I mentioned that I was going to write a column about my disappointment with the Lunds ’n’ Byerly’s au jus sauce. I did. Saturday, in real life, I took it back.
Found a manager near the front, asked if she had a moment. She did. The store wasn’t too busy and I didn’t catch her in the middle of something, but I’m sure she had something to do; such is the life of the manager. I held up the bottle.
“First I have to ask, do you like French Dip?”
“No,” she said, quickly and firmly. “But I’m a very particular eater.”
The implication being that I was some come-one-come-all gob-slob shoveling cow scraps into my meat hole.
“Well, you know what they’re like.”
“Mmmmm not really.”
Okay, I’m sorry, but even if you’re vegan now you had a French Dip at some point in your life. You know the basics. But I was lost with this one. I just said “it’s about the flavor of this au jus sauce,” and she said “You know what, let me get (name of employee), he’s our foodie.”
That would be fine. Eventually he came over, a bright and cheerful chap, and I started again. Do you like French Dip? Oh, yes.
“So you know what the sauce is supposed to be. Beef-forward. Brothy, bovril, bouillon?”
“Yes!”
“Well, this -“ and I held up the bottle - “is soy sauce.”
He winced a little. “Yes. Welllll . . .”
“I mean, it’s not just soy-related, it’s all soy all day. There’s nothing of the beefiness you want.”
Whereupon he said that he agreed, and that it was not one of their finer moments. It really wasn’t. It lacked what one would expect from an au jus sauce.
“Ah! So I’m not unjustified in wanting to return it?”
“Absolutely not! Anything time you’re unsatisfied with one of our products, please tell us about it.”
“I was just surprised, because your stuff is always so good, I mean, that pickle hot sauce you rolled out a few years ago -“
He scrunched up his face and did the chef’s kiss, so I knew we were brothers now.
“I just thought it was a strange misfire. Okay, I feel vindicated.”
“You know though, soy sauce is part of au jus. If you look at the little jugs, they say soy sauce.”
“You mean the Johnnie’s jugs. I looked. No they don’t.”
“Yeses, they do.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yes they do.”
(I am not making any of this up.)
“Well, I’ll check, but the point is, I never dipped in the stuff from a Johnnie’s and thought whoa, that’s a lot of soy.”
I checked when I got home, and we’re both right. It doesn’t say soy sauce. It says “Water, Hydrolized Vegetable Protein. (Corn, soy, wheat)” which is different from having FARGIN’ SOY SAUCE as your primary taste-tone, okay?
My wife could not believe I took it back. After we’d opened it? And used it? Yes, but we only used it about an inch past the neck, which is what you’d expect for a single meal. I’m going to buy some London Broil and try it again this week with the Johnnie’s, and crow with triumph: THIS is how it’s done.
Was that the highlight of the weekend? Mmmmm no, but close. I worked on this and that, behind-the-scenes things no one will notice but placate my desire for completeness. I finished off the dregs of the Traders Joe Winter Wheat Bourbon, which was cancelled, and will never pass my lips again.
I watched two new television shows and fell in love with both of them instantly.
I took a nap with Birch, and there’s nothing better than napping with a dog.
I got a voice message from a Dutchman who was having stroopwaffles with Natalie in Amsterdam. I could explain, but really, that’s what it was.
Oh, before I forget: remember on Friday when I said I should run "Punk Fenster" through the AI Art program to see if if gave me Jackie Koogan with a mohawk? Here's what it delivered.
Why all the windows?
I think I know.
Back to the worst serial I've ever seen. And in such good condition!
When last we saw our hero - well, here’s the card.
That’s it. That’s all you need, I suppose. So the henchmen were tossing grenades at our heroes, and we saw one land right in front of the car! Well:
Meanwhile, back at the Invisible Monster’s den, he’s bitching about his inability to get the safe open. One of his reluctant henchmen - remember, they’re all illegals from Europe who fled tyranny, but now find themselves working for IM under threat of exposure and deportation - offers the possibility of acid.
Our hero - an insurance investigator, I think - goes to a chemical company to investigate the origins of a substance they found in the bank heist. He’s stirred up a hornet’s nest! HATS SECURELY ON, FELLAS:
Okay, one guy loses his hat, but there’s a spare on the counter.
The chemist gets the drop on our hero, and there’s more punching. In the annals of serial choreography, this one has a doozy. I’ve watched it three times and it just gets funnier:
They knock him out but run away. Our hero tells his Gal Companion they’re going to tag all the inventory with radioactive materials, so they can trace it. As it moves through the city. I guess. Well, it was a more casual era.
The Invisible Monster heads to the chemical plant, and uses his special cloaking beam to make himself invisible, and also alert everyone to his presence with a bright light, and also, there’s no one there.
World-class stealth here, guys:
Anyway, he steals the acid, and gives it to the henches, who have . . . moved the test safe door to a residential neighborhood?
Yes.
She comes in the front to distract them, Steve comes in the back, has the drop on everyone, but that won’t do; we need the third fight. Note the indistinct way in which Carol’s put out of commission:
The fight that follows is one of the more sustained examples of hats-on fighting I’ve ever seen. Of course acid is spilled, and moves towards the metal rod holding up the safe door, under which Carol lies unconscious.
And so:
Juvenile boys in the audience thought “good, that means there won’t be any mushy girl stuff. Well, except for the mushy girl stuff.
That'll do! Some matchbooks await your perusal. |
