Why Starbucks is Cheap: A Mic Mac Mall Excursion Written by Guest Critic Dianne Hatcher

Second guest spot goes to Dianne, who went to Starbucks which, for a Mom, is all about downtime and stretching out the experience...

"I would be willing to pay double the price for a Starbucks coffee if I had to, and I mean that. No, I haven’t added a shot of Bailey’, it’s simply due to the fact that if I’m drinking a latte, 99% of the time it means I am alone. I’ll explain later, but since I have a family, that shit is priceless. So reviewing a latte is the best excuse to get a little break.

Google maps told me the nearest Starbucks is 47 minutes away. Rural Nova Scotia is probably the only place in the world where a Starbucks is not within walking distance. I wonder how easy it was for Starbucks Execs to do a market analysis of the South Shore and decide not to set up shop. I purchased this particular latté at the Starbucks in Mic Mac Mall. I ordered the Grande Skinny Vanilla Latte. It has got to be the easiest drink to order from the menu - a drink where you don’t have to embarrass yourself in front of strangers fumbling with the words while the barista repeats it back to you like "DID YOU MEAN….this?”. God, I hate that. I mean I hate that when it happens to other people when I'm in line behind them. I order the exact same drink every single time I’m here, since forever, which goes to show how daring I am at trying new things. I used to order a Skinny Vanilla Latte because I cared about the extra calories and fat (skinny is skim milk/fake sugar) and I would rather replace those calories with chemicals than risk my vanity. Now I’m married with two kids and I always get a hefty muffin on the side, so I might as well end the charade and get a normal drink from now on. I’d be doing myself a favor and making the drink even easier to order - "Grande Vanilla Latte please!"

Waiting for my drink at the counter, I watch the baristas working. There is so much mystery around the Starbucks barista, more than any other person that well, makes coffee. Don’t they receive a ton of training and have to pass a complicated test to be able to work there? I don’t know, I’ve just heard that. Well, my barista today is ‘in-training’ and the others are commenting on how great her milk froth is, and that they couldn’t even make that. Should I be happy I have the trainee? I’ll go with that. My biggest complaint about their service is they never spell my name right on the cup!! It’s always with one "n". I get it, most Diane’s are with one "n" - but not me. Everyone who has a weird name knows what that’s like it makes you insane. And I apologize to my son Jaxon for ruining his life with the name I gave him, I must have been feeling ironic when I picked out his name. Just once, I want to go back to the counter, slam my drink down and demand a new one because my order was wrong only for the fact my name was wrong. But I’m not a complete bitch, except in my head. However, my constructive criticism for Starbucks is that they should include in-depth studies of baby name books as part of their orientation. You know, to familiarize themselves with spelling. Minus five "Harvey" points for that oversight.

My latte is really sweet. It reminds me of my sweet, sweet alone time. Now that I live in Chester, I don't mind paying so much for the Starbucks latte, it’s a symbol of Mom freedom. Those few hours alone to run errands. I take a closer look at the actual Starbucks logo now, to see if their symbol resonates with me. I attached a pic. It’s kind of a mermaid with wavy hair, wearing a crown but also with two tails. Umm, what the hell is that supposed to be anyway? Why have I never noticed how crap it is? They are lucky their coffee is so good because their branding fails. I never considered myself to be overly "deep", so I refuse to waste any personal time searching for meaning in a half woman/half fish caffeine goddess.

Okay, so I know you all think I could go to Tim Horton's, or a local coffee shop for that matter. Anything being better than paying for high priced fluff. But local coffee shops with their organic blends are more pretentious than the fake hipsters at Starbucks. I walk into an organic coffee shop and feel like I’m Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman walking into a dress shop on Rodeo Drive. I get the "You don’t belong here" look, due to my brand names and washed hair. On the other hand, you have Tim Horton's. That place is like a special club for members only and since I don’t have my seniors discount card (yet),  I don't feel at home there either (though I could totally work with that aged vibe, being in the 35-45 year-old bracket now). Plus, Tim Horton's is in Chester, which means if I’m there my kids are probably behind me screaming for a Chocolate Chill and Timbits, so there is zero chance of a positive experience.

