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For some reason, I started thinking yesterday about how I’m not very good at acting, but I’ve nevertheless starred in my fair share of plays. For some reason, acting in the school play is something of an American archetype; almost everyone has done it, and we can all relate to sitcom episodes that portray the childhood fears that come with these productions.

In retrospect, the roles I’ve played generally seem to fit me surprisingly well, almost too well in some cases. Below is my acting resume, to the best of my recollection, for your review and amusement.

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1991: “Narrator,” untitled Mother’s Day play
I was one of the few kindergarteners who could really read, so this was a fairly straightforward casting choice. To be honest, I have no memory of what the play was about, although I know for a fact that we have the program in a box of my old things back home; it was printed from a dot-matrix printer. I do remember that they served tea and that my mother did attend.

1994: “Boy #3,” How the West was Really Won
This one was a musical! I had a few forgettable lines as Boy #3 (and I am pretty sure I was #3 and not #2 or #4); something about Horatio Alger, as I recall. I had to wear suspenders. My friend Vikas had a much more prominent role as “the prompter”, who had to remind the aging narrator to stay on topic.

The entire group sang all the songs as a chorus, though; the only song title I can remember is “Silver in Washoe,” whose tune I actually remember pretty well. I confidently sang the line “silver on the Comstock Lode / silver in Washoe / Hi ho, hi ho, hi ho” but had utterly no idea what a ‘Comstock Lode‘ was until today, when I looked it up for this post.

My only other vivid memory from this performance is that I had a terrible itch on my right calf during the performance, and I started scratching it pretty aggressively (I was standing in the background with the chorus during a soliloquy, with the lights down, so it’s not quite as bad as it sounds), until Mrs. Jordan disgustedly motioned to me that I should stop. I’ll never forget her expression.

ca. 1996: “The Manager,” Interview
This was a Tamil-language play performed at some Tamil Sangam function I can’t remember, maybe the Pongal celebration. The performance of this play, which was perhaps fifteen minutes long, is almost certainly the longest period in my life over which I have exclusively spoken my mother tongue.

Interview, which starred a number of kids from the Tamil community, was a straightforward comedy of errors. I was a manager looking to hire someone for an accounting position. I had a peon (see the “South Asian English” usage) who showed in a series of candidates who turned out to be musicians and dancers, not accountants. I became increasingly exasperated (obviously, this wasn’t a very challenging role for me to play) until the straw that broke the camel’s back: a couple of would-be rock stars, one of whom was played rather embarrasedly by my brother, burst in and started belting out “Beat It.” Seeing my mounting rage, my office assistant, played by Harry, finally admitted that he had taken a second job at a music school because he was having trouble making ends meet, and he accidentally mixed up the contact information with another job posting he had made. I was credited by the director with saving the play when I ad-libbed a prompting line to my peon, who seemed to have forgotten that he was supposed to bring in the next candidate.

I recall distinctly that my mother forced me to join this play. My audition consisted exclusively of the director asking to me to call him an idiot; I didn’t want to be there, but at that age, I was powerless to resist taking that particular kind of bait, and I was cast. Thinking about it now, I’m certain that my mom had already agreed that I would play the lead role before we ever arrived there.

1998: “Zach,” eighth grade play whose name I can’t remember
My memories of this one are hazy; I think the play was generally about a mysterious event in a classroom, something like discovering a weird skull that could have had ancient powers, or a curse, or something equally thrilling. The cast was reasonably large, probably fifteen students, with “Dirk” being the ringleader, a likeable smart aleck with a hairstyle that I, for whatever reason, generally associated with such people. I distinctly remember thinking how much cooler he was than me.

Zach, on the other hand, was the nerd of the class, and the voice of reason — I’m fairly certain about having a line that there “must be a rational explanation” for the paranormal phenomenon that gave the fictional class of students so much concern. I also remember a rehearsal in which I tried to improvise a line that made the character even more nerdy; Mr. Preuss wisely told me to stick to the script.

Part of me feels saddened in retrospect by how ruthlessly I was typecast; but on the other hand, it’s perfectly likely that Mr. Preuss created this role specifically so he could cast someone in it who ordinarily would not have justified inclusion in any kind of stage production. God knows I couldn’t have played Dirk; indeed, I still couldn’t, at least not without a new hairstyle.

