What a Reuben sandwich taught me about regret and excellence

Stepping into the hotel restaurant on a cold November evening, the ambiance mirrored my subdued mood. Sparse, with only a couple of patrons - business men who could have been my clones. Same age, same suit jackets and business sneakers, dining alone, slightly hunched over in fatigue from a long day, quiet and lost in their thoughts.

My own thoughts, slow with exhaustion from the sustained mental focus of leading an all-day training workshop, were snagging on disappointment. The training didn't seem to hit like it usually does. I found myself second-guessing my performance and cursing those two giant columns in the middle of the training room - literal barriers to connection, and a convenient scapegoat.

It was evident this pub wasn’t the hotspot for locals. With low expectations of a modest menu with standard American fare, I settled for a classic Reuben sandwich.

I wasn't expecting a gourmet meal—just a quick bite to fuel up after a long day. I could not have anticipated the culinary miracle that unfolded. Enter: The Reuben.

I need you to understand that I am a foodie. Frankly, I'm an annoying, pedantic, snob when it comes to food. Picture Nicholas Hoult's character in The Menu. I'm a harsh critic and tough to please. So when I tell you that this Reuben was a revelation, that praise does not come lightly.

The finely chopped corned beef, perfectly moist and tender, danced elegantly with Swiss cheese and sauce and sauerkraut in every mouthful. And the bread? A crispy, buttery love affair that provided the perfect textural counterpoint to the melt-in-your mouth interior. The only thing I can compare it to is a South Street Philly cheesesteak (if you know, you know), but Reuben. I had stumbled into a foodie's paradise in what seemed a most unlikely setting.

With a couple of bites, my spirits lifted. Who knew a sandwich could pull me out of my self-pity and into a beautiful, joyful world of possibility.

Months later I still find myself haunted by the memory of that impeccable sandwich, with a side of regret.

In my haze of exhaustion, I failed to praise the culinary wizard behind this masterpiece. Instead, I silently paid my bill, retreated to my room, and binged some Resident Alien. I said nothing to anyone about that amazing Reuben.

Excellence rarely happens by accident. In my work, I teach people to celebrate excellence. Express gratitude to the person who created it, and tell everyone about it who could benefit from it. That's how high-performance cultures get built - we notice flashes of brilliance, point them out, and match that brilliance with new opportunities so it can thrive.

Yet, on this night I failed to follow my own advice. I should have asked the server to give my compliments to the chef. Actually, I wanted to talk to the chef. To interview them about this sandwich. I wanted to learn about the origin of one the best things I've ever eaten.

So three months later I reached out to the hotel, who connected me with Janice Sandoval, a chef at the restaurant. I emailed Janice but I haven't heard back. Perhaps my email got routed to spam. Perhaps they're on vacation. Perhaps they're busy reinventing chicken parm.

In the meantime, I've made a vow to myself never to let pass by another opportunity to celebrate excellence - to tell someone what their effort means to me.

Reuben chef, whoever you are, I want you to know that the joyful revelation of your sublime creation not only nourished me, but healed me. That's what good food can do - fuel the body and the spirit. Thank you. I'm going to tell everyone about it. Right now.

One of the best things I ever ate was the Reuben sandwich at:

The Paperback Tavern

Hyatt Regency

575 Memorial Dr

Cambridge MA 02139

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Whose excellence will you celebrate today?