In my line of work, I often encounter restaurants and meet chefs whose concept doesn't really fly. Or maybe I see the writing on the wall before the place even opens and let the chef know that, really, they are a bit off.

Sometimes I get kinda adamant about it because, well, chefs are often not the listening types. I try to help make them understand that: concepts need to be laser-like to cut through the clutter; whether your food is delicious doesn't really matter until the diner eats it, but whether it sounds delicious when read about on a computer screen does; and that food should be priced based on what the customer wants to buy, not what fancy ingredients you want to serve.

A lot of times, their defense is to try and get me to drink their Kool-Aid, which always means hauling my ass into their restaurant on a frigid cold night so they can cook up a meal they are sure I'll love.

Often times, I do love it.

But it never changes my mind.

Because, really, my job isn't about drinking Kool-Aid. My job is about understanding how the public/media/whomever receives a message, and if they'll want it or even get it. My job is understanding how people who haven't drunk the Kool-Aid will feel about what you think is Kool-Aid and what they thinks is actually just another restaurant.

Think about it: you shouldn't be working with a publicist whose primary benefit is that they can drink your Kool-Aid and then tell you you are marvy. You should be working with someone whose goal is to try to figure out why no one else wants to drink it and then help you craft what you are doing so people do.

In other words: A cold pitcher of Kool-Aid only really matters on a hot day when there's no beer around. Stop trying to be the guy who peddles Kool-Aid in winter, at a brewery.