Why Apple will rule the world (And I'm just fine with that)

Linked by my malfunctioning iPhone, but poles apart in customer service, are the divergent tales of Tesco and Apple.

Last week I wrote of the woeful treatment I received at the hands of pile-em-high-sell-em-cheap retail giant Tesco. Perhaps no more than I deserved for buying from a brand with their reputation. My experience worsened through the weekend as my letter to their CEO first took several days for a reply, then got a holding note from a flunky before finally a confirmation another "customer service" hack that they couldn't do anything for me.

Time to throw myself on the mercy of Apple. I made an appointment at the genius bar of the new Covent Garden store. (The largest in the world. Amazing.) I showed up promptly. Explained that I'd been an Apple customer since my first 512k Mac in 1986. That this was the first time I had ever NOT purchased an Apple product direct from the store. Related my Tesco experience. And hoped.

The lovely genius did not disappoint. A quick check of the serial number confirmed that the phone was indeed just 37 days out of warranty. Not a problem. We'll fix you up with a new one. That shouldn't have happened. We value your continuing business and want you to be happy. Fifteen minutes and a friendly chat later, I had my new kit in hand and was not only a happy, but a delighted, customer. I immediately treated myself to a new case for the phone and resolved that it's time to loosen the purse strings and buy an iPad. That one cheerful piece of customer service, requiring them to take a slight loss by giving me what's now one of their oldest pieces of kit, will trigger more than £600 in additional sales and the good PR of me boring friends and readers with tales of Apple-inspired delight. A shame Tesco couldn't learn from this. (Nope, not even an offer of a free month of service ... a princely £45 ... to get me back on side!)

Of course, it's not just a quick replacement of faulty equipment that makes Apple special. It's the whole ethos of the company. A few days later I was lucky enough to be invited, thanks to our advertising agency Ogilvy, to an innovation forum for a select group of marketing bosses at Apple's London HQ. There we met with a parade of senior execs. All casual, approachable and brilliant; human representations of all that makes their technology special.

They specifically asked us not to blog or otherwise communicate widely on the details of what we learned. Apple keeps its cards close to its chest, a marketing strategy that's worked wonders for them. So, without divulging any confidences, what did I see that convinced me of Apple's world dominance?

1. They know what they do best, and stick to it. Did you realise that they only have 14 products? They build what they believe in ... usually stuff that's revolutionary ... and put everything behind it. Amazingly, they do very little market research and don't rely on focus groups. And yet they instinctively "get" the customer in a way I haven't seen in any other technology company. They are confident that they can anticipate what we need, before we need it, and give it to us.

2. They're not a technology company, they're a mobile lifestyle company. Apple has always gotten the fact that it's not about the technology, it's about what you do with it. And we all are on the move these days. Whether it's the iPhone or the iPad, it's all about connecting you to the whole world, from wherever you are, with minimum effort. How did we ever live without it?

3. They are in the right place at the right time. Between iPods, Phones and Pads, a frightening chunk of the world has an iTunes account. Which means Apple has your contact and credit details, plus access to all the apps and media you download. You think "you are what you eat"? You are what you consume all right, but it's all about the media that goes through your brain. Think about it. With a credit rating, an address and a view of what someone reads, listens to and watches, you can climb into their soul without ever meeting them. All of which means that Apple is positioned to be the greatest channel of targeted advertising that has ever existed. A lot of people have talked about this, but Apple has all the tools to do it. And the discretion to do it well.

I could go on. As I did, to anyone who would listen, after my mind expanding session on Hanover Street. And the best part? I got to tell my Tesco story to Apple's EMEA CEO, as part of a discussion about their channel strategy and the dangers of tainting the Apple brand with companies like Tesco that can't deliver the same combination of wisdom and service. Turns out working with Tesco was indeed a concern, and that Apple's still watching the relationship closely. I like to think Tesco will someday regret treating me so badly. Just as Apple will be glad they treated me so well. I have another genius bar appointment next Tuesday, after which the new iPad is on the shopping list.

Longborough opera returns with a luxury picnic and an odd but enjoyable "Cosi"

By the time I left university, I believed I had mastered the art of the tailgate picnic. The coordinated line up of cars mustered early enough to pick a prime spot. The careful division of culinary responsibilities. The bright flags to help guests find you in the crowd and the decorations to make you look classy. I now realise, of course, that I was a rank amateur.

For the ultimate sports tailgate I must give a nod to my cousin, who sets up a pavilion before every USC game with his best mate (who actually kitted out a four-wheel drive specifically for the purpose) so elaborate it's been featured on the Food Channel. But for the elegance award, I have to hand it to the Brits.

