Please Take My Money (Sort Of): Zizzi Edition

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Here’s another entry in my ongoing series about payment apps and POS systems, otherwise known as “please, for the love of all things, take my money.”

This time, it’s about Zizzi.

We like Zizzi. Pretty good for a chain, consistent, close to home. The kids enjoy it, and I’m a sucker for a solid lasagna, so it works.

A while back, they introduced the option to order right from your table. You scan, browse the menu, and place your order online. In theory, convenient. In reality, not so much.

The first time we tried it, the whole thing collapsed like a bad soufflé. I think we spent 15 minutes trying to order before admitting defeat. Then the waiter came over, who, to their credit, also had trouble with the system. When the staff can’t make the app work, that’s not a user problem. That’s a “this is broken” problem. Logging in, confirming the order, something always failed. After twenty minutes of tech support cosplay, we gave up and just ordered the old-fashioned way.

Since then, I’ve avoided the “order at the table” gimmick. My appetite doesn’t need a debugging session before pasta.

That said, Zizzi redeems itself with their payment setup. That’s where they actually get things right. You scan the QR code, pay with Apple Pay (no logins, no fuss), and it just works. Recently we had one of the kids’ birthday dinners there, large table, chaos, cake, the usual. The service was great, and paying through the app was quick and clean.

There was one hiccup: the app didn’t let us add a tip. And we really wanted to, because the staff had gone above and beyond with the birthday stuff. We ended up having to flag someone down, who couldn’t add it either. Apparently, the built-in service charge meant we were done. Nice in theory, but awkward when you actually want to leave extra.

Still, credit where it’s due. Ordering? Fail. Paying? Solid.

Zizzi gets a mixed review from me, half frustration, half appreciation. The tech that takes my money works great. The tech that takes my order? Not so much.

My Quiet Breakup with the AirPods Max

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I have always been a Bose guy. For years I used their wired gel earbuds, which were way better than the old Apple earbuds we all pretended were acceptable back then. I even had one of their sound bar’s when I downsized from a full five speaker setup. Bose has always been one of those brands people either love or love to argue about, but I have always been in the “I like their stuff” camp.

About ten years ago, maybe more, I bought the Bose QuietComfort 2 noise cancelling headphones. They were around two to three hundred dollars at the time, and they were fantastic. They still work. Every now and then I would pick them up and think, “Do I really need anything better than this”

Fast forward to 2024. Apple had the AirPods Max out and I kept circling them like some kind of expensive tech craving predator. They were wireless, premium, comfortable looking, and supposedly had incredible noise cancellation. A friend of mine had a very specific problem with them, the kind of issue that only bothers a certain type of person, but still, the Max looked like a great piece of gear.

Meanwhile, I was mostly using regular AirPods for day to day things. They were fine. Good enough for the train, calls, and everyday commuting. At some point I got the AirPods Pro, but the timeline is fuzzy. Either way, the big over ear headphones were for serious travel and the little buds were for everything else.

Then my wife mentioned she was curious about noise cancelling headphones. Her use case was tiny, maybe once a month. I could not see her spending a lot on a brand new pair, so I said, “Do you want mine” meaning the Bose. And in that moment my brain went, “Well, this is the excuse I needed.” I handed her the Bose, she accepted them, and I immediately gave myself permission to finally get the AirPods Max.

And that is exactly what I did. She still has the Bose, and I walked away happy with the Max.

To be fair, they are genuinely great headphones. I used them in the office all the time. I used them on planes and they were fantastic. I never wore them while walking around because they are too big and clunky for me, even though plenty of people seem very comfortable doing exactly that. Good for them, not for me.

Eventually I started noticing a familiar problem: the glasses issue.

I have worn glasses forever and over ear headphones always put pressure on the frames. Sometimes it is fine, and then other times it slowly becomes “Why does the side of my head hurt like someone has been squeezing it for an hour” With the Bose it was manageable. With the AirPods Max and their firmer ear cushions, it became noticeably worse. My most recent pair of glasses, which might be wider, made it borderline uncomfortable. On flights I would take the Max off every so often to give my head a break. I even watched a movie without my glasses just to avoid the pressure, which felt ridiculous.

