Postcard: Craftsmanship

No. 006 - on excellence and joy.

Mar 08, 2025

Postcard is a weekly curation of things I think are beautiful or interesting. Each postcard will be named after a word and contain something to listen to, something to look at, and something to think about. I welcome you to share any thoughts in the comments. Thank you!

Postcard: Craftsmanship

craftsmanship:

(n.) Skill, expertise, or careful attention to detail exercised in any undertaking or aspect of life.
(n.) As a property of an object, piece of work, etc.: quality of design or execution indicative of the level of skill and care exercised by the creator

†Meanings from the Oxford English Dictionary (OED)

Something to listen to:

For the uninitiated, Steely Dan is an American rock “band” from the 1970s. The word “band” is in quotes because, in sharp contrast with all musical industry norms at the time, Steely Dan decided to stop touring and performing live early in their career to focus exclusively on maximizing the quality of their studio recordings. The group consisted of Walter Becker and Donald Fagen primarily, with a revolving cast of studio session musicians, each a master of their chosen instruments.

The intentionality and incredible effort that went into recording each album paid off; Steely Dan’s discography from 1972’s Can’t Buy a Thrill to 1980’s Gaucho is an unparalleled string of musical masterpieces, blending rock, jazz, and many more genres to create one memorable, mesmerizing song after another. Each album is worth listening straight through in its entirety, but Aja is my personal favorite.

Roger Nichols, the distinguished recording engineer who worked on every Steely Dan album from 1972 through 2000, was himself a meticulously talented master craftsman. Here’s Roger reflecting on the process of recording their first album:

“We finished it in six months, which was quick for them. But even then their acceptance level was way above everyone else's. They never had the attitude of 'It's getting late that's good enough', or 'No-one else will notice'. Everything had to be as near perfect as technically and humanly possible.”

Something to look at:

Michelangelo worked on the Sistine Chapel ceiling for four years from 1508 to 1512. Time and effort well spent. He was 33 years old when he started (I, myself, am 34).

Michelangelo returned to the Sistine Chapel at the age of 61 and worked for five years to complete The Last Judgment. I recommend going directly to the high-resolution image hosted on Wikipedia so you can zoom to examine the details as you please.

Something to think about:

This week, I give you a tale of two delis.

Since my pea-brained teenage years, I have been a loyal regular at my local deli. Every time I walk in, I see beaming workers and customers, assembly line efficiency behind the counter, and a mind-boggling assortment of fresh meats and vegetables. I have not once had a bad sandwich from them, and I have had hundreds, half a thousand probably. Maybe once or twice they’ve missed a topping, but no more than that.

From the moment they arrive early in the dark morning to prepare for the day ahead until after sundown when they flip the ‘CLOSED’ sign on the door around, they embody excellence through the medium of sandwiches. They take joy in the work that they do and it shows in both their faces and their product.

I am describing a world-class institution that has endured a harsh and unforgiving retail environment since 1987 in order to spread happiness through food. Every aspect of their product, from the supply chain of each vegetable and type of bread to the overall customer experience, has been carefully refined, iterated, and perfected. Decades of experience have not stopped them from trying new things; their most popular sandwich now is one they came up with only a few years ago. Inspiration is a thread they keep pulling on, no matter how many opportunities life gives them to rest on their laurels.

It is a good place, and the world is better for having it.

When I moved into a new town a few years back, I discovered a deli within walking distance from my apartment. An exciting proposition, if perhaps dangerously accessible. But when I stepped into it for the first time, I found myself in a depressing, dimly lit store. Everything was out of proportion—massive sections of their refrigerated store shelves were empty, while bags of chips past their expiration date bulged out of a tiny wireholder. The people behind the counter shuffled back and forth, aimless and joyless. It is the closest I have ever come to feeling like I was in a zombie apocalypse movie.

An unsmiling worker took my order, wordlessly handing me a ticket number.

The sandwich I received was a deli sandwich, no doubt about it. There was bread, cheese, meat, vegetables. It was a sandwich that would, in a court of law, hold up as a sandwich. But every aspect of it was devoid of life. Stale bread, limp vegetables, meat drawn from a source being carved too slowly over too long an interval, a testament to their low customer volume. The fact that this sandwich was 20% more expensive than anything from the first deli simply adds an exclamation point to the experience.

What stood out to me the most, though, what was burned into my memory was the expressions on their worker’s faces. Stern yet disinterested, and totally humorless in all that they did. This was not a place where banter thrives. If I ever signed up for a Not Smiling contest and then saw them standing in the pool of competitors, I would simply forfeit on the spot. I know when I’m beat.

The point of this tale is simple: excellence and joy are fundamentally connected. To do something well is to take pleasure in the act of doing it in the first place. Once you notice this pattern, you see it everywhere, from athletes and actors to musicians and mailmen, from your favorite teachers to your co-workers and the energy they bring to a collaboration. People who do things well are, 99 times out of 100, people who are acting in pure connection with the essence of their task or craft. The happiness this level of connection brings is easily perceptible and, in fact, often transmitted through their work into anyone who receives it. When you do something well, it is not just a gift to yourself, but to the whole world.

At various points in my life, I have been both of these delis. It’s easy, with all of the cynicism and “not trying is cool” energy in the default culture, to make the wrong choice. But I know which type of deli I aspire to be daily for the rest of my life.

I hope the joy I brought to this little piece speaks for itself and, if not, please, I beg you—give it to me straight so I can get better at my own craft.

The name of the excellent deli, by the way, is Driftwood Deli & Market in Palo Alto. I could not recommend them more highly if you’re in the mood for a great sandwich.

The mediocre deli—fittingly—shall remain nameless.

“My biggest satisfaction comes from the interaction with the community and feeling that they can rely on us for a sandwich. After many years of effort and hard work I realize that the biggest payoff is from the human side.”
- Steve, the owner of Driftwood Deli