Sorry, Pat. This is a "no chile" rant, and you are not allowed to take it personally. I have not yet been offended by anyone's desire to leave chile out of their food after having tried it. But where do these people come from, who simply can't admit that they DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS!?! So try the freaking chile, and if you don't like it, then next time you can say so and we will smile and make your food without.
Well, maybe we won't smile, but we sure won't think you're an ignorant moron.
Where did this mass homogenization of American cuisine come from? WHY oh god WHY would you want everything to taste like something you've already had? WHY can't you be intrigued by new and different foods? So just TRY the chile, America. For goodness sake it's not going to kill you, and you may even LIKE it.
Arrgh.
May 16, 2009
Please... Do trip on the door sill on your way out!
Short & angry.No.... the blog entry, not the woman! Oh, well -- her, too.
I swear -- we're really pretty nice in my store. We like people, we joke around a lot, and we do our best to be respectful, attentive, aware, and enjoyable. And I promise that this entry will be short and to the point. I've missed sharing my anger with you folks, but I do have to work sometimes. Sigh.
Enter Short Old Woman. She wears it like a badge of honor... "I'm old," everything about her screams, "and I'm going to wear matching poly-blend prints because... I'm Old!" This is the sort of woman who just can't wait for her first hip fracture so she'll have proof of the inevitable twilight of her years. I'm sure she sprays cans of OLD SMELL around her house like a kid trying to cover up cigarette smoke before his parents come home. I bet her grandkids can't stand her.
So Old Woman was in on the busiest day of the year, but after the worst of the madness had waned. Our spirits were high, as there had been a ridiculous number of patient, friendly people all week (tip of the hat to Charlottesville). I took her order myself and told her that she and her friend were welcome to wait outside and that I would let them know when their food was ready. It soon was, and I popped the door open, smiled at her and said, "Ethel (or whatever her name was), your food is ready, dear!" Yes, I even said "dear," because Old People love it when you say "dear" or "sweetheart."
I dashed back behind the counter to man my post. handed Old Woman her food, explained what was where, told her where the napkins and forks were, thanked her, and, as she was walking out, I returned to the kitchen to continue cooking. As I'm doing this I hear her murmur something about "gentlemen." I popped 'round the corner and asked the guy sitting there waiting for his food what it was that I'd missed. "Well," he says, "something about you don't run into many true gentlemen anymore and that she certainly hasn't run into any in here."
Oh. Come. On.
This was apparently because she expected me to serve the food to her at her table, despite the fact that I am not allowed to (which she wouldn't know) and that we are so obviously counter-ordered to-go food, like a fast-food place would be (which any half-witted fool can plainly see). She's darned lucky that I didn't go smack her for that one, and show her what kind of "ungentlemanly" I can really be.
I have a sneaking suspicion that she lives alone, you know what I mean? Who could stand the aroma?!?
May 5, 2009
Role Reversal?
So if the girl at the Wendy's in Chesapeake blogged (which would require proficiency in her native English, which is highly doubtful), I would be a subject. She would blog, sitting at a friend's computer, guzzling her Dr. Pepper and chain smoking Salems and trying to spell words like "asshole" and "customer" without benefit of spellcheck. Somehow I picture a toddler balanced on her knee, too (although I'm unsure in my mind if it's hers or the friend's and does it matter?).
As no particular friend of fast food I just wanted something to eat on my last trip home from DC. This Wendy's is new'ish, not in a scary area, and easy-off easy-on from the toll road. I decided to craft my own meal, mostly from the $.99 menu. And I will say that the food at Wendy's tends to make me less ill than the food from most fast food places, so kudos to them. My meal building went like this: two Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers ($.99 ea.), a regular fries ($.99), and "Value Soda" ($.99), and a small chocolate Frosty ($1.39 and, by the way, "Chocolate Frosty" is redundant, like "Gin Martini"). So in my head I think Burger - Burger - Fry - Soda - four bucks. Add Frosty, low fives. Add some tax, upper fives. I pull around.
When my sweetly-plump chain-smoking (that's an assumption, but really, come on) window girl greeted me she confirmed what I thought I'd heard through the speaker, that my total was in the upper $6 range. My brain was curious as to how we arrived here in the upper sixes when we had been expecting a little fling with the fives.