Around the same time, my regular AirPods finally died, as they eventually do. So I upgraded to the AirPods Pro. And I was honestly surprised at how good the noise cancellation was. Surprisingly good. “Maybe I do not actually need the giant expensive headphones” good.

I took a couple of trips this past year where I brought both the Max and the Pros. Every time, the Pros won. Comfort alone did it. Eventually I told myself, “If I take the Max on this trip and do not use them at all, I will sell them.”

That is exactly what happened.

Then Apple released the newest AirPods Pro that September with even better noise cancellation, and I basically bought them immediately.

So in November I finally sold the AirPods Max on eBay and I do not miss them at all.

They are fantastic hardware. They look great and sound great. But they are not comfortable for me, and I am not someone who walks around the city wearing over ear headphones every day. I tried. It is just not who I am. The amount of space in my carry on that I saved by not using them is also noticable.

Now I am down to the AirPods Pro for travel, commuting, calls, and pretty much everything else. They are basically always in my pocket. They are small, comfortable, and they do not crush my glasses into the side of my head. I keep a spare pair of old wired earbuds in my bag and that is all I need.

So yes, technically the AirPods Max are better. But the headphones I actually use are the ones that win.

The Day My Dad Ended Up Under a Bus

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When I was really young, my dad used to volunteer at the local ambulance corps. That is not what this story is about, but it helps explain something about him. Before he became a physician assistant, he had been an EMT, and he always loved the excitement of being out in the field. He loved the show MASH. More on that another time, unless I already wrote about it. He loved that whole world of organised chaos. But as he got older and settled into his work in the emergency room, he did not really go out into the field anymore. He just got his daily adrenaline fix from being inside the trauma room.

Except for one time.

This was in the late nineteen eighties or very early nineties. There was an accident right outside the hospital where he worked. A man had been hit by a bus. Literally right in front of the building. When that happens, you do not wait for an ambulance to arrive. The emergency room staff goes outside. They are already there, so they just run out and start helping.

My dad was part of the group that went outside that day. They found the man pinned underneath the bus, stuck with his little shopping cart beside him. My dad ended up crawling under the bus with him and staying there until they could free him and get him into the emergency room.

There was a news clipping about it. I am pretty sure I still have it somewhere, or at least a photo of it. I want to find it before I actually post this publicly. But yes, that really happened: my dad was literally under a bus helping rescue someone.

The part he always remembered most was what happened afterward. The man was an older guy on his way back from the market. His groceries had spilled everywhere. Milk had burst open, but somehow the cookies survived. So after all the chaos, my dad said the man kept offering cookies to everyone. Just sitting there, grateful to be alive, handing out cookies.

From what I remember, the man survived and did fine. And for my dad, it was one of those rare moments where he got to go back into the field.

Not everyone can say their dad once crawled under a bus and then celebrated with cookies, but apparently that was just a normal Tuesday in his world.

The Cat, the Blanket, and the Blame

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For Christmas, M bought me a very comfortable throw blanket.

Well. Presumably for me. Possibly for the cat. Or is it for the cat and I wanted it. I forget.

The idea was simple. Leave it on top of the comforter so there is something extra cozy. This matters because sometimes the cat comes onto the bed, and when it was warmer out, I could just peel part of the comforter off myself, drop it on top of him, and he would happily snuggle into it and fall asleep.

He is a Devon Rex. He likes warmth. A lot.

If I do not do that, he might crawl fully under the covers and turn himself into a little croissant right next to me. Or, more often than not, directly on top of me. That is a whole separate story involving him sitting on my chest while I sleep. Which, if I am being honest, is actually pretty comfortable once he settles down.

The only downside is the settling down part. There is some light clawing involved. Not aggressive. More exploratory. It sounds worse than it is.

Anyway.

In the winter, sharing the comforter like that does not really work. Giving him his own blanket on top is much easier. He can be moved. I can adjust. Everyone wins.

This is where things get complicated.

For a while now, A has had a fuzzy blanket that she wraps him up in. He sleeps in her bed, and she basically curls herself around him. She does not care that she is practically on top of him. He does not care either. This has been their arrangement for some time.

So when the new blanket appeared on our bed, A immediately declared that I was stealing him from her.

