Shplish Shplash

 

Do you enjoy going through a carwash? Not the little squirty kind, but the Big Boy with the spinning brushes and the water jets and the foamy foam and then the liquid hot wax, all topped off with a final rinse and super blower to dry you off.

Well, the car. But you might be wet inside if your equilibrium was rattled by that feeling that the car is moving forward (but it isn't). You might have even spilled your Big Gulp over that.

Well, someone had a great idea up in Detroit, and no, I don't mean the Ford Pinto. Up at the Fast Splash Car Wash, they've got hobblin' goblins all over you as you and the Biscayne move on down the line. They tap on your window, try to open your doors, and cackle like demons  - and that's while you're still in line!

 Come this time of year, Fast Splash takes those giant brushes and mitter curtains (those flappy things that shimmy and shake all over your Gremlin to get the road crud off) and turns them into a hell of a frightful scrubdown.

They have whole chain of these carwashes - 260 of them from Alaska to Wyoming, seasonally re-named "Tunnel of Terror." The marketing manager behind all these spooky suds is Joel Fullmer, with Tommy's Express, a car wash chain out of Holland, Michigan.

"This is going to be the biggest year we have for this," says Joel Fullmer, who says they have a ton of these carwashes in California, but that he first heard of them in Virginia and Florida.

Well, of course, Florida...

"Our car wash is known for being bright and open, not the claustrophobic brick tunnel feeling," Fullmer says. "But for this event, we black out the windows, we turn down the lights, we run fog machines. Our team members will dress up in costumes." 

Not surprisingly, Fullmer himself has dressed as a ghoul and worked the line. Remember, he's in marketing. It's his job to scare up business.

Slice of Life

I have to tell you, I love bread. This goes back to my A&P days when, under the trade name Jane Parker, the store sold really good bread, old fashioned sandwich bread, and the wrapper called it "a hearty, firm-type loaf." 

I think that awkward wording about their fine products contributed to the A&P's demise. I mean, who calls their bread "a hearty, firm-type loaf," for crying out loud?

Sometimes, I'd rather have the bread than the sandwich. I like rye and sourdough the most - anything but that spongy white Wonder bread nonsense.

And when I'm at Lidl or Aldi or Weis, I don't mind shelling out a little extra for my toast, if the bread is good.

But I have to draw the line at this bakery just recently opened in New York City's chi-chi Soho neighborhood. The bakery is called Rye, and the question should be, "Rye are you willing to pay $60 for a loaf of bread?"

But that's the ticket price, and according to all up there, people are breaking their neck to get a loaf or rye sourdough advertised as having just four ingredients:  water, flour, salt and time.

The co-owner of this breadatorium, Tim Auer, says they have to charge 60 simoleons because it's a big loaf for sale in a pricey area.

“First of all, it’s a lot of bread,” he says. “It’s about 3.3 pounds, and we not only sell the whole loaf for $60, but we also sell half a loaf or a quarter of the loaf for either $30 or $15.”

“The price is also the result of all the efforts and costs that went into this, whether that’s importing the organic rye flour from Austria or baking it right here on site on Lafayette Street,” he adds.

And the time aspect, Tim? 

“You need to ferment the rye sourdough,” he says. “You need to feed it every day. That takes about 24 hours before you can use it again. Then you need to make the dough, ferment the dough, shave the bread, ferment the dough again, bake it, and then you have to let it rest.”

“The thing with rye sourdough bread is that when you take it out of the oven and try to cut it right away, it’s not going to work well,” he continues. “You’re going to basically rip it apart while doing so. It’s a bit like cutting dough. ... And so, it needs to rest for at least eight, but more about 12 hours, before you then can actually sell it or eat it.”

Sell it? Eat it? For 60 bucks, I might have to frame it!