The leather on my shoes felt good. Polished, solid, a recent repair holding strong at the heel. The compliment, however, felt flimsy. It landed with a soft, hollow thud in the air between us.

“Love the shoes, by the way. Really sharp,” he said, leaning back in a chair that cost at least $878. A gut-level alarm, the kind you can’t deactivate, started its low hum. This wasn’t a conversation about footwear. This was the overture. This was the sterile swab before the needle. This was the cheap bread, and I knew, with absolute certainty, the spoiled meat was coming next.

For decades, this has been sold as a tool of kindness. A way to soften the blow. This is a lie. The feedback sandwich has nothing to do with kindness and everything to do with managerial cowardice. It is a profound, systemic insult to the intelligence of every employee forced to pretend to chew on it. It’s a communication model built on the assumption that you, a functioning adult, are a fragile toddler who can’t handle hearing the truth without being spoon-fed some sugary praise first. It’s a technique that trusts no one and, in turn, creates no trust.

The Cost of Cowardice

I say that with such conviction, but I have to admit, I’ve used it myself. I’m not proud of it. Years ago, managing a small team of 8, I had to tell a junior designer his concepts were consistently missing the mark. They were technically proficient but creatively barren. So I did what I was taught. I called him into a room. I praised his work ethic (true). I praised his speed (also true). Then I mumbled something about his work needing more ‘conceptual depth.’ I finished by telling him he was a valuable member of the team (a lie, at that point). He nodded, smiled, said thank you, and left. And nothing changed. Of course, it didn’t. I hadn’t given him feedback; I’d given him a riddle wrapped in a compliment. The real message was so padded and protected it had no impact. My cowardice, disguised as kindness, cost him months of potential growth. It was a failure of leadership, plain and simple.

This is why I find myself thinking about Phoenix P.K. She’s a woman I met once, a specialist who repairs vintage fountain pens. Her workshop smells of old ink and machine oil. Her tools are arranged with a precision that borders on sacred. You don’t bring Phoenix a pen and get a compliment sandwich. You get the truth, because the truth is the only thing that matters to the function of the object. She’ll pick up a 1948 Parker Vacumatic, hold it to the light, and say, “The celluloid is beautifully preserved. Remarkable. But the breather tube has disintegrated, the diaphragm is ossified, and there’s a hairline fracture in the nib’s left tine. It will cost $138 to restore, and it will take 8 weeks. Do you want me to proceed?” There is no, “You have great taste in pens!” to start. There is no, “But you keep it so clean!” at the end. The initial compliment about the celluloid isn’t praise; it’s a diagnosis. It’s part of the complete, unvarnished assessment. It is respectful because it is direct. It honors the owner by assuming they are there for a solution, not an ego boost.

The Fountain Pen Repair Standard

Corporate communication should be more like fountain pen repair and less like a fast-food assembly line. The goal isn’t to create a palatable, easily swallowed product; it’s to address a problem with precision and respect. When a manager buries criticism inside praise, they are protecting themselves, not you. They are avoiding the discomfort of a potentially emotional conversation. They are shirking the core responsibility of their job, which is to foster genuine growth, and growth is impossible without clear, direct, and sometimes difficult feedback.

Building a culture that rejects this nonsense requires courage from everyone. It requires creating psychological safety where the truth doesn’t feel like a personal attack. This means moving beyond the idea that feedback is a transaction that happens in a scheduled meeting every 8 weeks. It should be a constant, low-level hum of communication. A direct, clear channel. You need a system with obvious rules and immediate feedback loops, not one that hides its real purpose.

It’s like when you’re looking for the quickest way into a platform you trust; you don’t want a series of pop-ups telling you how great your browser is, you just want the gclub ทางเข้า ล่าสุด. No sandwich, just the entrance. You click, you’re in. That’s it.

The Masterclass in Context

I said earlier I’ve seen it work once, which feels like a contradiction. But on reflection, it wasn’t a sandwich. It was a masterclass in context. A senior engineer was giving feedback to a junior developer about a piece of code that was, frankly, a disaster. He started by saying, “Okay, I see what you were trying to do here with this recursive function. It’s a clever approach to solving the iteration problem, and it shows you’re thinking non-linearly, which is a huge asset.”

That wasn’t praise-criticism-praise. It was respect. It was acknowledging the intelligence and intent *behind* the mistake before correcting the mistake itself. He wasn’t protecting the developer’s feelings; he was engaging his mind. That’s the difference between a coward’s crutch and a leader’s tool.

So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the problem isn’t the bread, but the intention of the person making the sandwich. If the praise is a genuine acknowledgment of a specific good-faith effort, and not just a generic, sugary lubricant for bad news, perhaps it can work. But the classic HR-approved, praise-criticism-praise formula? The one that compliments your shoes before telling you your job is being eliminated? That will always be an insult. It’s a cheap trick. A sleight of hand to make you look at the compliment while the knife of criticism does its work unseen.

Embrace the Truth

Don’t fall for it. And more importantly, never serve it. Demand the kind of respect you’d get from Phoenix P.K. in her workshop. Give me the truth about the nib, the feed, and the ink flow. I can handle it. My shoes are comfortable enough to stand and listen.