Now, she was mostly kidding. Mostly. But what she very conveniently glossed over was the fact that he originally slept with us, and only relocated because she provided a better blanket based incentive program.

I honestly did not think this would change anything. She goes to bed earlier. She snuggles him aggressively. I assumed he would continue choosing her.

Instead, what has been happening this week is that he hangs out downstairs with us in the evening, usually on someone’s lap, because he is essentially a heat vampire. Then he moves upstairs and parks himself on the radiator until about midnight, enjoying what I can only describe as a personal sauna.

After that, he chooses a bed.

And apparently, he has been choosing the one with the new blanket.

Here is the part that makes this truly unfair.

I am getting blamed for all of this.

Despite the fact that he is actually cuddling next to M, not me. Despite the fact that I did not invite him. Despite the fact that I did not even buy the blanket, although I did ask for it often.

A is not having any of it. It is still my fault.

Not that it really matters to me.

I am just saying.

Please Take My Money: Wagamama Edition

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I spend a lot of time talking about bad experiences because, honestly, there are plenty to go around. But every so often, someone actually gets it right. And today, or at least initially, that someone was Wagamama, until they then later didn’t but no spoilers yet.

I like Wagamama. One of my daughters likes Wagamama. The other one… not so much. Which means we do not go as often as I would like. Recently, though, the less enthusiastic one has been a bit more open to it, which has resulted in a few bonus noodle nights for me.

The food is always good. The service is consistently fine. And it is one of those places where everyone seems slightly happier after they eat. But what caught my attention this time was not the food. It was the payment process.

After the meal, instead of trying to make awkward eye contact with a server while doing the universal “please bring the bill” hand wave, there is a small QR code on the table. You scan it and it immediately knows what you ordered. No typing. No logging in. No nonsense. Just “Here is your total.”

You can pay right there with Apple Pay, or Google Pay if that is your thing and you enjoy giving Google more information about your life. No account creation. No mysterious third party checkout flow. You can even have the itemised receipt emailed to you, which, as someone who really dislikes handing out an email address, says a lot.

It was fast. It was clean. It worked.

They also let you order food through their app or website. I am not entirely sure which one it is because I have not actually tried it yet, but it looks slick. Given how smooth the in-restaurant payment felt, I assumed they had nailed that part too.

So at that point, credit where it was due. Seamless checkout, transparent receipts, and very little friction. This is how digital payments should work.

Then we went back.

Side note first: A was totally fine with going this time, which feels like real progress and deserves its own quiet celebration.

The reason I am updating this entry, though, is that paying was not quite as effortless as I remembered. This time the QR code was still there, but we also had to enter a table number and the location name. I swear we did not have to do that before. Maybe they changed it. Maybe I forgot. Either way, it added a bit more friction.

What really stood out, though, was that even after choosing Apple Pay, I still had to enter personal details. Not the worst possible outcome since I did not have to register an account, but still more personally identifiable information than I would have liked. Enough that I noticed it. Enough that it annoyed me.

For what it is worth, I just used slightly inaccurate details since it did not affect the Apple Pay transaction at all. The payment went through fine. But that kind of thing chips away at the “this is perfect” feeling pretty quickly.

So yes, they still get a lot right. It is still better than most places. But it is not quite as frictionless as I first thought.

Which, honestly, is how most good systems fail. Not catastrophically. Just by adding one extra step that did not really need to be there.

Still, the katsu chicken was excellent. And I will absolutely go back.

Eight Years, Somehow

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December always ends up full of nostalgia posts for me. I am not normally that nostalgic, but once a year feels acceptable. Maybe twice a year, since let’s face it, I do the same thing for T’s birthday.

A’s birthday is on the twenty eighth, and the very next day is the anniversary of when we moved to England. Those two days back to back almost guarantee that I am going to get a little reflective whether I want to or not.

On one hand, it feels like we just moved. Like it was yesterday that we were packing up and flying out, starting a new life in London. On the other hand, it feels like forever ago, because today makes eight years.

It is always hard to put into words, and I am pretty sure that over the years I have repeated myself when trying to describe this feeling.

