IN MY marketing career, I worked with restaurant clients. When I would ask what set apart their restaurant, the answer was always the same: “Our food!”

Nope. 

For one thing, “our food tastes good” is hardly a unique much less a compelling claim.

For another, in general in the restaurant biz--exceptions acknowledged—the first marketing peg is location. The second is the experience you create for diners, e.g., setting, look, service, lighting, furnishings, acoustics, and so forth. Food comes in third. A great location paired with a good experience can do well with average fare. Think Old Spaghetti Factory, Applebee’s, or Chili’s. But when location and the diner experience fall short, great food will be hard–pressed to make up the difference.

But today there’s a caveat. The above priorities apply only for dining in.

Delivery services like DoorDash and GrubHub render location irrelevant. Attractive packaging, if a restaurant is smart enough to use it, can somewhat enhance the diner experience, but only to a point. For the most part, when food is but mediocre, a delivery service lays bare the mediocrity.

I personally have been surprised when GrubHub brings food from a favorite place and, with one bite, I realize it’s not as good as I’d thought. Now, some of that is due to 30 to 40 minutes of sitting on the passenger seat of a Prius. But much of it also has to do with the fact that I’m not seated in a place with great interior design, attentive waiters, swirling aromas, and, perhaps, a date I’m hoping to impress.

I learned the hard way that some plates lose their luster long before reaching my door. Steak? Don’t even try. But some types of fare make the journey quite well. Asian cuisine, for instance. Din Tai Fung manages to arrive fully equipped to make my taste buds stand up and sing hymns.

Which brings us back to the problem stated above: “our food tastes good” is hardly a unique much less a compelling claim.

Good luck to restaurateurs in a DoorDash economy.

KOURI RICHINS of Park City, Utah, stands accused of slipping her husband a fatal dose of fentanyl. So far from the articles I have read, admittedly an incomplete picture, I would vote to acquit.

Does it seem likely to me that she killed him? I’ll grant that. But when we’re talking about a murder conviction, for me there is huge gulf between “likely” and “beyond a reasonable doubt.”

To be sure, she had motive in the form of onerous debt and a lover on the side. She had opportunity and means. Aspects of her character certainly seem questionable.

But the dots from there to “ergo she killed him” remain unconnected, at least to my satisfaction. 

I’m surprised the court allowed testimony the likes of “she looked more put together than usual on that day” and other implications that she hadn’t met some standard of bereavement behavior. Such are worthless, non–expert opinions. Even taken at face value, poor decorum is not proof of murder.​

WITH MY move to Portland, Oregon, a little over five years ago, I lucked out when it comes to neighbors. They are kind, helpful, pleasant. We often get together socially.

But then there’s the RAB.

Her apartment sits on a street behind ours. She introduced herself to us by screaming at my daughter, Rebecca, who, before she’d quit, happened to have stepped outside for a smoke. “You raggedy–ass bitch!” screamed the RAB. “Out there smoking! The old man”—I assume she meant me—“never did that! You need to respect your elders!” On she went, ranting. Dumbfounded, Becca showed the good sense not to respond.

In that moment, we realized that “raggedy–ass bitch” makes for a delightful acronym. Thus we dubbed our new fan the RAB.

Becca has been smoke–free for over a year (I’m immensely proud of her for that), but the RAB has not ceased from harassing her. Instead, she started screaming about our dogs. 

We have three, the legal limit. Sometimes we let them romp, always supervised, in the side yard. They yip, wrestle, and play–roar as dogs are wont to do. I grant it could be disturbing, which is why I time them to ensure it doesn’t get out of hand. They tend to quiet down well within 20 seconds.

If the RAB happens to be home, her voice rings out. From her doorway or a window, phone–to–ear, she yells, “Hello? Humane Society? These people’s dogs are vicious! They’re attacking everyone! I’m afraid for my safety! The neighborhood is terrorized by them! They constantly fight! Those dogs are so abused!” 

I doubt she’s really on the phone to anyone. I suspect it is theater, with phone–as–prop. In any event, no authority has contacted us. I’m a little sad about that, for it would be a simple matter to establish that our dogs are well cared–for. I would love for the spying RAB to see police or Humane Society personnel leave our home with warm smiles and handshakes.

Becca’s room faces the back of the house and, thus, the RAB’s front door. Not long ago as she was relaxing with a book in her room, Becca overheard the RAB making a show of complaining to some supposed authority about the dogs. The dogs were indoors, one in the room at Becca’s side. Looking out her window, Becca saw the RAB staring up at her, once again phone–to–ear, and heard her describe the interior of Becca’s room, down to the color of the throw pillows.

To be fair, the RAB doesn’t always yell. Sometimes she contents herself with standing in plain sight while appearing to shoot video of us.

The RAB has four security cameras mounted on her apartment exterior. We recently noted that one permanently mounted camera appears to be pointed directly at Becca’s window. No wonder she knows the color of the throw pillows.

Two of the RAB’s fellow apartment dwellers have visited us. The first reassured us that we’re okay and that the RAB is crazy. The second asked us to join other neighbors, whom the RAB was also harassing, in a complaint to the RAB’s landlord. We gladly joined, which, of course, proved futile. Unable to get the RAB to move, both neighbors eventually moved instead.

At holiday time, the RAB hangs a neon sign in an upstairs window. “Joy,” it says.