So I guess what I am really paying for is the total Starbucks experience. The experience of having silence for a few hours. My skinny vanilla latte is really good cold too - I usually drink it over 2-hour+ period, because when it’s done I have to go back to being responsible. Yes, I savour the hell out of it. Today, I will give my drink an "8 out of 10 Tim Hortons", because let's face it, I’m Canadian and everything coffee is compared to Tim’s."

Hey! Help my other writing endeavours (a satirical parenting book written 
from the perspective of a childless woman - me) by following me on Twitter 

and liking my Facebook page. It's all for a book that I have written and 

we want it published. Show me you care, even if you don't:

Twitter: https://twitter.com/HTFtoLaugh

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/HTFtoLaugh/

"Pivia" Café Part 2: A Cup of Coffee i.e. Whatevah Written by Guest Critic Hayley Jean Parsons

I mean, it's pretty, right?

First guest critic Hayley Jean Parsons, the youngest of the four Parsons sisters. This is a little overdue, but here it is nonetheless. Part 2 of our Pavia (or as Hayley calls it, "Pivia") trip...

"It’s overpriced. It’s overhyped. It’s absolutely mandatory for every food blogger to have an abundance of photos of it (remember if you didn’t Instagram it, it didn’t happen). Yes, we are talking about your morning dose of caffeine in whatever form it may be.

Although it pains me to say it, I am unfortunately one of those annoying people who claim they "can’t be human without their first cup of coffee". Of course I can, it’s just my scapegoat if ever I am interpreted as being a raging bitch. Once I decide I’m able (and willing) to step up to the challenge of being a good person; I bite the bullet and buy coffee #1.  

My choice of coffee depends solely on my financial state. If I have money to burn, I usually get a double cappuccino. When I’m poor A.F. (seriously, it’s either one extreme or the other) I get a large "drip" coffee. Cheap. Effective. Boring as hell. And since we're on the topic, allow me to reminisce about the other day at Pavia, I decided to channel my inner Beyoncé and splurge on a double cappuccino and a muffin! Whateves right? They gotta know what they're doing! Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

We forgot to keep a picture of Pavia's Coffee.
Close enough.

Okay so let’s start off with the muffin. Honestly, it was fine. I’m not going to let the muffin take the heat for something it didn’t do. It was pretty moist (cue the gags), nutty, and some would even say delicious. Unfortunately, I was too blinded by my coffee (or lack thereof) to even notice all of my muffin’s wonderful attributes. The coffee was overshadowing the rest of my order, and not in a good way. It was as if I had asked for a paper cup with a small side of coffee. It looked more like something made for a kid’s menu that only children under the age of 12 could order off of. Do you see what I’m getting at? It was so tiny. The tiniest.

I looked at my coffee, enthusiastically said "Thank you" as if I’d never been so grateful in my life (fake it till you make it right?). I walked over to the coffee station, sprinkled some cinnamon on top, grabbed a lid, and was ready to go…or so I thought. Some way, somehow, the lid was too small. I’m telling you, there’s no way in hell they could sell a coffee smaller than the one I ordered, but the fact that this particular top wasn't fitting means they must, and that is just obscene. The size of the too small lid tells me they are basically serving something up in thimbles, and to me, that just doesn't seem practical. I rectify my terrible mistake by fetching the correctly sized lid, and I put it to the test. This one needed to prove itself. My sister and I put the top on my coffee, took it off, put it on, took it off, so on and so forth until we were confident it was the one we were looking for.

This lid was definitely not trying to pull a fast one on us. This second lid, this was the lid for me. And, um, anyways. Then we left. Pavia keeps their original rating of 0/Harvey's for putting me in a situation where I am humiliated by having to make two trips to the coffee station."

If you want updates from "The Regular Food Critic", along with book news, 
please follow my author page on Facebook and my Twitter!
Show me you care, even if you don't:

Twitter: https://twitter.com/JillianMParsons

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JillianMaryParsons/

Heated "Iced Hot Chocolate" From Pro Skateboards - A Love Story

Well, what a whirlwind it has been since I published my self-reflection on the Pro Skate incident. You know, the one I covered (in great and embellished detail) just yesterday on this very chunk of online real estate.  Let me tell you something, opening up about being a dumb-dumb has seemed to be a good thing. As was bound to happen, I find myself now a raging inspiration for anyone and everyone who has made an ass of themselves at a food/drink establishment simply by failing masterfully at being a normal human being. Look at me, basically saving lives by promoting social adeptness through the awareness of social ineptness. I'm not much of a public speaker, but yes, I will be available for talks at your university graduation and/or high school assembly. If I can pencil you in.