What brought it home this year was photos. Our Apple TV screensaver cycles through randomised, curated photos from our albums, and this week a lot of older ones have come up. Sometimes it is recent stuff. Sometimes it is photos from the early years here. And because we have now been here for eight years, there are a lot of those.

You can tell exactly when they were taken. The girls are tiny. Four and five years old. Sometimes they are standing in rooms that look familiar but slightly different, before we did work on the house. I can date photos just by looking at walls, floors, or furniture. It does not feel that long ago, but it clearly was, because the people in those pictures are so much smaller than the people who live here now.

That is where the nostalgia creeps in.

It has been the better part of a decade since we moved. We love where we are. We are very lucky to be here. There is no regret attached to that at all. But it is still strange to look back and realize how much time has passed, even when it feels like it slipped by quietly.

Eight years. Or, if my rough math is right, two thousand nine hundred and twenty two days.

That is a lot of life packed into what still feels, somehow, like not that long ago.

When Eleven Was Fine and Twelve Showed Up Anyway

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I am struggling to believe that I have a twelve year old.

A turns twelve today, and I told her very clearly that I am not ready for that. I was fine with an eleven year old. Eleven felt manageable. So my suggestion was that she could just stay eleven for another year and we would all be good.

She immediately said she would rather not repeat year six, so that was a hard no. We laughed. I smiled.

I have noticed this pattern with myself. When T gets a year older, I feel a little sad about it, but I can rationalise it. I tell myself that A is still younger. There is still a buffer. Someone is still firmly in the little kid category, so everything is fine.

But when A gets older, there is no one left to cushion it.

That is it.

They are both getting older, and there is no younger sibling behind them to make it feel less final. That realization hits differently.

I always knew this was how it worked. When they were two or three, I would catch myself thinking, at least they are not ten yet. Or twelve. Those numbers felt far away. Abstract. Something I could worry about later.

Now they are past that line. They are still little in so many ways, but they are also not. And that is the part that keeps sneaking up on me.

It is strange, because I genuinely love the people they are becoming. I like talking to them. I like seeing who they are turning into. I am proud of them. All of that can be true at the same time as this quiet sense of something slipping by.

So yes, today A turns twelve.

I am not ready for that.

But here we are.

The Stories Behind My Dad’s Omega Speedmaster

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I’ve written before about my dad’s Omega Speedmaster Professional, now my Omega Speedmaster Professional, and how he passed it down to me. But before I forget, I want to write about a few of the stories he told me about that watch. They’ve always stuck with me.

When I first got it, I thought he’d bought it in 1969. Turns out that wasn’t true. After some research, the serial number puts it around 1970 or 1971. When my dad was still alive he confirmed that timeframe. Still, an absolute classic.

One thing he told me that always made me laugh was how Omega almost never buys back their old watches, but more than once, when he sent it in for maintenance, he claims they offered to buy it from him. He always said no.

My dad was a physician assistant who worked in trauma and surgery, so the watch saw some things. He used to joke that it had been sterilized more times than he could count, which, considering where it had been, I appreciated hearing.

He told me about one time when one of the links on the band came apart while he was literally working inside someone’s chest, and the watch slipped off his wrist. They had to fish it out, clean it thoroughly, and fix the band afterward. I still have that original band, so I know it got fixed.

I can’t imagine that would be allowed now. I don’t know what the current hospital rules are, but I’m guessing “no watches in open chests” is probably written down somewhere these days, sterilized or not.

When I tell people that story, some of them are grossed out, others think it’s amazing. I’m firmly in the “amazing” camp. It’s history, after all.

Another quirk is the bezel. Instead of the usual tachymeter, his has what Omega called a pulsometer bezel. It’s what I grew up seeing on his wrist, so to me, that’s just what the watch is supposed to look like. When I had it serviced maybe ten years ago, they asked if I wanted them to replace it since it doesn’t rotate anymore. I said absolutely not. The bezel’s part of its story.

Years ago, when I was living in New York, I brought it to the Omega Boutique for maintenance. The guy behind the counter said he’d have someone take a look and disappeared into the back. A few minutes later, an older gentleman, clearly one of their watchmakers, came out excited to see it. He thought the pulsometer bezel was great and said it was a really special piece. He also told me they could do the service in-house instead of sending it back to Switzerland, which was a relief. Apparently if it was slightly older it would need to travel for service.

