For my debut post, I thought it would be nice to write about something everyone could relate to: The Drive-Thru.
Completely ignoring the wise words of Joe Pesci in "Lethal Weapon 3" (They FUCK you in the Drive-Thru!), I recently ventured through this lane of hell craving a late-night hamburger. Speaking slow enough and anunciating specifically what I did not want on my midnight snack, I figured just checking the bag and looking at the grill slip would prove that they had indeed made my hamburger exactly the way I had wanted. During the 10 minute drive back home, my mouth was watering with anticipation. The juicy double meat double cheese with no onions and extra pickles and mustard was calling me, tickling my nose and making my stomach rumble.
I had scarecly gotten up the stairs and sat down in front of the TV, ripping open the bag and tearing the top off the hamburger box when – to my horror – I found that despite the sacred scrap of paper attached to the hamburger box, they had completely ignored my specialized request.
Yes, they put the damned thing in the box it was *supposed* to go in and attached their grill slip with the right toppings with the restaurants' taunting little smiley sticker, but the item inside was your regular run-of-the-mill sandwich.
This has happened to me so many times I should know better than to go through the drive-thru. But the call of convenience and fast service seems to over-ride my better judgement when in the grips of a craving so great I crawl out of bed at 3 am to satisfy it.
Do you think the sandwich makers of the world do it on purpose, laughing their heads off at the departing tail-lights, saying things like "Ha, I wish I were a fly on the wall she gets home and sees what a mess we gave her!"
Or maybe they are just too stupid to know that if you attached a specialized grill slip to a hamburger package, the hamburger inside is supposed to reflect that holy scrap of paper.
Or maybe it's more simple than that. Maybe they just don't bloody care.
Barely restraining the urge to gripe about customer service in various trades, I make one simple observation: If it doesn't directly benefit them, they could care less about how happy or upset their customers seem to be with their service (or lack of it).
Okay, now that I have gone that far, I must share you all one other experience that still burns more than the time I accepted a dare to hold a scalding hot Bic lighter to my forearm.
My ex-husband, brother, sister-in-law, and our kids decided on an evening meal at a restaurant that we had used to go to some years before. (I personally hadn't gone in quite some time because I had moved to a different town, and my husband at the time had only been in the state for a couple of years and thus had never been.) On the short drive from my brother's house to said restaurant, I raved about the food, the drinks, and the many TV's that surrounded the eating area.
The first sign that something was amiss was the empty parking lot on Saturday night. This particular restaurant was usually quite popular with the sports crowd, and being that a car race was in the beginning laps, I absently wondered where all the Earndhart and Stewart fans were.
Seating ourselves (as was the tradition in this establishment), I anxiously awaited the arrival of our waitress, as I had already decided on what I was going to order. It didn't take her long to show herself and asking what we all were drinking. I, of course, ordered my regular strawberry daquirie and listened while the rest of my party ordered their drinks. My sister-in-law is taken to frozen drinks (as am I on a hot Saturday night) and thus ordered a Pina Colada.
A few minutes later, the waitress came back apologetically stating that they did not serve Pina Coladas at that particular establishment. Not one to become immediately disappointed in light of not getting her favorite drink, she ordered another frozen alcoholic treat (I, at the moment, cannot remember what it was). Once again, the waitress apologized and explained that the only frozen drink that restaurant served was a strawberry daquirie (which I thought kind of odd, since the restaurant was also equipped with not one but *two* full bars). My SIL resigned to ordering a screwdriver.
Some moments later, our drinks arrived I was shocked to find that an oversized dixie cup half-full with whipped cream was being pushed at me. I raised my eyebrows and glanced at the waitress, who conveniently avoided eye-contact and rushed off to put in our food order. Highly disappointed, but wanting to preserve the cheerful atmosphere around our table, I started in on the whipped cream that topped my drink.
Some minutes later, our food arrived, and the only plate that looked half-way appetizing was my SIL. (She had ordered some kind of grilled fish). My customary order of Buffalo Shrimp with 911 sauce looked great until I took a bite and discovered that most of it was fried breading. My husband had ordered fried chicken fingers and fries, and complained that he could taste the old oil it had been cooked in. (I, for whatever reason, cannot remember what my brother had ordered, but he also complained that it was not to his liking.)
Taking a sip of my drink, I realized that my "alcoholic" drink had no alcohol in it! At least, none that could be detected by my husband or brother.