I guess I really am "the change" the world needs, and that's a big deal, right? Wrong. The real big deal is this coffee my main man just brought through the door. It's from the ladies at Pro Skate, just around the corner from this very living room.  They had heard my story and were so deeply affected, that when Graham ordered my "Iced Hot Chocolate" heated (and by that I mean, when he ordered me a Mochaccino), they felt he must have been mistaken. For all they knew, I took my drinks cold. And decaffeinated. So they left me a note, just to make sure. See?

If that isn't spunk, then I don't know what is. A personalized cup, with a message, just for me. A way for her to say she knows, that I know, that she now knows. It's a dialogue and I love it. A true "day maker". And check out that score! I dedicate it to the "Iced Hot Chocolate" in all of us.

Hey! Help my other writing endeavours (a satirical parenting book written 
from the perspective of a childless woman - me) by following me on Twitter 

and liking my Facebook page. It's all for a book that I have written and 

we want it published. Show me you care, even if you don't:

Twitter: https://twitter.com/HTFtoLaugh

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/HTFtoLaugh/

Water: A Closer Look/Pavia Café Part 1

What does the snowflake mean?

Water doesn’t get enough reviews, good or bad, so I thought it was a great subject for my second official critique. Specifically, the water I bought at Pavia on the 5^th floor of the Halifax Regional Library on Spring Garden Road, or as I like to call it, "the place where I backed into a concrete parking barrier and went into a subsequent blind rage".  Here it is, amongst some of Hayley Parsons' knickknacks, and apparently it's called "Eska". 

Yup. That’s water alright.  Check out that glass bottle. It’s transparent. Classic glass.  I like how the neck swoops and tapers in traditional bottle fashion.  Makes it easier to grip in case this empty ever needs to become a weapon.  Pavia sells these puppies for 2.50$, which is super annoying when I remember that I have loads of this shit at home, and on tap none the less. 

Our Barista made Hayley a vagina in her coffee.

Pavia (or “Pivia” as Hayley Jean calls it) is kind of "too cool for school". They have weird coconut water that I didn’t photograph, but I distinctly remember reading the label and saying to myself “Oh, jeez...” which is never a good sign.  The sandwiches are wrapped in paper and are like 9.00$ with tax. Nine Dollars! And they don’t even offer up a preview! I mean, if I am gonna drop a "T" (that’s a ten dollar bill) on some bread and some middles (i.e. meat, lettuce, pickle, tomato), I want to see how stacked those middles are. How do I know Pavia isn't just hot potato-ing my lunch and after a series of unwraps won't leave me with a pocket-sized panini or some shiz? Don’t trust food you cannot see. Words to live by.

And that's how it's done!

And speaking of words to live by, sorry, I mean not speaking of words to live by, back to the water. I opened the cap and like clockwork, off it came. I give the makers of Eska points for being predictable in a really necessary way.  I peer deep down the neck and just as it seems from the outside, the inside also appears to be 100% l'eau. Looks wet in there, as it was bound to be once the manufacturers filled ‘er up, and although visual evaluation is important, I try to use all my senses when performing my assessments. My ears feel at ease, happy to be in the absence of those deafening sounds of carbonation. I am also relieved by the lack of scent. Smelly water can ruin thirst and appetite, just take a stroll down by the ocean next time the tide goes out and you'll see what I mean. Yikes. But it's the taste (or lack thereof) that is really going to make or break this beverage. I hate to dish out a "thumbs down", so I cross a few of my digits for Eska instead. Water's gotta be a tough one to fuck up, but I am sure it's been done before, and will be done again.