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I believe that the above list is exhaustive, though I’m not entirely sure; there might have been another musical in elementary school that I can’t remember.

What plays have you acted in, and what roles did you play?

This is the first year that I’ve seriously watched the Summer Olympics since 1996. I’m not entirely sure why, although it’s clear to me that the Beijing Games have been hyped by the American media to an extent we haven’t seen since the Centennial Olympics in Atlanta. Whatever the reason, I’ve rather enjoyed the routine of heading straight for the couch after work and watching coverage late into the night, and I’ll be sad to see the Games go.

It has me wondering: what is coverage in other countries like? In what ways would it be similar and different from American coverage? Presumably, every nation prefers to focus as much as possible on its own athletes; NBC airs the occasional human interest story about foreign athletes, but the vast majority of the focus is on Americans, and I imagine most countries follow this pattern to whatever extent the event outcomes allow.

More than simply focusing on Americans, however, NBC’s coverage seems to revolve around particular Americans; individuals, much more than teams. Sure, many Olympic sports are fundamentally solo events, but even events which truly require all-around team performances — swimming relays, for example — are covered as part of larger narratives about individuals. Whether it’s about those, like Michael Phelps or Shawn Johnson, who were identified as centers of media attention before the Games began, or athletes like Nastia Liukin, whose outstanding performances have led NBC to weave them into the tapestry of its coverage, the story of these Olympic Games has been anchored by heroes.

Indeed, it’s been more than just American heroes; Jamaican sprinter Usain Bolt has been second only to Phelps in the grandeur of his coronation. There are a few exceptions, of course: USA Basketball, in their quest for redemption, and the beach volleyball duo of Kerri Walsh and Misty May-Treanor, in their incredible dominance, have surely been recognized for their team success. But by and large, my observation has been that Olympic commentators have been much more interested in the message of heroism than that of, say, teamwork or sportsmanship.

On some level, this is just the nature of sports coverage, at least in the United States. You only have to see a few ads for ordinary sports telecasts to realize that phrases like “Kobe Bryant and the Los Angeles Lakers” or “Eli Manning and the New York Giants” are the rule, not the exception. Olympics coverage follows this rule to the letter, except for the occasional need to appoint heroes whom uninitiated audiences can adopt as their own. But seeing this rule applied on the international stage begs the question: is this obsession with the singular, unrivaled champion uniquely American?

It doesn’t appear to be. While the ethos of individualism and self-reliance does feel especially central to American identity, the urge to identify paragons of excellence seems to know no national or cultural boundaries. From Gilgamesh, Arjuna, and Hercules, to Jesus, Beowulf, and even Superman, every mythology I’ve ever studied has been deeply influenced by what I would argue is the fundamental human need for a hero. Even those modern societies whose fundamental tenets revolve around the glorification of the collective seem to have needed cults of personality, whether Stalin, Castro, or Mao, to survive.

On the other hand, it is difficult to ignore our intuition, supported by anecdotal experience as well as by research such as that of Stanford cultural psychologist Hazel Markus, that American (or more broadly, Western) culture values, even exalts, the individual in a way that Eastern societies simply do not. Indeed, nowhere was this phenomenon more apparent than the captivating Opening Ceremony of these very Olympics, in which director Zhang Yimou used enormous choruses of performers to great effect. Elaborate choreographed sequences like the tai chi segment, which featured 2,008 masters of the Chinese martial art, brought to bear what most would agree is a guiding principle in traditional Chinese culture: the power of the many.

Which brings us back to the question that started us down this path: what is Olympic coverage in other countries like? Does commentary in Eastern nations demonstrate the same glorification of individual achievement displayed by America’s NBC, or does it take a different approach? Is the title of John Williams’ classic anthem (and the title of this post) a true expression of the Olympic spirit, or is it merely a reflection of his personal cultural background?

I honestly have no idea. Do you?

Well, “almost” is a bit of an exaggeration. But I did go to a meeting! Backstory:

A few weeks ago, I stopped by Wal-Mart to pick up a box of Sunbelt Oats & Honey Chewy Granola Bars. These are easily my favorite brand and flavor of granola bars, and unfortunately, I’ve only ever been able to find them at Wal-Mart. So going there was imperative.

