Hey guys, this thread is for everyone that works in retail or other customer service jobs to vent a little bit.
Let me first say that if I'm a customer listening to another customer's irrational complaint, I tend to step in with a "6 feet tall and bulletproof" attitude (because I'd be on Zoloft, but slacking on my bipolar meds.)
I feel the need to neutralize the anger of that other customer, and if that fails, demand that customer call the manager (who doesn't scare me, 'cause he can't do shit about
my paycheck).
Waiting tables, my experiences were mostly having to explain to the customer when the kitchen was out of certain menu items.
The worst was at a seafood restaurant, when the manager (who was the owners' son) was either too lazy to maintain inventory or squandering money meant to pay the suppliers. The "86 List" had constant additions throughout the work shift, often between the time a customer ordered and I made it to the server station to place it.
Those "Hell Nights" prepared me for working at another restaurant during a major flood here, which wiped out bridges and cut us off from delivery trucks. My speech became, "I'm not the restaurant manager and I didn't create the flood, but we're out of [Michelob, goat cheese, or other item]"
At another restaurant (yes, there've been a few during 12 years in the industry), one guy and his wife would order water to drink with plenty of lemon slices, so they could make their own lemonade and pay nothing. Final tip was always one dollar. The guy would also want his (pickled, served cold) roasted red peppers to be nuked. He said, "Roberta always did it." I finally said, "I"m not Roberta."
I will say that I had been more sensitive to special dietary needs --- especially food allergies --- because of my sharing that situation. (There were also vegetarian and kosher concerns, to which I wasn't stoopid.)
All that working with the customer required was personal knowledge of the menu's ingredients.
Unfortunately, there was one customer who was evidently trying to impress his date, and complained about the shrimp scampi's being plated with tails still on. Fortunately, though, the chef was in earshot, and raked the customer over the coals about being ignorant, citing credentials from a major culinary college as well as his local 5-star reviews.
* * * *
Now, when I dine out at a restaurant, I'm congenial as possible with the server, knowing how much bullshit they put up with, and that food content and quality is not on their burden.
However, I do expect them to
know the product they're selling me.
Also, if that restaurant says their "pesto" sauce is spinach, I will eat their pesto pasta if I order it, with no complaints, even though it has no basil, which is actually fundamental to real pesto. (btw, it sucked)
If the menu describes "butter" in something, I ask if it's actually
BUTTER or soybean-oil
margarine (in which case, legally, the menu should say "margarine," but I'm not getting hives for the sake of a lawsuit.)
If something's "lemon," I need to know if it's
fresh-squeezed lemon, or
bottled, which contains sulfites.
Even if Tyler Florence is putting his name on some entrees at Applebee's, I still don't trust individual shops' standards enough to risk exposure to
sulfites, soybean oil, yellow dye, and
MSG.
I am a good tipper --- at least 15% if the service doesn't royally suck, and more than 25% for whatever service has been given me "above and beyond" what most mere mortals could do.
(no secret I'm a food snob, because I prefer what I cook myself, but I'm also beginning to write a guide reviewing french-fried potatoes around the region.)
One time, when a Red Lobster dinner went
fabulously, I asked the busboy to send a manager over to me, and I shocked him by raving over-the-top compliments about my server and the chef. Managers rarely hear that, and it felt good to tell them when it done right.
Then there have been occassions, like when my salmon was burnt to charcoal on the bottom, or my deviled crab is just bread crumbs and celery chunks stuffed into a crabshell, or my caprese plate has only 2 basil leaves among a pile of bitter greens, that I inform the server of how
the CHEF fucked up.
Yes, I've worried about my food coming back with a loogie in it, but then I realized I could cut that ploy off by telling the server I've got fetishes about eating body fluids.
* * * *
Overall, if morons on both sides of the servide counter weren't out there, Buxh wouldn't be President.
... so there is no way to fit it into their back seat.. but they will make me try... then when they finally beleive me when i say it won't fit their.. they try the trunk... I tell em it won't close.. so they ask me for rope... where the hell am I supposed to get rope from that they can just wander off with... my god... and then they give me a hard time when I say we don't supply rope...