It's country house opera season again, and the black tie picnic is at least as much a part of the event as the opera itself.

After our deep enjoyment of the Longborough Festival last year (see 27.710) we decided to become members, and are now counting on at least two weekends each summer spent ensconced in luxurious B&B at the Windy Ridge Estate while taking in opera next door. This year's first outing: Cosi Fan Tutti. Piers' brother and sister-in-law joined us. We did the food, while they brought wine and setting. Together, we arrived properly on the opera tailgating map.

We drove their four-wheel drive over in the late afternoon, parking it in a prime spot at the top of the field next to the croquet lawn, with a lovely view of the manor house, the opera house and the valley stretching beyond. Up went the tented pavilion, large enough to encompass the tailgate of the car within one side, and beneath it a table and four chairs. In the back of the car, a mini fridge was cooling down the white wine. Having claimed our spot, we abandoned it temporarily, strolling back through the arboretum to the manor house to change into formal wear.

An hour and a half later the boys were in dinner jackets, pulling corks and filling glasses while we girls lounged in our gowns and checked out the tented city of silks, velvet and bow ties that had grown around us. Our pre-opera starter menu centred around arancini di riso, a southern Italian classic. Balls of risotto, wrapped around a piece of mozzarella, then lightly rolled in bread crumbs and deep fried to a golden brown. Piers has recently discovered a delicious recipe for roasted red pepper relish, which works magnificently with a bit of cream cheese in a croustade cup. Add some caramelised onion houmous and a pot of taramasalata with a pile of fresh pitta bread, and we had the Mediterranean on our table. (Sadly, the cool, overcast, breezy afternoon was solidly English. English April.)

Half way through the opera comes a 90-minute dinner interval, during which the Bencard pavilion served cold roast beef, string beans with roasted tomatoes and a horseradish potato salad, all accompanied by a lovely French red wine. As the evening gathered in we did realise that we were lacking in lanterns, torches or some other suitably romantic form of illumination. We'll have to work on that. The American in me came to the fore at dessert, with brownies and cookies laced with dark and white chocolate and macadamia nuts. After that, it's perhaps no surprise that the platter of French cheeses never made it to the table. Had we emerged from the opera into a balmy evening, we might have lingered beneath our pavilion watching the stars blink over Gloucestershire while we nibbled. But the firm chill in the air dictated a quick strike of the picnic camp and a return to Windy Ridge's sitting room for a warming port.

And the opera? I have seen Cosi Fan Tutti before, in the magnificent spectacle of a box in a tiny baroque opera house in Prague (see 12.5.08), but with the surtitles in Czech I will admit to only grasping the basics of the plot. This time the English text provided details which I'm not sure actually helped my enjoyment. Cosi is neither Mozart's most engaging story, nor his best operatic score. The preposterous and rather depressing tale has an old cynic convincing two young men that all women are fickle, then setting out to entrap their lovers (a pair of sisters) into cheating on them by putting the boys in costume, sending them after the girl who is not their love and wooing persistently. Each sister eventually falls in love with the other's fiance, before all is revealed and they go back to their original pairings with an acknowledgement that such knocks are inevitable in relationships.

While Cosi doesn't have any of the instantly recognisable arias of Mozart's other operas, the repeated seduction attempts of the plot mean that it's pretty much two hours of achingly romantic songs of longing. Nothing to complain about there. We found the whole Longborough experience just as wonderful as last year, with spectacular singers and a stirring orchestra performing in an intimate space. (We were in a box hanging directly over the harpsichordist, a spectacle that provided an extra bit of entertainment.)

My only complaint is the director's odd decision to transpose the action to the 1950s. I don't mind seeing the classics staged in other time periods. It's a time-honoured way of demonstrating that the great works are eternal, and sometimes they work even better. Certainly the 1995 film version of Richard III set in a fascist 1930s England is the finest interpretation of that play I've ever seen. But I need a reason for my transpositions, and I didn't see one here. Was there anything particular about the '50s that made the tale of infidelity resonate? I didn't see it. Meanwhile, the short hair and conservative dress of the 50s made the "disguises" of our returning lovers difficult to swallow. If forced into the modern era, why not set things in the late '60s, with Vietnam as the military backdrop and hippies providing a convincing disguise for clean-cut soldiers?

Still, no harm done. The set design was pleasant if uninspiring, and the womens' costumes were attractive. I can't help thinking I liked the staging in Prague better, but knowing what was going on made for a superior overall opera experience. As, of course, did the luxury picnic. Next up is a return to Wagner in late July. Back to just the two of us, so the set up will no doubt be less grand. I'm still hoping, however, for that balmy evening under the Gloucestershire stars.