But I digress. I was in the breakfast aisle, actually in a bit of a rush to go wait in line for eternity, when I was accosted by a decidedly South Indian fellow. I don’t know why he identified me as someone worth talking to; I was dressed in business casual attire that day, so maybe he thought I was likely to be a Valley professional.

I’m also not entirely sure why I stopped to talk to him, nor do I remember exactly how the conversation went, except that we somehow managed to exchange brief professional histories, not to mention phone numbers, in a matter of a few minutes. He told me that he was working with some friends on a business venture; not one to pass up an opportunity to hear about a random startup, I gave him my contact information, with the expectation that he’d try unsuccessfully to recruit me, and at least I’d know what he’s up to.

Fast-forward two weeks. I woke up on a Saturday morning to the sound of my cell phone and looked groggily at the display: “[name] from Wal-Mart.” Naturally, I just went back to sleep, but I did call back later that afternoon. The scoop? He and his associates were holding a “business exposure session” the next day at a hotel in San Jose. He hoped I’d want to get involved in his business; they were only asking for a few hours a week to start out. He also wanted to introduce me to all his friends there, who were naturally also from Chennai. And of course, there would be an executive from a Fortune 50 company (which he declined to name) giving a fantastic talk about “the trends in the industry.” Oddly, he never mentioned what industry…he only mentioned that this was a limited-invitation engagement, and that he needed me to keep my commitment to attend.

Curiosity got the better of me, and anyway, I honestly had no clue what was coming. The next afternoon, I threw on my Sunday best and made the drive to the Wyndham. My “friend” greeted me eagerly and complimented me on my attire (yes, really). We approached the conference room where the “business exposure session” would be held, and the nagging feeling I’d had through this entire experience crystallized into a single “aw, geez” moment as I read the sign in front of the door: “E-commerce Business Seminar.”

I laughed out loud — indeed, I still can’t believe I was so easily duped. I could (and probably should) have bailed at that very moment, but being there, I just couldn’t help myself. How exactly was this going to go down?

My — what, sponsor? host? — introduced me to a fellow Stanford alum who was very eager to have me there. Every last person in the room was South Asian. Soon enough, we were seated, and the show began.

What impressed me most was how polished the pitch was. I have no doubt in my mind that fully half of the audience were plants; accomplices who were there to laugh just a little too hard at his jokes, to nod in all the right places, to shout out loud in the eerily evangelical call-and-response employed by the presenter (who was, of course, Indian himself). He pressed all the right buttons for this group: “you moved to this country to build a better life for your family, but are you really making all the money you deserve?” “You want money, right? It’s okay to say that. How many of you want a new car? A new house? To pay for your children’s education? People who say they don’t care about money are lying.” “Making money through jobs, toiling day in and day out, is the old-fashioned way of doing things. We all moved here knowing only that; but I’m here to tell you today that there is a better way.”

On the whole, the atmosphere was…more than a little cultish. I texted my dad a nice quote (“If you listen for the next forty-five minutes, your financial future will completely change!”), and his response was, “May be time to get out.” A good thirty minutes passed without his actually saying a single thing about how this “business” would work. I kept wondering, after such a gripping setup, where was the payoff?

Finally I started hearing the words I had been expecting: Franchising. Duplication. Independent Business Owner (IBO). It was astonishing how simple he made it sound. With the modern revolution of technology, e-commerce, and the Internet, it was impossible not to get rich!

That’s actually when I finally left. Got up from the second row (where I’d been strategically placed) and walked out. The last words I heard as I left were “Quixtar.com“; it’s a brand owned by Amway, which is basically the biggest pyramid scheme in history (with the possible exception of the Church of Scientology). I got a call soon afterwards but didn’t return it, and haven’t heard anything since.

I suppose I don’t regret this whole episode, although I certainly think I should have been a bit less clueless, and part of me wishes fervently that I’d rushed up to the stage, grabbed the mic, and told all the poor saps in the room to get out while they still could.

One thing is clear: when they say Wal-Mart is full of unsavory characters, they really aren’t kidding.

Since its development in the 1960s, the Star Trek mythos has become a towering American symbol of nerdity, rivaled perhaps only by Dungeons & Dragons as the stereotypical geeky pursuit. I’ve always been slightly confused by what appears to be a visceral, almost autonomic reaction to Star Trek from most people: “ugh, it’s weird.” “Man, it’s so stupid.” “Beam me up, Scotty! Har har!” These same naysayers often have no objection to Star Wars, Trek‘s more mainstream and better-known counterpart (which I also enjoy, though for vastly different reasons). But despite all these critics, I really do love Star Trek.