Down the gullet it goes. I am supah hung over, so it might as well be liquid gold. Too good, and I immediately am struck by the panic one gets when you realise the amount of water you actually need is going to cost about 10$ more than what you are willing to spend. Apart from that though, I'm impressed. It’s cold, flavorless, and basically serving the only purpose I need it to: lubing up/cooling down my burning throat from the previous evening's one too many smokes and twenty too many ounces of vodka. It’s like an icepack for your insides and boy do I need it. The whole thing goes down fast and I decide I want to keep the bottle after, and only after, my little sister asks if she can have it. So I take it home, where I get some use out of it, as is captured in the image above. Here you can see Graham Ferguson demonstrating how to undertake a refill, and yes, this can be done in the home. If however there is confusion on how topping off a container works, check out the video tutorial below. It's a quickie, so don't blink, or you'll miss it.

Pavia’s water gets a "zero out of Harvey's" for costing me money (which is the rating system I have settled on: zero being bad, Harvey's being the best for obvious reasons). Almost everything I eat/drink will receive a "zero out of Harvey's" simply for breaking my bank, so I insist Eska and the dumb-dumb library café not take it personally. It's just me being cheap and bitter, not necessarily in that order. There's an opportunity to make up for this bad score anyway with Part 2 of my review, which will be on a cup of coffee purchased by Hayley. Stay tuned, I have a feeling this one is going to be a doozy.

If you want updates from "The Regular Food Critic", along with book news, 
please follow my author page on Facebook and my Twitter!
Show me you care, even if you don't:

Twitter: https://twitter.com/JillianMParsons

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JillianMaryParsons/

Breakfast on Allan Street ft. guest cook Graham Ferguson

Breakfast... pasta?

What are plates made of? I mean, if they aren’t china or plastic. Is it glass? Are they glass? Do I have glass plates? Or maybe they’re ceramic. What is ceramic? Is that what people call pottery when it’s really, really good?

Anyway. The plate, glass or ceramic, is quietly amusing.  It’s got these flowers I've never noticed until I had to write about them. It’s painted with what I imagine vibrant shades of green, yellow, purple and pink look like when they sleeping off a hangover.  I am assuming this is a regulation sized plate, but apart from Google, there really is no way of knowing.  It’s a plate. It seems to be able to carry the weight of a loaded bagel with a side salad and, therefore, is meeting its minimum requirements. This flatware refuses to go above and beyond, and I dig that. I hate finicky dishes. They’re so “Look at me! Look at me!”. I mean, this is an apartment, not some hipster-doofus pop-up restaurant where you are forced to eat soup out of a piece of artisan driftwood. Thank god.

But enough about hipsters. Look at that bagel.  That’s straight from the freezer, that is.  We don’t defrost them. We hate middlemen when it comes to cooking. We jam our bagels right into the toaster. Hard as rocks.  If you notice, there is a little bit of, like, cheese baked into the top.  That’s how you know it’s good.  When it has things in/on it. Seeds, red specs, green lines, in the words of Michael Scott “It’s allllllllllll goooooooood.” Graham made this meal. From what I can tell, he has used our Veganaise in lieu of mayonnaise, or as we like to call it in our household: vag-inaise (that’s a soft "g", like vag-isil). I love Vaginaise, hate Miracle Whip, and Graham respects that.  Points for Graham. And points for me too I suppose, for choosing a man so up with "the times".

Bacon was on sale. It’s definitely the bad kind. The kind that would make PETA members have a worldwide, collective aneurysm, but when something is 3.99$ ethics go right out the proverbial window, don’t they? To balance out the exploitation of pork, I have requested he use the vegetarian turkey meat for the top layer. It comforts the bacon. It says “It’s okay.” We also have some tomatoes in there, which I’m not wild about, but it’s more of a “Whatever” attitude than an “Ew, gross!” attitude.  Sometimes they hit the spot though, so that’s why you won't hear me cut them down completely. Ambivalence, I think they call that. Actually, no. I'm pretty sure it's indifference. Anyway, today I welcome them into my lunch menu.  It should be noted that these tomatoes aren’t a certain kind or anything. It’s not like we only eat Hot House or Cherry. We don’t care what the specifics are, as long as they are spherical-ish  and red-ish. A tomato, is a tomato, is a tomato, am I right?

Day 2: All done!