DON'T SHOP AT TESCO! A tale of poor customer service and lessons learned about heartless discounters

A vocal minority of Brits see grocery and superstore owner Tesco as the anti-Christ of retail, a heartless leviathan who advocates animal abuse, ruins the income of farmers and destroys the local high street. I must admit I never thought too much about these things. Tesco was convenient. Cheap chicken and milk had their merits and the local shops in my village were so overpriced and limited in their offerings they deserved to go out of business.

My mind has changed. Tesco is, indeed, an evil enemy to customer service. I respect their pile-em-high, sell-em-cheap business strategy, but now realise the consequences. The new truth in marketing laws really should have them investigating replacing their tagline "every little helps" with "caveat emptor".

The source of my awakening is my 13-month old iPhone. Last May, after a lifetime of employer-provided mobile telephony, I decided it was time to get my own kit. Having never paid for a mobile before, I wanted no hassle. Thus I purchased the premium deal: biggest, most sophisticated phone matched with an unlimited use contract for two years. It was, the love of my life now informs me, a rotten deal, but I didn't care at the time. It was fast, spur-of-the-moment and easy. A small diversion from the weekly grocery shop and a big item knocked off my to do list.

Forward 13 months, during which time I have dutifully paid my £45 a month and forked over extra cash when traveling for outrageous roaming fees. Again, not bothered. The glory of the internet in my pocket, the complete connectivity to the whole planet at every moment of my day, made the cost inconsequential. Then, on Wednesday morning, I woke up to an iPhone with a black screen. Held under a bright light, the images are still there; the mechanism to light them up has busted. The device is still working, you just can't see much. Which makes it pretty useless. (I have temporarily switched to my work Blackberry for survival, which, for anything other than work email, is painfully awkward.)

Following instinct and 26 years of Apple ownership, my first stop was to the Apple store, where a charming, sincere and very helpful man couldn't give me an immediate appointment with a genius (Apple's customer support people), but took a look, told me what had probably gone wrong and discussed options with me. First step, clearly, was to go back to Tesco Mobile to see what they could do for me. If I was stuck, come back to Apple and go from there.

Well, I shall certainly be returning to Apple, because the Tesco Mobile people were poster children for poor customer service. (And in this country, that's saying a lot.) First, there was the spotty youth who greeted me with the information that he was new, didn't know anything and probably couldn't help me. Then there was the slightly less spotty youth, who ignored my explanation that I'd tried all rebooting, brightness checks, etc. and had even visited the Apple store. He did all of this anyway, telling me as he did that since it was a month past one year it was my problem. Although they might be able to send it away to be fixed for me. I'd have to pay, of course, and it would be several weeks without a phone. Maybe a manager could do something.

This is where I usually expect things to get fixed. Skip the teenagers, get to the mature people who are making a career out of their chosen businesses. People who usually are given some discretion by their corporate overlords to do what's necessary to please, and keep, a good customer. As in, customers for whom convenience and service is more important than cost. (Yes, I know, anyone who's shopped in a Tesco will see the flaw in my argument right here. "You're not in WAITROSE, Ferrara. You think they give a damn about you as a customer?)

So on to the department manager, a pinched, pale 30-something who I suspect looked at least five years older than she was. Clearly, working for Tesco does you no favours. (Nor does the manly, ill-fitting blue polyester suit she was forced to wear.) Her position was pretty much the same as the spotted youths. I was a month past warranty. I might have heard a "sorry", but it was the same kind of "sorry" delivered by train engineers when you're running late. They say it because the marketing department told them to. They don't really mean it. The pinched and pale manager offered no suggestions and gave no help. Not even an offer to try to send it away for repair. Nor an attempt to upsell me to a new phone at a slight discount. (Which, had they read me right and been nice to me, I might have done.)

I have learned my lesson. And, oddly, it's not "you get what you pay for", because I paid the premium rate and still suffered. It's "you get WHO you pay for". No matter what you buy and how much you spend, if you buy it from a bare bones discounter who's all about profits, and figures cheap prices eliminate the need for customer service, you will be treated badly. If you buy from a premium retailer, even if you got something at a whacking great discount, they'll take care of you; because their brand depends on that service. So, dear readers, please learn from my pain. DON'T SHOP AT TESCO.

And, dear John Lewis partnership, don't you think there's a market niche for Waitrose mobile?