I’ve been a fan of Star Trek since I was young. I’m not exactly sure how I got started; I think the finale of The Next Generation (my favorite series by far) in May 1994 might actually be the first episode I ever saw. I was intrigued, and it wasn’t long before I was hooked. In those days, TNG reruns aired in syndication on the local CBS affiliate; I was glued to the television every afternoon at 4 PM. I started checking out older episodes on VHS from the public library, and it was there, in fifth grade, that I also checked out Q-Squared, the first “adult-sized” book I ever read. (I actually remember that day clearly; I only ever browsed the kids’ sections at that age, and my mom brought me the 400-page volume as something random to try, saying, “I know it’s big, but I bet you can read it!” One can only wonder if she would have done this had she known how many tens of Star Trek books I would wastespend my time reading in the following years.)

On the one hand, it’s just a television show. A deeply imperfect one, at that: the first two seasons of both TNG and Voyager are often painful to watch, and both shows suffered from occasional bouts of shark-jumping absurdity, even in their later, better days. It’s easy to get bogged down in the tiresome technobabble, silly pseudoscience, and random alien enemies; people who do this make the mistake of thinking that these plot devices are what Trek is actually about.

No, Trek is about much more than that. I don’t think all those episodes (many of which I’ve practically memorized) could continue to capture my imagination so thoroughly with just entertaining plots and good acting. The reason I keep watching is to be reminded of how much I’ve learned.

Yes, learned. TNG especially is a treasure trove of lessons that I can say without exaggeration have deeply enriched my development as a human being. Some of the most important takeaways from my fourteen years on the USS Enterprise include:

—The potential, and the limits, of technology. One of the greatest reasons for the continued fascination with Star Trek is its tacit assertion that, through the progress created by technology, our civilization can achieve a dramatic new age of enlightenment, boundless in a way that could only be imagined by writers of fiction. Indeed, technology’s power to broaden our experiences and solve some of our greatest problems is impossible to deny. What I’ve always loved about Star Trek, though, is that, despite the amazing technological achievements it depicts, it never hesitates to warn us that technology cannot solve everything. Technology cannot erase our fundamental human need to learn, to love, to feel important in a cosmic sense. It cannot save us from the pain of loss, nor from our own imperfections. Technology is profoundly important in our pursuit of progress, but if we treat it as religion, as some of us are prone to do, it will only disappoint us in the end.

—The nature of effective leadership. I consider Capt. Jean-Luc Picard to be one of the most compelling leaders I have ever encountered, real or fictional. He is passionate, principled, and superhumanly decisive. At the same time, he is clearly imperfect; his struggle to rise above his flaws makes him even more fascinating. I am inspired by Picard’s intelligence and sheer force of will, and I consider his reliance on the counsel of trusted advisers to be the trait I would most like to emulate as a leader.

—The power of culture and of cultural differences. The Federation’s highest law, the Prime Directive, forbids interference in the culture and internal affairs of alien races. This principle has been the genesis for countless explorations of the power of one’s own belief system and the dangers of imposing it on others. Time and again, Trek’s characters consider ignoring this law out of convenience, perceived necessity, or moral conviction; most of the time, the consequences of such thinking are catastrophic. I know that I often forget this lesson, but I learned from Star Trek that I must never make the mistake of believing that I know any more about Truth than anyone else.

—The importance of history. Time travel may seem like just another sci-fi gimmick, butTrek’s experiments with this idea have shown me that even seemingly minor events can have dramatic repercussions. A corollary is that we should appreciate the value of all our experiences in shaping our lives and our characters, not just the pleasant or memorable ones. As Capt. Picard put it, in an episode where he was given the opportunity to correct what he perceived as a grave mistake from his youth: “There are many parts of my youth that I’m not proud of…there were loose threads…untidy parts of me that I would like to remove. But when I pulled on one of those threads…it unraveled the tapestry of my life.”

