Those of you who know me will understand that the 50% of my brain not occupied by food is concentrated on baseball (I know, scientists have already asked to study it). Most of the time, this arrangement isn’t productive — thinking about Trader Joe’s Buffalo Chicken Dip doesn’t help me when staring down a 3–2 count.
Other times though, my dual thought processes can be fruitful. The most common instance is when I encounter a disappointing nosh. All munchers know that sinking feeling: You’ve waited all day to try the hot new dessert item or viral sandwich, only for it to strike out.
It is in these scenarios that my baseball mindset comes in handy. The highest batting average in MLB history is Ty Cobb’s .366 mark. That means in six out of the 10 times that Cobb stepped up to the plate, he failed. And yet, he’s one of the greatest hitters of all time. While I’d like my munching success ratio to be a little better than 36%, my years of grounding out to second base have imbued me with the ability to carry on with my culinary crusades — even if I come across a few rotten apples.
The necessity of grappling with my munching misfires presented itself in the form of a terrible (and “terrible” may not even do it justice) cup of coffee. During the long Indigenous Peoples’ Day weekend, my mother and sister visited me from New Jersey. On a perfectly crisp New England fall day, we ventured out to Lexington and Concord to walk along the Battle Road Trail and visit the sites of the American Revolution’s early skirmishes.
After a few hours of walking, we decided to visit Haute Coffee in Concord for a midday munch. Blessed with stellar Google reviews and a witty pun for a name, Haute Coffee brought with it lofty expectations. In the spirit of fall, I ordered an apple pie latte.
The first strike against the café was the exceptionally long wait time. Two cups of coffee should take no more than five minutes to produce. And yet, for nearly 40 minutes, we stood waiting for our coffees. Each time a name was called, my ears perked up in anticipation — only for a name other than Max to be uttered.
After having the middle of our day disrupted by this ‘mild’ inconvenience (that was sarcasm), we finally received our coffee. Sipping that latte felt like popping out in foul territory — a truly disheartening outcome for an at-bat. There was no semblance of apple flavor whatsoever. It tasted like I was drinking plain hot milk, not coffee. It was so bad that I threw it away after three sips. I felt like I needed to snap my bat over my helmet.
After sulking my way back to the dugout (car), I rethought my approach. As we’d be at Boston College for a football game later that night, I searched for dinner options near the campus. Ziggy’s in Brighton, voted on Boston.com as Greater Boston’s best pizza, immediately piqued my attention.
The slice at Ziggy’s was solid — warm, cheesy and greasy, without flop. Its crust was crunchy and well-cooked. While it lacked spice and sauce, I’d definitely return for a pie.
What made Ziggy’s feel like ending a slump with a hit, though, was its buffalo chicken wrap. Featuring a hot sauce that packed a punch, the perfect amounts of lettuce and tomato, and crispy chicken, it was warm, filling and sizable. It was truly one of the best wraps I’ve had in a long time. After starting the day with an o-fer, I had an extra base hit.
Instead of my gut reactions, here’s my slash line:
Haute Coffee Apple Pie Latte: Literally the worst thing to ever exist.
Ziggy’s Plain Slice: 7.7
Ziggy’s Buffalo Chicken Wrap: A double in the gap.
So, while it may not have seemed at the time that watching strike three paint the black would benefit me in the future, it seems that my shortcomings on the diamond have conditioned me to weather my fork-bound failures. After all, in life, munching or baseball, there’s always a next time. So, keep your head held high, write a column to vent your frustration over your overpriced latte and put a good swing on the ball next time.
