They aren’t for networking events. They aren’t for making a ridiculous house of cards.
The main purpose of business cards is to fill fishbowls at restaurants for free lunch drawings.
It is known by many that my favorite food is “free.” And my favorite drink: whiskey, with a strong preference for free whiskey.
During a routine trip to Noodles & Company to pickup food for my office, I reached into my pocket, grabbed a business card and deposited it into the fishbowl full of elbow noodles. The following Monday I received a call from Noodles. I thought it was to check in on my catering order. Instead it was a man named Andrew–great name–who informed me that I’d been selected to enjoy a tasting menu with eight of my friends.
My first thought was “Do I have eight friends?”
After boasting of my good fortune on social networks, I extended an invite to coworkers who have taken me out to lunch, and to my team. All this serendipity came on the heels of Pablo Day. A sacred day where a generous and kind New Yorker (they do exist) paid for my pizza in the wee small hours, when, inebriated, I grabbed pizza and didn’t pay. Since then, I try to return the favor to someone on Pablo Day. The group was set and today we experienced a total immersion culinary adventure around the globe, one carb dish at a time.
I had no idea what to expect from their tasting lunch. All I knew is that they’d have my favorite food. Here’s what it means: They bring you one of everything on the menu. Every. Thing.
We started with salads before departing for Asia. After sampling pan noodles, pot stickers and pad thai, we worked our way west as part of some global manifest destiny. Next was the Mediterranean region: penne, pesto and problems. At this point everyone in the group started to get concerned that this was all part of an updated Hansel and Gretel situation.
How long before they started feeling our fingers for plumpness?
A few coworkers left claiming they had “work to do.” Those who remained soldiered on to get real work done–licking bowls clean and consuming more carbs than a runner the night before a marathon. The American noodle dishes were barely sampled as we all neared our breaking point.
“Do you want me to just wrap up the sandwiches?” Catherine, our tireless server asked. She saw the collective closing of eyelids and slouching in our chairs. One coworker waived his paper napkin in defeat.
They tossed in some cookies and krispie treats. The four remaining carb crushers and I waddled out the door with our large bags of leftovers.
So go ahead and order those business cards. They practically pay for themselves. Until you get diabetes or get fired for passing out at your desk. “Carb coma” isn’t recognized in the DSM-5.
I checked. Then passed out at my desk.