—The meaning of humanity. Lt. Cmdr. Data, an android, spends his entire lifetime endeavoring to become “more human.” I have come to believe that this is something we should all endeavor to do; Data’s journey mirrors our own struggles to live satisfying lives, full of meaning. Like him, we must learn to accept our limitations without being immobilized by them. From Data, a machine, I have learned how to appreciate my own humanity, in all its wonder, and how to appreciate of the deep significance of human existence.

Is Star Trek high literature, cinema of incomparable artistic value? Even I am not delusional enough to think so. I do believe, however, that it has the power to make us think about our own voyages, to seek out what really matters. I don’t know if I am really going where no one has gone before, but I hope that I can at least go boldly.

This list recognizes the most classic scenes in the history of American animated feature films, a history which goes back to 1937, when Walt Disney Productions released Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

You might ask: what does it mean for a scene to be “classic?” Certainly, there have been many memorable scenes in animated films over the years. I have tried to select scenes which were more than just memorable: they have become part of our collective consciousness, part of American cultural history. They also comprise the greatest achievements of this art form. Or so I believe.

I have tried to be balanced; while my rankings do show some bias toward movies released during my lifetime, I have chosen four scenes from what I call the Disney Renaissance (1989-1994) and six from old favorites. Similarly, six of these scenes are song sequences, while four are not. Unfortunately, the one way in which I could not find balance was in the studio responsible for the production of these films: every single scene featured in this note came from Walt Disney Feature Animation. This fact is a testament to the cultural power that Disney has held for some eighty years.

Finally, because I chose to focus on U.S. films, there may be some unfortunate omissions; I have never seen a Hayao Miyazaki film, but if I had, it is likely that scenes from Princess Mononoke or Spirited Away would deserve recognition, though not necessarily for their American impact.

With apologies for my lengthy introductory remarks, I present my list. Scene titles are links to videos (where available).
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10. The Mad Tea Party
Alice in Wonderland (1951)
Alice in Wonderland is a study in nonsense, zany and absurd beyond compare. The Mad Tea Party is the climax of the film’s insanity, and the Mad Hatter and the March Hare are its mascots of mayhem. Although these characters were not created originally for this film, Disney certainly popularized them, and their status as emblems of the bizarre was thus cemented in our collective memory. This scene merits inclusion simply because it is probably the most ridiculous scene in the history of animated film.

9. Pinocchio’s nose grows
Pinocchio (1940)
When this film was released, an entire generation of parents was suddenly empowered with a way to convince their children to tell the truth. The long nose of Pinocchio has found its way into every nook and cranny of our culture, from Sesame Street skits to political cartoons. Quite a few animated films have aimed to teach us morals or lessons, but this one is probably the most memorable.

8. The fitting of Cinderella’s glass slipper
Cinderella (1950)
The fairy tale ending. Cinderella finally overcomes her wicked family’s oppression in what can only be described as a triumph of truth and love over selfishness and jealousy. As the only woman who can wear the slipper, Cinderella is irreplaceable, and her story challenges us to recognize that, in fact, we all are. The glass slipper has thus become a symbol of our shared hope that we can indeed live happily ever after.

7. “A Whole New World”
Aladdin (1992)
(Performed by Brad Kane and Lea Salonga; written by Alan Menken and Tim Rice)
This song brings new meaning to the expression, “sweep her off her feet”; at the same time, it is an anthem for trust and togetherness, as Aladdin and Jasmine share a unique and moving experience in each other’s company. Indeed, I claim that the profound unity captured in this sequence exceeds that found in any other Disney duet (notably, it replaces Sleeping Beauty‘s “Once Upon a Dream” as the gold standard). Meanwhile, the magic carpet ride has proven to be a deeply compelling metaphor for the yearning for new experiences and the openness to possibility. While I do not consider Aladdin to be as great an achievement as its predecessor or its successor, “A Whole New World” certainly deserves recognition among the finest Disney romantic scenes.

6. “Part of Your World”
The Little Mermaid (1989)
(Performed by Jodi Benson; written by Alan Menken and Howard Ashman)
Every modern Disney film features what I call a ‘musical manifesto’: a statement, in the form of a song, of the protagonist’s motivations, hopes, and desires (see: “Belle,” “One Jump Ahead,” and “I Just Can’t Wait to Be King”). “Part of Your World,” however, stands out; unlike its peers, which are mostly introductory songs designed primarily for exposition, Ariel’s testimony is an emotional high point of the film, intimate and soul-baring. We can all relate to the desire to explore the new and different, but with a twinge of dramatic irony (“Betcha on land / they understand / Bet they don’t / reprimand their daughters”), this song takes our kinship with Ariel one level deeper. “Part of Your World” is, to me, the profoundest expression of longing found in any animated feature.

