all of this in a few minutes."
"Fascinating," I said. The sudden lump in my throat caused a large bubble of carbonation from my half-swallowed gulp of Coke to issue from my gaping mouth. I took out my collapsible travel cups and corkscrew and began to poor the wine, hoping she had blinked when the bubble came out.
Ostrow took a sip. "Wow, this is good!"
We continued to drink and talk. I had never connected with someone like this before. In an hour the wine was gone and I started to get a little too loose with my tongue.
"You know, your line of work intrigues me," I began, "I myself review...uhhh..."
I almost literally choked. I couldn't let her know I was using her. The review would be compromised. Where Ostrow let me in on the deal before we began to dine together, my investigation was already underway! My manipulation would leave a bitter taste on her palate, obliterating all sensory inroads paved by the wine. I'm a professional. I couldn't taint my research.
"Uhhhh..." I was sweating profusely and turning bright red. The throbbing in my heart and in my head drowned out all other sounds.
"Are you okay?"
"I REVIEW BLOOD PRESSURE MEDICATIONS!" I blurted out. "Yes, I review blood pressure medications. First hand, nothing remotely like what you do. This one's no good, no good at all. Pumpitol gets an F. Feh. Fie. Poo."
Things then returned to normal. We talked and laughed and carried on. She told me many stories about her job, and they were all so entertaining. I was trying to move the topic away from work because I didn't want to have to cover for myself again, but I could only imagine the fireworks once were to really start "talking shop." Time flew.
"Hey, the wine store's closing soon. Let's get another bottle of this," she said.
"Fabulous. I can end this now."
"What?"
"Angela, I'm so sorry, I couldn't tell you until now. I'm a Consumer Reporter, just like you're a Restaurant Guide Writer. I couldn't say anything until I felt I'd gathered enough information about how you really felt about the wine. I've wanted to throw away my professionalism and tell you all along, but you know that's trash that can never be recycled."
She slapped me and took my hand into hers in one fluid motion. "I understand," she said.
"I knew you would." I knew she would.
The next day Vanessa came over as planned, but I introduced her to Angela and we took her out to Renaldi's. Angela learned that Vanessa found the restaurant especially warm and comforting, perhaps compensating for a childhood marked by distant parents. I came to the same conclusion by observing the way Vanessa grasped the wooden-handled knife more tightly than any other utensil. It was a pleasant tactile sensation--something solid she felt she could hold on to, something that would never ever slip away. Angela and I looked at each other and smiled when Vanessa somewhat indiscreetly put the knife into her purse.
Jonathan Land Consumer Reporter
Consumer Report: Kumeu River 1998 Mate's Vineyard Chardonnay
Consumer: Angela Ostrow Product: Kumeu River 1998 Mate's Vineyard Chardonnay
This past Friday I had a dinner date scheduled with a young lady named Vanessa Cross from an organization I belong to. It's the BMG Music Service. One would think it would be impossible to meet a woman this way, but evidently there are humans at the company who do in fact read and think about the selections you buy...or don't buy. Upon rejecting the offer for the latest Enya CD a few months back, I got a reply for the very first time: "I'm sending you this card back so you can check the box and get the new Enya CD. It's really good, and based on your bland tastes, I think you'll like it -- Vanessa"
I wrote back to her: "Listen, I bought those three CDs of whale songs to fulfill my contractual obligations to your employer. I can't help the fact that the only CDs you carry from before 2000 are greatest-hits records that I've owned for years. I don't need to buy an Enya CD. If you feel so strongly about it, why don't you just send it to me?"
"I can't send you the CD unless you check the box on the card. It's policy."
"I can't imagine harassing me into buying something I don't want is policy!"
Our correspondence went on for weeks until the motive behind Vanessa's letters was revealed.
"You're right. I'm sorry. It just seems like no one's buying Enya records anymore. She seems so frail and delicate that a drop in record sales might cause her to wilt. I figured you were a new-agey type and that you'd go for it. I'm also so bored here, this livened things up for me. I didn't mean to stress you out. Let me make it up to you. I'll cook you dinner. I know where you live, and I'll be visiting family out there soon."
I agreed to this simply because I knew I could use her for one of my reports. In her final note on BMG Music Service letterhead she gave me her phone number. I called and we chatted a bit. I can't say that she was my type, but I didn't want to let her down after all that. She was my Enya.
The day before the date I went to pick up a nice bottle of wine to go with the Chicken Divan she told me she'd prepare.
