strategically asking about cheese

Sharon and I try to get breakfast together regularly. Almost always on Saturdays — which is why we call it Dadurday. We do miss a week here and there. Life has a way of scheduling over the things that matter most. But in principle, Saturday morning is ours.

We usually go to the Landmark Diner in Roslyn. I usually order a burger. And I say this without exaggeration: their burgers are among the best I’ve ever had. Perfectly grilled, great flavor, emotionally reassuring.

And then comes the question:

“Do you want cheese?”

This is where things become complicated.

In theory, I like cheese on a burger. In practice, I like pepper jack on a burger. Other cheeses are...other cheeses. American is tolerable, I guess, though it hardly counts as cheese. Cheddar is serviceable. Swiss is OK. Blue cheese is, in my considered judgment, gross. I understand that some people claim to enjoy it. I wish them well.

Plain is also good -- burgers din't need cheese. Whether I want pepper jack or plain depends on mood, weather conditions, and perhaps deeper existential factors.

Early on, when asked about cheese, I would inquire about options. Pepper jack was not among them. Sometimes I would specifically ask. The answer remained no. Sometimes I declined cheese. Sometimes I chose a different cheese.

But over time, I realized I was not merely ordering lunch.

I was participating in a game.

This is a classic signaling problem. The diner is a rational actor. Its objective function is simple: maximize profit by selling food people want. My objective is to consume a burger, ideally topped with pepper jack.

However, information is imperfect.

If I simply decline cheese, the diner concludes I have no cheese demand.

If I hear the list and decline without commentary, the signal is noisy. Perhaps I’m indecisive. Perhaps I’m temporarily lactose-averse. No actionable data.

If I select cheddar or Swiss, then from the diner’s perspective, the equilibrium holds. The absence of pepper jack did not cost them a sale. No incentive to adjust supply.

Which leads to my optimal strategy.

To shift the equilibrium, I must create a credible signal of unmet demand.

So now, I:

Express interest in cheese.

Ask what kinds they have.

Specifically inquire about pepper jack.

Upon learning (again) that they do not have it, I decline cheese and note, gently, that I would have taken it if pepper jack were available.

This transforms a private preference into observable lost revenue.

I am, in effect, conducting a one-man market intervention.

Will this tip the curve? Probably not. It’s entirely possible that my weekly inquiry disappears into the noise of a busy Saturday shift. The kitchen may not be maintaining a Pepper Jack Request Ledger.

But in game-theoretic terms, I have at least moved from a pooling equilibrium (all cheese preferences indistinguishable) to a separating one (my preference clearly signaled).

And I have done so politely.

None of this is criticism. The people at Landmark are great. Truly. Always friendly. Always welcoming. Always patient when I ask for the cheese list as though new dairy products might have entered the market since last week. It’s consistently a terrific experience.

Dadurday, of course, is not actually about cheese.

It’s about sitting across from Sharon and talking. About her week. About what she’s thinking. About whatever small or large thing is occupying her mind. It’s about carving out time before the day accelerates. And even if we're spending some of the time on our phones, that's OK.

The burger is excellent. The game theory is mildly amusing.

But the real equilibrium I’m protecting is this one: we show up.

And if, someday, the server says, “Yes, we have pepper jack,” I’ll smile, order it, and Sharon will probably roll her eyes — because she has heard this analysis before.

Which is, in its own way, part of the tradition.