5. “Bella Notte”
Lady and the Tramp (1955)
(Performed by George Givot and Bill Thompson; written by Sonny Burke and Peggy Lee)
One can only wonder whether Disney animators realized during production that they were creating what would become, without question, the most romantic moment ever drawn. From the quaint song of the Italian restaurant owner to Lady’s coy turn-away as her lips meet with Tramp’s, this scene is unbelievably…cute, through and through. I have no idea if this was the first time spaghetti was used on film in this way, but I am sure that, after watching this scene, none of us ever thought of spaghetti the same way again.

4. The death of Bambi’s mother
Bambi (1942)
I briefly hesitated to include a sad scene in this list, but Wikipedia calls it “one of the most famous moments in American film history, a moment so upsetting to certain children that they had to be carried sobbing out of the theater during Bambi’s numerous theatrical presentations.” I considered including the death of Mufasa or perhaps the death of Charlotte (it was after witnessing the latter at age four that I first came to fear the death of my parents), but I ultimately concluded that the death of Bambi’s mother is the foundation upon which these and all other parental death scenes in the animated canon are based. It would be difficult to overestimate the emotional impact of this scene, since it portrays not only the unimaginable pain that accompanies the loss of a parent but also the incredible destructive power of Man.

3. “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice”
Fantasia (1940)
(Performed by the Philadelphia Orchestra; written by Paul Dukas)
Given that it lacks the traditional elements of story and dialogue found in all other films on this list, Fantasia has always been easy for modern viewers to forget. It was, however, a spectacular creative achievement at the time of its release, featuring then-unparalleled visual effects. More importantly, however, the image of Mickey as magician has become easily the most enduring symbol of the Disney spirit, exhorting us to believe, even for a moment, that life is indeed magical. As one of the most recognized and beloved characters ever created, Mickey Mouse in this incarnation embodies the profound cultural impact of the Walt Disney Company and its unique, almost irrepressible imagination.

2. “Circle of Life”
The Lion King (1994)
(Performed by Carmen Twillie and Lebo M.; written by Tim Rice, Elton John, and Hans Zimmer)
Of all the movies I have seen (which I admit is not many), only Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings conjures the same sense of majesty for me as the first three minutes and fifty-six seconds of The Lion King. A musical tour de force, “Circle of Life” moves, rolling, flowing like the African plains it carries us across. At the same time, it grips us, willing us to follow it into one of the finest epics of our time. Witnessing this spectacle now, some thirteen years after I first witnessed it in the theater, still gives me chills. Far beyond this list, I believe “Circle of Life” should be recognized as one of the greatest opening scenes of all time, not just in animated films, but in the history of the motion picture medium.

1. “Beauty and the Beast”
Beauty and the Beast (1991)
(Performed by Angela Lansbury; written by Alan Menken and Howard Ashman)
Paced by the most breathtaking cinematography that had ever been seen in this genre, this song is the reason I created this list at all. With its unassuming orchestration and Angela Lansbury’s warm, comforting vocals, it is fantastically simple, despite its splendor. It should come as no surprise, then, that the song received the award for Best Original Song at the 64th Academy Awards. Indeed, the entire film is an accomplishment of historic proportions: it was the first (and, thanks to a rule change, will always remain the only) animated film ever to be nominated for Best Picture of the Year. Ultimately, every person, man or woman, can relate to the desire to be accepted and loved in spite of their shortcomings, as the Beast is by Belle. With this sentiment in mind, I consider it no exaggeration to call “Beauty and the Beast” the greatest Disney love song ever recorded.

Unlike the previous two installments of Businesses I Like, this one isn’t inspired by a specific recent experience but rather by a continuous positive impression over time.

I’ve always liked Chipotle Mexican Grill. Their food is tasty and fresh, reasonably inexpensive, and very filling. Their restaurants are clean and slick-looking, and they seem like a good company with a commitment to the environment and a sense of humor.