And then we have a leaf of kale, which Graham washes, but I never do.  I never wash any of my vegetables. Or fruit. Or hands. My immune system is incredibly jacked. Oh my god. Oh my god. I almost forgot about the pickles.  Here’s the straight dope. There are three things in our diets that are only done right when they are homemade: Bread, salsa, and pickles. These pickles are mom-made. They were also free, as most mom-made things are. A gift, from our friend Greg and his mother, actually.  Gordan Ramsey always says your main dish must have a star. These pickles are the star of my bagel club, and  entire refrigerator. I love pickles. I love pickles! And hot peppers, but’s that’s another story.

When I bite this sammy it is, as my brother in law would say, “way supes" (short for “super”) good. It tastes like you would imagine it should taste, but I do hate when I get a fatty bit of bacon. I hate the fat. It’s so fucking gross. Enter the dog, who usually gets whatever pieces I come across.  Dogs are great to have around while you eat. They make the bad parts go away. They “take care” of them. Dogs are the best.

I confess, I only eat half of everything because I get full very easily but it doesn’t mean I don’t thoroughly enjoy it.  My main concern is this pasta salad anyway. I lurrrrrve pasta salad. Homer and Bart once sang “You can’t make friends with salad!” as they formed a conga line in the Simpsons' living room, but I think they were wrong.  Graham could make loads of friends with this salad.   He did cheat though. He is only responsible for boiling the noods (short for “noodles”). He bought the salad pre-made at Superstore and then added the quintessential starch himself because as we always say, "What baby wants, baby gets".  What a guy.  The salad is amaze-balls, and the noods are actually health noods too. I got them in the organic section, so you know they’re gluten-free or something equally grabby.

You know what is elevating both the side and the main? Cracked pepper. I am obsessed with large amounts of pepper. And it has to be cracked.  Big flecks, that’s what I’m looking for.  Sometimes I go a little nuts, and have been known to ruin meals by being too heavy handed with the pepper-mill. Just ask Mary Mills, who used to watch me make bowls upon bowls of her homemade soup completely inedible because I didn’t know how to say “when”. 

Which reminds me of a story I would like to share. There once was a time, in Prince Edward Island, when myself and three sisters came together for dinner at an Irish Pub.  We ordered some grub,  went through the motions that go along with dining out, and eventually our food arrived.  I had the pasta.  As is customary, our server asked if we would like pepper on our meals. We said yes because we're no idiots, which was followed by her lifting from the ground a three-foot novelty peppermill. The thing was huge, awkward and watching her try to wield it around the table was sketch comedy gold. We exchanged knowing glances that said "What the hell is going on here?/We are witnessing something amazing..." and tried to swallow the hysterics building in our guts. Here's what I don't know for sure: this girl was new, was the victim of an ingenious joke, and somewhere out of view was a huddle of jackass co-workers laughing their asses off at the fool who actually fell for the clown-size peppermill prank.  I love it. Made me want a big-ass peppermill of my own.

Anyway. That’s enough about seasoning. And the salad. And the club, I suppose. Oh. To drink! To drink I had….hmmm, let me take a picture. That’s a crazy dirty mason jar that I poured my rooibos tea into. I intend to drink, like, 8 of these daily but unfortunately my first glass always lasts until bedtime.  Ugh. I need to shape up and take this water/tea intake mission more seriously. It’s just so boring drinking tea. I don’t even remember it’s kicking around half the time. Oh, tea. Why you gotta be so vanilla?

This is going back in the fridge until tomorrow...

That’s the end. The end of my first food critique. What a gas it’s been.  A roller coaster of emotion built on a foundation of mindless drivel. Oh my god. My stomach hurts. Nooooooo! This always happens! Which leads me to a very important scale of truth: How long does a meal sit with me before I am clambering down my hallway to the washroom?  In this particular case, there seems to be about a 30-minute window between the last bite and needing some serious privacy upon the porcelain throne. Is that what plates are made of? Porcelain?

If you want updates from "The Regular Food Critic", along with book news, 
please follow my author page on Facebook and my Twitter!
Show me you care, even if you don't:

Twitter: https://twitter.com/JillianMParsons

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JillianMaryParsons/