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May. 3rd, 2007 12:07 amMy High School years were spent in the upper middle class part of a town right outside Arnhem, a city in the middle of The Netherlands. We lived in a detached 3-story house, probably built in the thirties or forties. And we had a Cheese Guy. He'd come by every Wednesday in his minivan, ring the doorbell, take an order (two dozen eggs, half of a ball of aged Edammer, a quarter wheel or so standard Goudse), go to the van to get it, come back, get paid, and be off. We did this week after week, year after year. The question might be why my Mom did; she went to the supermarket often enough to get cheaper cheese and eggs, and as a mother of four in an expensive house she was deeply fond of economizing: our chocolade hagelslag was always the store-brand, so cheaply made it wasn't even legally allowed to all itself chocolate. (Why this did not get us kicked out of our show-off neighborhood, I can only fathom is because my whole family fit in so well otherwise in the tennis-club and society. My mom turned this kind of selective cheap chic into a badge of honor among her friends.)
The answer was in something that she one day said on that topic of managing a relationship with the Cheese Guy: during the Winter of Starvation in 1944, when the northern part of The Netherlands had not been liberated from Nazi occupation and was going through worse hunger than ever in the preceding 4 years, it was the previous and ongoing relationships with tradespeople and suppliers -- in this case the farmers outside of town the children had to bicycle to on wooden tires -- that would create the circumstances that would give a hungering family a break. Another egg. A tiny bit more of milk. Any food at all, even if it had to be travelled miles for.
And it worked out in present day as well: on days that my mother did not open the door beause she was deep in her nap -- she went to bed for a short nap every afternoon since she became a stay-at-home wife after her marriage -- and no kids were home, the Cheese Guy would just leave our order in the garage, with a note that he would collect payment next week. After some years of occasionally having to do that, and only very occasionally since my Mom preferred someone was home to deal with him, he didn't even bother with the note. Also, as an Executive's Wife she entertained -- a lot -- and she worked with him to develop an almost signature collection of specialty cheeses to serve after dinner based on her tastes and his recommendations. This too came to the point that she would just mention there would be a party next week, so he could be prepared for when he came by next week, and the specialty cheeses would end up in the garage in the box with the standard order if I had forgotten it was Wednesday which was his day to come by and I had already gone to the library, where I spent my life. I am now realizing that we lived in a neighborhood where we left the garage unlocked by day.
The point to this is that her attitudes have shaped mine towards tradespeople. I want them to love me as a client. I want them to be happy to walk through my door and feel they want to do the best job for me. I have a carpenter right now, a friend of a friend, turning into my friend. That's a pitfall in itself, having a contractor who is also a friend, but fortunately I love hisobsessively perfectionistmeticulous work. So say I need another thing done, which I do. I fully intend to stay in this loft, but even if I do not, that just means this place needs to look even better for a sale. This utter craftsman (be kind about the website, the editorial text is not finished) writes me a quote. I know where this guy lives, he is in a relationship with one of my local friends here, which is how I got him. He has proven himself as a contractor who shows up -- in between acting jobs, he finally got his SAG card -- and, get this, home-remodeling veterans, finishes the job. I thought I was doing a FOAF a favor with a carpentry gig, turns out the man had a practice in New York doing set construction for high-end magazine shoots and 6-figure Park Avenue remodels, and he came to LA to have a new life which is why I get him as he starts out in new careers.
He writes me a quote for this latest thing, asks for 50% upfront. I know most of that goes to materials, so I write the 100% amount check, just to get that money off my books, and know what my budget is without future surprises. Off, gone, no worries. This makes me an 'awesome client'. I understand why, but am still baffled.
In the grand scheme of real estate and remodeling, it is a minor amount, two days of work. He tells me the big jobs sometimes were awful, awful, awful about paying for his hard work. I don't get that. Good craftsmen and contractors, who show up, sober, and work, are hard to find, as I learned during The Great Fenway Bathroom Remodel (a.ka. Those 2.5 Months Were The Longest 4 Weeks Of My Life). Masterful guys who listen to what you want, design, and then execute, are even more rare. So rare that Apartment Therapy is devoting a whole blog post to the one guy in New York City who seems to qualify. Who the hell would treat a guy like that poorly? Who the hell would treat someone who is doing repeat gigs in your house, and doing them well, poorly?
It's not just that my carpenter is a cool guy (we end up at the same parties for example). It's that you never know when the war hits, whatever war it is, and you need a little more, a little extra, just a small break. Or just keep the good work coming.
The answer was in something that she one day said on that topic of managing a relationship with the Cheese Guy: during the Winter of Starvation in 1944, when the northern part of The Netherlands had not been liberated from Nazi occupation and was going through worse hunger than ever in the preceding 4 years, it was the previous and ongoing relationships with tradespeople and suppliers -- in this case the farmers outside of town the children had to bicycle to on wooden tires -- that would create the circumstances that would give a hungering family a break. Another egg. A tiny bit more of milk. Any food at all, even if it had to be travelled miles for.
And it worked out in present day as well: on days that my mother did not open the door beause she was deep in her nap -- she went to bed for a short nap every afternoon since she became a stay-at-home wife after her marriage -- and no kids were home, the Cheese Guy would just leave our order in the garage, with a note that he would collect payment next week. After some years of occasionally having to do that, and only very occasionally since my Mom preferred someone was home to deal with him, he didn't even bother with the note. Also, as an Executive's Wife she entertained -- a lot -- and she worked with him to develop an almost signature collection of specialty cheeses to serve after dinner based on her tastes and his recommendations. This too came to the point that she would just mention there would be a party next week, so he could be prepared for when he came by next week, and the specialty cheeses would end up in the garage in the box with the standard order if I had forgotten it was Wednesday which was his day to come by and I had already gone to the library, where I spent my life. I am now realizing that we lived in a neighborhood where we left the garage unlocked by day.
The point to this is that her attitudes have shaped mine towards tradespeople. I want them to love me as a client. I want them to be happy to walk through my door and feel they want to do the best job for me. I have a carpenter right now, a friend of a friend, turning into my friend. That's a pitfall in itself, having a contractor who is also a friend, but fortunately I love his
He writes me a quote for this latest thing, asks for 50% upfront. I know most of that goes to materials, so I write the 100% amount check, just to get that money off my books, and know what my budget is without future surprises. Off, gone, no worries. This makes me an 'awesome client'. I understand why, but am still baffled.
In the grand scheme of real estate and remodeling, it is a minor amount, two days of work. He tells me the big jobs sometimes were awful, awful, awful about paying for his hard work. I don't get that. Good craftsmen and contractors, who show up, sober, and work, are hard to find, as I learned during The Great Fenway Bathroom Remodel (a.ka. Those 2.5 Months Were The Longest 4 Weeks Of My Life). Masterful guys who listen to what you want, design, and then execute, are even more rare. So rare that Apartment Therapy is devoting a whole blog post to the one guy in New York City who seems to qualify. Who the hell would treat a guy like that poorly? Who the hell would treat someone who is doing repeat gigs in your house, and doing them well, poorly?
It's not just that my carpenter is a cool guy (we end up at the same parties for example). It's that you never know when the war hits, whatever war it is, and you need a little more, a little extra, just a small break. Or just keep the good work coming.
