Sunday, September 7
I was told by someone at work that for someone who cooks, I eat out a hell of a lot.
She knows this because she eats out a hell of a lot, too--and sees ME out.
Maybe I am just statistically more likely to hit the Shitty service lottery because I buy more tickets, or because I was a manager whose whole thing, spiel, schtick--whatever you want to call it--was Good Customer Service.
Let me tell you, I have gone to Marie Callendar's since I was a kid. We had to stop at the MC on Sunrise in Sacramento at least twice a year so my dad could have chili and cornbread. I think my father swooned when they opened one on Hilltop in Redding.
The Honey? Not so fond of it, but an open faced turkey sandwich has broken him on more than one occasion. During the Olympics, he was weak. Little O was overjoyed.
We walked in and I requested a table for four--you can tell the economy is feeling the pinch when there's no waiting at MC. The Honey asked, as she gathered our menus, if we could sit in the bar side so we could watch the Olympics.
Biotch did NOT roll her eyes and huff--I am sure that was NOT what I just saw.
Oh, yes it was, because I'll be damned if she did not take us to the only table in the room that was actually BEHIND every TV. If the Honey sat on the corner, he could look sideways at the big screen. Have we talked about the Honey's temper? I immediately told him we could leave as his eyes got big and slightly crazed. Stupid cow didn't help when she sniffed,
"you can move the table--a little."
A little? REALLY?
We were gathering our stuff back up to go when the Honey looked over and saw Little O with teary eyes. He just caved at that point--resigned himself to not watching the Olympics, and opened his menu.
So the manager comes over to ask if everything is okay, and here's the thing:
The Honey was settled back down, and he is a firm believer that you do NOT complain while any of your food is still in the kitchen.
I told the manager we were fine.
Our waitress was fabulous, and almost made up for the hostess, and the food was fine. After our meal, I asked to speak to the manager. I thougth he ought to know about the eye rolling, huffing, and surly little bitch that had seated us. Did I call her that? No. I simply explained what had happened and that I thought he should be aware.
Fucking unbelievable, because his first response was NOT I am so sorry, or I'll speak to her, it was
"I ASKED you, and you SAID everything was fine."
Pop rocks, people. Pop rocks exploding in my brain. I could hear them fizzing and hissing. I wasn't asking for a discount on my meal, I was not hitting him up for a free pie. I had started by telling him how great our waitress was. I thought he ought to know about his hostess, but it turns out he must have been the one who trained her! He worked up to a half hearted I'm sorry you feel that way, but added that we could have sat anywhere, there were tables open that faced the TV. Um, yeah, that was kind of my point, asshole.
ANYWAY, I wrote a letter to Marie's website, and it was almost completely grown up. I may have used the term stink eye when the Honey asked for bar seating. It was much more rational than my open letter to Chili's and/or Border's.
I have no expectation of anything but a form letter from Marie's, but I felt soooo much better having written it to corporate.
Did I ever tell you about my mother and the feedback form at Italian Cottage?
My roommate Kat, the Bad Boyfriend and I went to IC to meet my folks for dinner, and we got there before my folks. Waitress Paula was a complete cow to us--almost THREW Kat's coffee on her. As soon as my folks showed up she was sweet as pie. We were stunned at the turn about, and told my parents about it.
In place of the hefty tip my parents usually left, my mother wrote on the back of the check:
"We hope that when Paula gets back to her kennel, her mother growls and snaps at her."
My mom rocks.