What I really like about Chipotle, though, is how earnestly they’ve taken to heart a simple truth: you can’t be good at everything. This is a lesson that every human being comes to understand at some point in his or her life, yet somehow, when these enlightened humans come together to form a business, the whole manages to be dumber than the sum of its parts. Stories abound of businesses that failed because they tried to be all things to all people, and today we interact with businesses all the time that seem to do everything under the sun but nothing well. These businesses feature devilishly complicated product and service offerings in the name of diversity or completeness, leaving the customer to wonder what exactly these companies are good at, if anything.

Chipotle is exactly the opposite. For all intents and purposes, they make one product. Sure, there are a bunch of variations — burrito? taco? bowl? — but everything on their menu is a combination of a relatively small number of ingredients. The customer only has to make a few choices in succession to get from the front of the line to the register.

You can tell that Chipotle realizes what a huge differentiator this is by looking up at their menu. The font size of the text on that menu must be five times the fast food industry average — it’s like they are saying to you, “this is supposed to be easy.” Just make a few simple decisions, and when you’re finished, there’s no waiting — you have your food!

There are a lot of advantages on Chipotle’s side, too. First of all, their inventory is much easier to manage because it contains such a small set of ingredients. Quality assurance is correspondingly simpler. Employee training is easier and faster, because there are relatively few different tasks that one needs to learn to become a fully effective Chipotle employee.

Moreover, similar to Subway, structuring the ordering process as a series of steps rather than a single ordering event followed by a wait for your food serves to pipeline the ordering process. The impact of this pipelining is that it increases the restaurant’s throughput — the number of customers it can serve per unit time — and also reduces the customer’s perceived latency — his wait time — since his food is ready for him as soon as he gets to the end of the line to pay. All this makes for greater revenues and happier customers.

Above all, the simple fact is that if you only do one thing, it is very easy to do it extremely well. This benefits Chipotle, because they can minimize the effort required to achieve their desired result, and it benefits you and me, because we can feel confident that we’ll get great food every time we set foot in any of their restaurants.

And to think this place used to be majority-owned by McDonald’s!

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What food service businesses (large or small) do you like? Chime in with a comment!

This evening, I attended a BASES mentorship banquet at the W Silicon Valley hotel in Newark. The W is Starwood’s contemporary, youth-focused brand; the atmosphere in the hotel was trendy and chic.

Despite the yuppie overtones, I had a fantastic experience in this hotel. It may seem silly to praise it when I didn’t actually stay the night there, but I am a firm believer in first impressions, and these were praiseworthy indeed.

The event began with appetizers; fruit and cheese plates were laid out, and the banquet service staff circulated throughout the room bearing hors d’oeuvres. As one server offered me ceviche, crab cakes, and chicken saté, I had to decline repeatedly; as most of you know, I am a fairly strict vegetarian. I was more or less resigned, therefore, to filling up on fruit, cheese, and bread.

Moments later, however, the same server returned with a new plate, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, “Sir, you’re vegetarian, right? Here we have some spanakopita you might like.”

I was shocked. At no time had I ever expressed any specific dietary preference to this woman; I had simply declined each of the items she presented. She guessed from my choices, my continued consumption of other items, and probably my ethnicity that I was likely to be a vegetarian. While this may not seem to be an extraordinary logical leap, the fact that this server made the effort to deduce my preference and came and found me in a crowded room was extraordinary indeed.

Not much later, we discovered that they were serving Chinese food for our group in the next room. Though there were no formal place settings, it seemed to be dinner, so I decided to check it out. I asked the sous chef, Adam: “could you tell me which items here are vegetarian?” Predictably, he pointed to the spring rolls…and only the spring rolls.

What happened next surprised me. “I’m sorry about that,” Adam offered. “But you know what? I’ve got a fresh pan down here that hasn’t touched any meat, some veggies and some sauce — I can sauté them up for you in just a minute.” I was very impressed by his offer and graciously accepted, pledging to return in a few minutes.

That alone would have been enough, but this thoughtful sous chef had more in store for me. I came back as promised, and he said to me, “I have a surprise for you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I went in the back and pan-fried some tofu for you. I’ll throw that in with the veggies and you’ll have a nice, hot dinner.”