Glancing over my shoulder at our waitress engaged in conversation with the other waitresses, I tried to make eye contact and wave her over. No such luck. She glanced over and then TURNED HER BACK!! Yes, friends and neighbors, we had just been tried by the person who was supposed to be serving us for the duration of our visit!
Starting to get steamed, I restrained myself from getting up and dragging her by her hair to our table.
When she finally did arrive to ask if everything was okay (when our food was already consumed), I made her aware of the atrocious melted liquid that had been served to me earlier in the evening. She casually brushed her hair back, and told me that I would have to take it up with the bartender, but she was sure that there was indeed alcohol in my drink. I then told her that I would like to speak with a manager. ROLLING HER EYES, she told me that it wouldn't do any good, but that she would do as I requested. I casually imagined shoving butter knives under her fingernails, and tapping my foot to the beat of her screams.
We waited…and waited…and waited. No manager, no waitress, and now the kids were starting to get antsy. I got up and walked with my brother to the screened-in bar to order another drink and smoke a cigarette while my husband and SIL sat and continued waiting for our check.
I asked the bartender to please make an *alcoholic* strawberry daquirie, and prompted by her confused look, explained to her that the last one I had gotten was a dud. She gave a short laugh and promised that the next one I received would be better.
Well, it was better, but it was nowhere near the drink that this restaurant used to serve. You could taste the alcohol this time, but only as an after-taste. Shaking my head, I snuffed out my cigarette and took my drink in to the restaurant to find out what was taking so long. My husband was sitting there with the check and shaking his head. I asked him what was wrong, and he handed it to me.
I scrolled down and was horrified to find that I had been charged $6 for my drink! I spun around and found myself face to face with our waitress. I shook the check at her and demanded to know where the manager was. She said "Look, I already told you I had nothing to do with your drink. The bartender said that she put enough alcohol in it. I don't know what else to tell you."
My head practically exploded with rage. Through clenched teeth and a rising voice, I told her that I was done talking to her and that she had better get a manager over here pronto, or I was going to walk out without paying my bill. Mumbling under breath, she walked over and spoke with another woman, who then started shaking her head. I watched and waited.
The manager came over with the waitress and asked me what the problem was. I explained the situation to her, being careful not to exclude the fact that the waitress ignored my request for management until I threatened not to pay.
The manager only parrotted what the waitress had told me about my drink. I started to protest, trying to tell them that up until a year ago, I was a frequent customer, and had never received such shoddy service. Then the manager told me "I guess that you need to start going somewhere else. Past that, I don't know what to tell you. Now, will that be cash or charge for your bill?"
I threw my credit card at her and started coldly the whole time I waited for the receipt. On the tip line, I drew a HUGE zero, then to anunciate the fact, underlined and circled it.
Joining my party at the outside bar, I shortly explained what happened. My SIL only added to my surmounting anger by stating "Well, it's not like you came here to get drunk, anyway." I looked her square in the face and told her that if I was going to pay $6 for 4 ounces of frozen drink mix, it had damned well better have enough alcohol to make me forget about it.
Wanting to try to improve our evening, the men wanted to go back inside and try to shoot a couple games of pool. I trodded back inside with the others and glared at the waitress and the manager the whole way to the pool tables.
Realizing that we didn't have any quarters, we gathered enough dimes and nickles to obtain 75 cents of quarters to shoot a game of pool. My brother was the one to go over and ask the bartender for the change. He came back over to the table a little flushed, and when we asked what was wrong, all he would say was that the bartender was acting like a bitch.
We shot our game of pool, glanced at our watches, and figured that we had enough time to shoot one more game before we went our separate ways for the night.
It was then my husband's turn to go exchange little silver for big silver. He came over just as pissed off as I was at that point, and told us that the bartender said that she wasn't going to be exchanging any more coins. She "recommended" that the next time we came, we bring correct change. My husband then assured her that there wouln't be a next time.
While waiting for my husband to rack 'em up, my brother deposited $2 into the jukebox and requested a few songs. None of them played. At all. It took his money, said thank you, and continued to play the tired old country songs it had before. On our way out, we stopped to complain about that as well. The remark that we got was "Yeah, we've had similar complaints. Sorry about that." And that was it.
It certainly was it, because I will never again step foot into that restaurant, or any other with its' name.
For another disgusting display of customer service, please read about a recent visit to Wal-mart.