Tosca doesn't win the Italo-Germanic opera war, but she provides a fine night out

Note to self: When I next take the trouble to queue up for Royal Opera House tickets the day they go on sale, I really should check out who’s singing.

Had I done my research it is at least possible that I, making my purchase within three hours of the box office opening, might have gotten seats at one of the two performances of Tosca starring the dream trio of Angela Gheorghiu, Jonas Kaufmann and Bryn Terfel later this month. Unaware of those details, I opted for last night’s opening performance.

Of course, satisfaction was pretty much guaranteed, whoever was singing. This is one of my favourite operas, conducted by the wonderfully gifted Tony Pappano and staged in full splendour at one of the world’s greatest venues. While the tremendous trio would have given me bragging rights, Marcello Giordani made Mario’s famous arias stir my heart. Martina Serafin’s Tosca was passionate, brave and admirably fiesty, while Juha Uusitalo was a suitably despicable Scarpia. (Although I think the Finnish baritone actually underplayed the role. This is one of the most evil men in the operatic repertoire and I thought there could have been more menace in his delivery.)

I wish I could report the same satisfaction on my other half’s part, but the Wagner lover … as regular readers will know … is no fan of the Italian greats. At least he accompanied me happily, admitted there were some merits to the evening’s performance and had the foresight to get a nice bottle of white wine that carried us through both intermissions. During those breaks we continued our ongoing debate over the merits of Italian opera versus German, and though we’ll never agree, we did come to some conclusions about the source of our differences.

All operas balance music, production and plot. The great ones tend to have all three in abundance. But, inevitably, some elements are more dominant than others. In an honest moment of introspection (in the break just after Tosca had dispatched the heinous Scarpia with his own blade) I had to admit that plot comes first for me, followed by production, and then music. With these priorities, is it any wonder I love Tosca? A passionate tale of love, jealousy, betrayal and murder, filled with double crosses and grand gestures. It’s played out in a lavish baroque chapel, a palace interior and the castle rooftop from which Tosca leaps to her death. There are three really memorable arias, and a lot of good music that links the plot together. But this is primarily a bombastic melodrama set to a fine soundtrack.

Conversely, I now realise that Piers’ priority list is music first, by a long shot, then plot and production in a distant tie behind. He would be quite happy to lie in a darkened room and listen for three hours. In that situation, I’m afraid I’d be bored in 15 minutes. Call me a cretin, but music alone has never been enough stimulation for me.

Given these differing priorities, our preferences for German or Italian opera become clear. If I only had the soundtrack to listen to, I’d pick Wagner, too. His music provides consistently grand orchestration; a multi-layered symphonic work in which people happen to sing. But, simple creature that I am, I’m going for the big show.

While we continue on in our long running debate, the fact that we’re battling over such nuances is reassuring. Strip away the fine points and we arrive at the truth that we both love opera, and all the rituals of grand occasion that accompany it. Looks like that 98% compatability rating is still proving accurate.

Speaking of grand occasions … We popped into Clos Maggiore for their pre-theatre special before the main event. Just 50 yards down King Street from the northwest corner of Covent Garden market, this place is wonderfully located for the Opera, allowing you to go from paying your bill to sliding into your seat in less than 10 minutes.

The menu looks to Italy and Provence for inspiration, and offers a reasonably priced (£19.50 for two courses and half a bottle of wine) special before 6pm. Service is friendly and prompt, sensitive to the fact that everyone needs to dash for at 7pm.

Marketed as one of the most romantic restaurants in London, the highlight is the beautiful main dining area with a massive fireplace at the rear. It’s a small room, holding only eight tables, but a testimony to the decorative power of mirrors. Lined with them on three walls, which are then partially screened with columns and branches heavy with silk cherry blossoms, the space looks far bigger than its reality and is, indeed, a wonderfully romantic setting that sweeps your imagination to distant, southern holidays. Should you come here on a special date, however, specify that you want to be in the main room. There are few tables at the front of the ground floor, and another dining room upstairs. Both spaces are attractive but lack the special charm of that main room.

Does the food match the atmosphere? A good range of options, well presented and prepared. We both started with the ham hock and foie gras terrine, clearly a glamorous way to use up the leftover luxury from the a la carte menu. Excellent, but could have used double the accompanying fig jam to balance the richness of the meat. Shared taste reigned again for the main, as we both went for the pork chop. Fully satisfied, there was no need for pudding. A couple of coffees, served with a few chocolates, and we were good to go.

The drinks here are clearly where they’re making the profit margin on the value-priced set menu. Our gin and tonics before dinner and coffee after almost doubled the bill. Still, a good experience and a place I’d recommend before any opera … German or Italian.