I thanked Adam multiple times, and I meant it. In twenty-one years I have never once encountered people who were so eager to accommodate my dietary preferences. The W staff really outdid themselves.
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In a business, culture is everything. I don’t have to stay the night at this hotel to know that it would be a phenomenal experience (assuming I could afford it). I feel confident in saying that the courtesy and go-the-extra-mile attitude of the staff members I interacted with today were indicative of a pervasive approach to running this hotel shared by all employees. Their creativity and proactivity are worthy of emulation by any customer-facing business.

The people I met understood that finding any way possible to make the customer happy isn’t just being nice, it’s forming a lasting relationship that has real economic value. Kudos to the W Silicon Valley for remembering that service really does matter.

A few days ago, I used StubHub (www.stubhub.com) to purchase tickets to tonight’s Golden State Warriors game (which was, by the way, a lot of fun, despite the disappointment of the loss). StubHub is an online marketplace for tickets to live entertainment events (such as concerts and sporting events). You can think of it as a ticket-specific eBay or Craigslist — an appropriate analogy, given that eBay acquired the company in January — except that you obtain your purchased tickets directly from StubHub, who obtains them electronically from the seller.

During the course of this transaction, I interacted with a few different representatives of StubHub. The first two interactions were by telephone, and they were fantastic: the people I talked to were courteous, straightforward, and helpful. Before clicking “Buy”, I had to find out if I could avoid the stated requirement that I have the purchasing credit card physically present when I picked up the tickets I was ordering, because I was using my mom’s card. Instead of hiding behind inflexible rules and treating me like an idiot as many companies would, the representative simply told me, “yeah, we understand that requirement isn’t very realistic these days, so our pickup centers generally don’t enforce it, but if you like, we can send an email to the center to guarantee that you won’t need to present the credit card at the time of pickup.” Not only did he acknowledge that I had a legitimate concern and say that the company had already thought about it, but he also offered me the opportunity to take further action to address it, just to give me an added sense of security. That made me feel great about using StubHub to buy the tickets, so I went ahead and placed the order.

Then, when I called back this morning to ask them to send that email, I explained my situation to a new representative. Instead of forcing me to step through a frustrating list of irrelevant questions (as so many call centers do these days) just to get up to speed, she quickly understood exactly what I wanted and offered to complete the request immediately. She knew precisely what her company’s policies were and what another representative would have told me, and she was able to act on her own authority to give me what I wanted. I had been expecting this second call to require me to explain myself several times (“I’m sorry, sir, I’m not sure what another representative may have told you, but I can’t do what you’re asking”), and when it didn’t, I was so shocked that I actually told the woman I was speaking with, “By the way, you guys have great customer service.” That’s something I never do.

Finally, when I picked up my tickets at a hotel near the Oracle Arena, everything was silky smooth. I just walked in, showed my driver’s license, and the woman handed me an envelope with our tickets, assuring me that I was all set. The whole thing took less than sixty seconds.

This all might seem pretty straightforward, but these days, interacting with businesses is often anything but. As a result, basic customer service has become something to write about instead of something to expect as a matter of course. For some reason, most businesses seem to think that when I present them with a problem, I want them to restate the problem, or even better, tell me about new problems I didn’t even know about. Here’s a hint: when your customer has a problem, give him a solution. He doesn’t want problems or excuses, only solutions. People and companies who are solution-oriented instead of problem-oriented will always do a better job of delivering what their customers want.

It seems so simple to me. Companies these days think their business is about them. It is not. It is about their customers. When a rep tells you that your perfectly logical request is “impossible” or “not how it works”, what he is really saying is, “I work for a company whose culture encourages us to think about our problems first and your needs second.” Companies like StubHub, on the other hand, understand the simple truth that it doesn’t matter what you do if your customer is not happy with it. And if you do make your customer happy, he will be your customer again. That’s not naive philosophy or head-in-the-sand silliness; it’s straight-up good business.

When I first saw what I was paying for my Warriors tickets – a 10% commission plus a $15 handling fee, on top of the price the seller was demanding – my gut reaction was anger. “Greedy bastards!” I thought. After going through the process, I believe it was worth every penny. I didn’t have to talk to drones with fake names in international call centers; I talked to real people who treated me like a real person with a real name, and when I had a problem, they gave me an easy solution that ensured that I would give them my business.

That kind of service costs money, and I’m willing to pay for it, every single time.