"Hi," [smile]. You don't want to startle them. It's like encountering a strange neighbor's dog. "Umm... I was just wondering how my total got to be Six Something [smile]. I'm not mad or anything, juuuust wondering [SMILE]."
"Well you ordered a Jr. Bacon, a drink, AND Fries so I upgraded you to a combo because it's a better deal."
"Uhh.. I'm sorry, but how can it be a better deal if it costs more?"
I could end this story here, and you could just guess the rest and you'd probably be right.
"Well you get a bigger drink and bigger fries with the combo," she says. I see her sensing that things aren't going to go well, just like how I could tell those dogs were about to chase me when I delivered the Washington Post on my bicycle when I was 14. It's still scary.
"ALSO," she says, "you got a Frosty. That's $1.39 PLUS TAX." Ahh, tax. Thank God she taught me about tax. I'd had no idea there was such a thing.
"Ok," I sigh. I also know that this is not going to go well, like when you convinced yourself that you could learn what you'd been ignoring in Calculus on the bus on your way to school on the day of the test. "I know there's tax. But if what I ordered is about $5.50 or so of food, how can a combo that adds up to $6.79 be a 'better deal'?" Perhaps I should have tried "Your babies are ugly," or "The south really did lose the war, didn't it? HAHAHA," or perhaps "I hate Dale Earnhardt." Any of those would have worked out better, I suspect.
She stopped in her tracks, mid-upgraded-soda pouring. She shot me a look that expressed every ounce of why she hated me, her job, and her life. She set my now-half-filled-upgraded-soda on the window ledge, spun around and screamed "RHONDA!" as she walked away. Rhonda, a much more pleasant seeming woman, appeared at the window. "Sir," says Rhonda, "The combo is a better deal."
"Hi," [SMILE]. "I really don't want to be difficult [SMILE]. I just ordered five bucks worth of food, she changed my order so that it costs me six bucks and change, and I don't think that's a 'better deal' at all." I so can't believe that I'm doing this.
"Sir a small Frosty is almost two dollars," says Rhonda. Yeah. If that tax rate is actually more like 50%.
"You know, Rhonda," I say, "It's ok. I don't care. I'll take the combo. It's not a lot of money. I have no desire to be difficult. I just asked why it cost more than what I ordered. But it's ok. Give me the combo. Mostly I just want to eat and I want to go home. Please."
But Rhonda will not have it. Rhonda is now re-ringing up my order to see how much it would have cost without the "better deal." Cars pile up behind me. Glaring drivers wish me dead for slowing them down. Children cry. Fire rains from the sky and animals in the forest scamper away to safety. Salem Girl is pacing around the counter area Jonesing for a smoke and some more baby making. A cute high-school-aged black girl leans out the drive-thru window and says, "I like your car." This is surreal. "Thanks," I murmur. "They all hate me in there." "Yeah," she agrees. "I bet it goes fast. How fast have you driven it?" I glance around for Rod Serling but don't see him. I don't understand life at all at this moment.
Rhonda again. "Did you want a VALUE soda?"
I'm a prisoner of war. I hope the torture is nearing its end. "Yes," I sigh.
"And you wanted SMALL fries?" (Perhaps the fact that I ordered a value soda and small fries is starting to creep into her consciousness now).
[Sigh] "Yes."
"Five sixty two. Here's your change." Death stare from Rhonda.
Out the window from behind the death stare comes my change, two drinks and a bag of food. For the first time in my life I worry about what may have been done to something I am about to eat, but even after all this I am simply too hungry to care. The black girl smiles at me. Salem girl is at the counter talking to mean-looking boys who may-or-may-not-have-fathered-children with her and surely drive big pick up trucks with big rebel flags and gun racks and hate stored under the seat like a box of ammo. I leave, thinking that the one who liked my car would surely have enjoyed how fast I drove away.
May 4, 2009
Sure we're good at it, but why?
Sitting at home in my kitchen on my day off is a terrible time to try to channel the hate I feel for certain customer experiences, especially when the house is empty, the breeze is brisk, and I have fresh coffee (Java Estate, thank you). But I felt the emptiness of the recently-registered blog weighing heavily on me and thought I'd better post something before I go out for the day.