I purchased Kumeu River 1998 Mate's Vineyard Chardonnay because the label was pretty and it was pricey. I rarely use my reports for my own benefit, but I needed to observe a consumer of this potent potable immediately. I began my search for a guinea pig within the immediate vicinity of the wine store. If the wine was a success with the subject, I would need to grab a second bottle from the store. If it wasn't, I would need to buy a more expensive one and run the scientific method through a second cycle. Since the pet store was closed, I went to take the $50 Chardonnay for a dry run at the only restaurant nearby: McDonald's.
Being a Consumer Reporter is not unlike being a government agent. You must spy, carefully record, and relate your observations while giving the outward appearance that you are doing none of this, and something entirely different to boot.
I ordered a Big and Tasty Extra Value Meal to try to blend in as an ordinary customer. I sat down and started scoping out the room. I needed to find a woman who a) was eating chicken, and b) fit Vanessa's description as she gave it to me over the phone. Knowing that time was against me, I spotted a very pretty girl eating a Filet O' Fish sandwich who looked vaguely like the computer-generated image I rendered from the description Vanessa gave me. Close enough.
I approached her. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"We're in a McDonald's. What sort of drink were you thinking of buying me?"
"I brought wine from next door. I was going to take it home but I'm a horrible lush and I can't make it that far without just sucking the cork right out of the bottle and drinking it on the nearest stoop. This is a very nice wine. I'd hate to have it confiscated by a police officer for violating the open-container law. So I thought I'd do the honorable thing and have it with a meal under the sanctuary of an establishment."
"My name's Ostrow, Angela Ostrow. Have a seat. I'm only doing this because it's a wacko experience I can probably use in a guide entry I'll make someday."
"Guide entry?" I was intrigued.
"I write something I like to call a 'restaurant guide.' I go to meals with people and I write about the establishment from observing their reaction to it--food, atmosphere, everything. I work as the 'straight man,' laying low and being a complimentary dining companion so my personal influence on the situation doesn't affect the entry. Of course, since you know what I'm doing I'll have to include a disclosure for my article and hope that you forget all of this in a few minutes."
"Fascinating," I said. The sudden lump in my throat caused a large bubble of carbonation from my half-swallowed gulp of Coke to issue from my gaping mouth. I took out my collapsible travel cups and corkscrew and began to poor the wine, hoping she had blinked when the bubble came out.
Ostrow took a sip. "Wow, this is good!"
We continued to drink and talk. I had never connected with someone like this before. In an hour the wine was gone and I started to get a little too loose with my tongue.
"You know, your line of work intrigues me," I began, "I myself review...uhhh..."
I almost literally choked. I couldn't let her know I was using her. The review would be compromised. Where Ostrow let me in on the deal before we began to dine together, my investigation was already underway! My manipulation would leave a bitter taste on her palate, obliterating all sensory inroads paved by the wine. I'm a professional. I couldn't taint my research.
"Uhhhh..." I was sweating profusely and turning bright red. The throbbing in my heart and in my head drowned out all other sounds.
"Are you okay?"
"I REVIEW BLOOD PRESSURE MEDICATIONS!" I blurted out. "Yes, I review blood pressure medications. First hand, nothing remotely like what you do. This one's no good, no good at all. Pumpitol gets an F. Feh. Fie. Poo."
Things then returned to normal. We talked and laughed and carried on. She told me many stories about her job, and they were all so entertaining. I was trying to move the topic away from work because I didn't want to have to cover for myself again, but I could only imagine the fireworks once were to really start "talking shop." Time flew.
"Hey, the wine store's closing soon. Let's get another bottle of this," she said.
"Fabulous. I can end this now."
"What?"
"Angela, I'm so sorry, I couldn't tell you until now. I'm a Consumer Reporter, just like you're a Restaurant Guide Writer. I couldn't say anything until I felt I'd gathered enough information about how you really felt about the wine. I've wanted to throw away my professionalism and tell you all along, but you know that's trash that can never be recycled."
She slapped me and took my hand into hers in one fluid motion. "I understand," she said.
"I knew you would." I knew she would.
The next day Vanessa came over as planned, but I introduced her to Angela and we took her out to Renaldi's. Angela learned that Vanessa found the restaurant especially warm and comforting, perhaps compensating for a childhood marked by distant parents. I came to the same conclusion by observing the way Vanessa grasped the wooden-handled knife more tightly than any other utensil. It was a pleasant tactile sensation--something solid she felt she could hold on to, something that would never ever slip away. Angela and I looked at each other and smiled when Vanessa somewhat indiscreetly put the knife into her purse.
Jonathan Land Consumer Reporter
The Consumer Reporter