It was nice seeing someone else appreciate it that much. That old watchmaker was genuinely happy to work on it.

I don’t wear the original metal band anymore, it was always a little loose even when my dad wore it, and apparently that specific band design is rare now. So I keep it stored safely and use a NATO strap instead.

It’s funny how polarizing this watch can be. Some people hear its stories and get squeamish. Others think it’s the coolest thing ever. I’m clearly in the second group.

Every time I take it in for service, it still gets attention. It always starts a conversation. And I love that.

The Oregon Trail, Carmen Sandiego, and the Apple II

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When I was in middle school, I loved going to the library. I’d volunteer there, and they had computers. Lots of them.

They were mostly Apple IIs, but there was one Apple IIGS, the “fancy” modern one. Looking back, it’s funny to think how high tech that seemed at the time.

The library had games, and the two I remember most were The Oregon Trail and Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? (or one of the other Carmen Sandiego versions). I can’t remember exactly which ran on which machine, probably both on the Apple II at some point, but I do remember how much fun they were.

The graphics were awful by today’s standards, but that didn’t matter. The gameplay and the stories were great. Oregon Trail had those wonderfully stick figure graphics, and Carmen Sandiego was all text and deduction, but both were surprisingly immersive. They pulled you in.

Fast forward to now: there’s an Oregon Trail game on the Apple TV. My kids have played it. It’s wild to see something that defined a tiny part of my childhood sitting there as an app on the TV. And it’s actually hard, way harder than I remember. Maybe 11 year old me was terrible at it, or maybe I’ve just gotten soft.

The kids haven’t played Carmen Sandiego, but they’ve watched the Netflix animated version. So somehow it all comes full circle, a game I played in a school library on a beige plastic Apple II in Queens has become a glossy cartoon they stream in 4K.

It’s funny how that works. I can still picture that room at IS 227, the horse shoe setup of old Apple IIs humming away, green screens flickering, and me trying to ford a river without losing half my wagon party.

Some memories just stick.

Please Take My Money: Green King

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It’s time for another round of Please Take My Money, the ongoing saga of payment systems that either make it ridiculously easy to spend money or somehow turn it into a test of patience and willpower.

Today’s contestant: Green King.

When I think back, I don’t even remember Green King having an online payment system before COVID. Maybe they did, but it certainly wasn’t memorable. Then lockdown happened, and suddenly the idea of ordering from your phone became not just convenient, but essential.

After restrictions lifted, one of the first places we went was our local Green King pub. For the first time, they had an online ordering option. I actually thought that was great. One thing the pandemic got right, if we can say that about anything, is the ability to order food and drinks from your table instead of waiting in line at the bar.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I like the charm of a proper English pub. I don’t mind going up to order a drink. But queuing to order food? Hard pass. So the fact that Green King introduced mobile ordering felt like progress.

Originally you had to register for an account. Nothing kills “convenience” faster than “please create a password.” I get that companies want to collect data and “build loyalty,” but if you’re in the business of selling me a sandwich and a beer, maybe focus on that. I don’t need another account to forget about.

Anyway, once I begrudgingly registered, it worked fine. I could order food, add my table number, and my meal magically appeared without waiting at the bar. That alone put Green King ahead of some others I’ve tried. So let’s call the early days a neutral: annoying sign-up, but decent execution.

Fast forward a few years, and they’ve clearly learned. The app no longer requires you to store your card details. You can just pay with Apple Pay or Google Pay and be done. No extra forms, no saved card nonsense, no trust fall into yet another company’s database.

And that’s the thing. Retailers love to say they “take security seriously.” The reality is that they may not be able to focus on it as deeply as a credit card company or a bank does, which is understandable. So when an app lets me not store my card details, that’s a feature, not an inconvenience. It’s basically zero knowledge in practice. If they ever get hacked, it won’t matter, because my card details were never there to steal in the first place.

These days, ordering through Green King’s app is smooth. You tap, pay, and your order’s on its way. Seamless. Efficient. Almost enjoyable.

So, after a rocky start, Green King has graduated from “barely tolerable” to “actually pretty great.” They finally figured out the assignment: make it easy for me to give you my money.