As I sipped, I reflected on last week's trials, and my fodder for ranting was marred by numerous positive experiences, new-customers-cum-repeat-customers, praise for the food, and general good times. There was the man who ordered the same food every day because he & his wife both liked it so much -- only on day four he said that his wife's burrito had changed dramatically and had been very different the day prior. "Did she have the Carne Adovada?" "Yes, yes that was hers." "That can't change. It's marinated pork, some cheese, and red chile." "There's no vegetables in it at all," he asked? "No, no sir. Never." "Oh. So maybe she had been eating the fish burrito. We'll get two of these instead, and then we'll know."
That's like coming home with a milkshake and a double espresso and not knowing which one you liked because they were both in cups. It defies logic.
But the focus of this little posting was the frenzied I'M A NEW MOM AND I DON'T HAVE TO BE NICE TO YOU woman who graced us with her (Chipotle-loving-) presence mid-week. Let's review:
So... as she hid back in the car, probably drinking her husband's blood and eating feral cats (trust me, she looked liked she had a healthy appetite), we cooks gathered in the kitchen and discussed our hate for her, her soul-less life, her desire for homogenized food, and her rather cunty nature in general. But we cooked. We don't drop or spit, we don't delete ingredients, we just cook because every once in a while it turns out they're nice after all and you don't want to mess that up. Gotta always hope. But we knew.
So she returned (I thought I saw her dabbing fresh blood from her mouth but I'm not sure) and picked up her food I handed it to her and explained that it was in the bag. Walking away she turned to me and said, "'It?' I WANTED TWO." "Two hot-sauces?" "TWO QUESADILLAS," she barked! "Ok, you never said 'two' but I can make you another one in about 3 minutes if you'd like." And then the look, the ultimate look of disgust and hatred and loathing flashed onto her face, all of us in the store cried a silent prayer for her husband and child, and, grunting expletives, she walked out the door.
Pete the cook looked at me and said, "I knew she was trouble the second she walked in." We all did. We're really, really good at that.
As I sipped, I reflected on last week's trials, and my fodder for ranting was marred by numerous positive experiences, new-customers-cum-repeat-customers, praise for the food, and general good times. There was the man who ordered the same food every day because he & his wife both liked it so much -- only on day four he said that his wife's burrito had changed dramatically and had been very different the day prior. "Did she have the Carne Adovada?" "Yes, yes that was hers." "That can't change. It's marinated pork, some cheese, and red chile." "There's no vegetables in it at all," he asked? "No, no sir. Never." "Oh. So maybe she had been eating the fish burrito. We'll get two of these instead, and then we'll know."
That's like coming home with a milkshake and a double espresso and not knowing which one you liked because they were both in cups. It defies logic.
But the focus of this little posting was the frenzied I'M A NEW MOM AND I DON'T HAVE TO BE NICE TO YOU woman who graced us with her (Chipotle-loving-) presence mid-week. Let's review:
- Frenzied? Check
- Smile? BZZZ
- Pissed that the menu didn't look like Moe's? Check
- Left hubby in car? Check (was that a "SAVE ME" sign in the car window?)
So... as she hid back in the car, probably drinking her husband's blood and eating feral cats (trust me, she looked liked she had a healthy appetite), we cooks gathered in the kitchen and discussed our hate for her, her soul-less life, her desire for homogenized food, and her rather cunty nature in general. But we cooked. We don't drop or spit, we don't delete ingredients, we just cook because every once in a while it turns out they're nice after all and you don't want to mess that up. Gotta always hope. But we knew.
So she returned (I thought I saw her dabbing fresh blood from her mouth but I'm not sure) and picked up her food I handed it to her and explained that it was in the bag. Walking away she turned to me and said, "'It?' I WANTED TWO." "Two hot-sauces?" "TWO QUESADILLAS," she barked! "Ok, you never said 'two' but I can make you another one in about 3 minutes if you'd like." And then the look, the ultimate look of disgust and hatred and loathing flashed onto her face, all of us in the store cried a silent prayer for her husband and child, and, grunting expletives, she walked out the door.
Pete the cook looked at me and said, "I knew she was trouble the second she walked in." We all did. We're really, really good at that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
