Detroit/Kingsley
Zingerman’s is a Jewish deli in Ann Arbor that is 45 days younger than me, but to call Zingerman’s a “Jewish deli” is like calling the Louvre an “art museum.” Like oh, that building across the river? That’s an art museum. Cool, you shrug. No. That isn’t how it goes. Start over.
Zingerman’s is a sandwich shop, an epicerie, a confectionery, a bakery, a creamery, a gelateria, a sit-down restaurant, a mail-order grocery shop, a new customer service model, a way of approaching the natural world, a cluster of strongly held points of view, a framework for generosity – and, yes, in one corner in the back of the front room, a Jewish deli. It is a national institution based in one college town. It led the charge of slow food before you knew what slow food was, and it’s done so in an approachable way that makes sense to just about everyone. Zingerman’s is my favorite business in America, full stop, and I’ve had a lot of time to think about many of them. Their writings about customer service, radical kindness, and local focus have shaped my business and my life as much as just about anything.
I’ve waited ten years to write about Zingerman’s because there is just too much to think about. I could fill all of one brick of text about how Zingerman’s lets you try just about anything in the store, including their $500+ bottles of balsamic vinegar that nobody else in their right mind would ever consider opening, and how this is part of their customer service model and almost certainly extremely good business, because no amount of food writing on earth can substitute for actually putting a thing in your body as someone gives you that thing’s elevator pitch.
I could fill another brick of text about how Zingerman’s original location has slowly, blob-like, taken over the neighboring buildings on its block, creating a space like no other in the process. Unlike most places, its architecture is generated, a maze you’re happy to navigate. Few buildings around the midwest are like this, partly because we’re all new here and partly because of the way property law is written. It is a joy to witness & experience in person; the whole thing feels designed, largely done through trial & error, managing to be profoundly considerate in the process.
I could talk about Zingerman’s discernment, how everything they sell is good in a way that remains ineffable and hits on a soul level. The only bad food at Zingerman’s is the stuff you don’t use. They must say “no” quite a lot. One wonders how they get to “yes.”
Or I could talk about how Zingerman’s sends their customer service representatives to acting school, and how that comes out in the way they show up for you every time you walk in. Imagine the friendliest people in the world enthuse about the best food in the world, handing samples of it to you happily, stepping back, and waiting. “This is amazing.” “RIGHT?” Nothing in the world gets me going more than excitedly telling you about some cool stuff I just experienced. Imagine taking that feeling and putting it into a building, every single day.
Or maybe I could write a whole thing about how they have an in-house full-time illustrator who just draws pictures of every single food product that comes in the door. If they stock something new, which happens often, then this person is there to draw a picture of it. All of their signage, sales banners, posters, and website collateral gets drawn by this person. The illustrations are non-optional. They create the spirit of this place, conveying a sense of deep wonder & childlike happiness. They do Zingerman’s branding better than any logo or style guide.
Maybe I could write about how their gift boxes, monthly clubs, and mail order service in general manage to create a national presence without having to expand outside of Ann Arbor. And thank heavens for that, because I have benefitted rather handsomely from this model in the past. I rather famously hate receiving durable objects as gifts unless I’ve explicitly said I want them, but you know what always works for me? Consumables. And you know who does consumables better than everyone? You do now. I once freaked out so hard about someone getting me Zingerman’s bread-of-the-month club that Zingerman’s quoted me on their product page for several years. Badge of honor.
We haven’t even talked about how they run their business yet. There was a lot of difficulty for a while there. They would put up a chalkboard where they would list how many sandwiches they’d have to sell to get a new fridge, for example. They would have to expand slowly, because nothing is guaranteed in food. Spreading a new vision around work is really hard, too, because it’s easier to retreat to the old ways, and the whole time you’re trying to consciously envision a different way of existing, you’re also running a deli at the same time. And yet now they exist at a sort of steady state, at least outwardly. The future is theirs to lose.
Through all this, they do what I do, which is to teach everyone everything they know. I own books from Zingerman’s about balsamic, parmesan, olive oil, customer service, anarchism, business operations, and – most famously – bacon. Every single one of these things has a common thread: a large group of people doing it wrong, a few doing it right, a clear sense of what “doing it right” means, and a way forward – if you choose to follow it.
I could talk about the personal stuff. Something from Zingerman’s – olive oil, balsamic, wine vinegar, pasta, maybe honey or a spread – usually sits on my table every time I gather people. On special occasions like my biggest parties, I’ll get bacon, cheese, or bread from them and serve it like it was made by god. In these ways, Zingerman’s has held me from afar during some of the biggest moments of my life, and words fail to express my gratitude for them.
Anyway, I’m a thousand words deep in here and I haven’t actually written about anything yet, even though I think I just covered some value of “everything”? Maybe we’ll just talk about the visit.
I went to Ann Arbor recently for a retreat that helped clear up a lot of the way I see the world. I came out of that space very grateful for my life, for what I’ve done to get to this point, for the sacred practice that is my conscious existence. And I didn’t want to make the drive back to Chicago that day, so I booked a night in a hotel, threw my stuff in my room, and immediately drove to Zingerman’s for dinner. I hadn’t been there since 2008, and in that time rather a lot happened in my life. Now a completely different person, I parked a block away, walked up, leaned against the building across the street, took a couple of pics, and just watched for a few minutes as people came and went. Took in the scene. Went inside. The baker said hello because their station is at the front of the place, and then they got out of my way a little as I stared around in awe. Let me know if you need anything. I think I’ll probably need a tissue, lol. Got two loaves of bread, four bottles of oil & vinegar, 3 hunks of cheese, a pound of bacon, and then I walked over to order a turkey reuben and buy my groceries.
Food in hand, I went upstairs to a cafeteria room that was covered in hand-illustrated murals, and I kept my phone in my pocket as I looked around, thought about everything this place has meant to me, everything it’s done to change me, everything I’ve done to change myself, and how at the end of the day all we need to do is just support each other in this insane, hostile world; and I finished my sandwich, got up, took my ungodly amount of specialty groceries, and went home.