|
|
|
Free Sauce
"Table 11 wants to talk to you," Mary said, her wry grin telling me that it wasn't going to be them asking me to send compliments to the chef.
Come to think of it, I haven't heard the phrase "compliments to the chef" in a long time. Diners, too concerned with stupid, little pet peeves that they believe separate good service from bad have dropped that once-charming missive from their
repertoire, replacing it with such modern classics as, "What are you going to do to compensate me?" and "More water!"
I was already 3 tasks behind when now Mark, a host, came up to where I was trying to light the gas heater on the patio, the one with the broken knob that required two screwdrivers and a pair of
needle nosed pliers to get going. (I had been entertaining the patio tables while I struggled with it, sharing with them that this was one of the things they don't tell you about in restaurant management school.)
"Table 11 would like to speak to you," Mark said, very politely for a 17-year-old, which is one of the reasons I hired him. That, and he was able to discuss economic theory with me during his interview.
I finished with the patio heater, adjusting the flame to the satisfaction of table 108 and made my way back inside to speak to the two couples who were sitting at table 11.
A man had the bill in his hand.
"We don't think it's fair to be charged for this," he started.
I took the bill out of his hand, just a subtle degree of quickness short of snatching it.
"For what?" I asked.
"Well, we just wanted some extra sauce for our pasta and now we find out she charged us for it.
I looked at him. For a while.
I hoped he could read my mind. I was fantasizing about walking into his place of business. Maybe he owned a computer store. Maybe I had just purchased a computer and now he was giving me the bill."
"I just wanted a monitor to go with the computer I ordered...and now you're going to CHARGE me for it?"
What I actually said, as matter-of-factly as possible, was, "Yes, sir. You ordered two sides of extra sauce. We charged you for it. That's what we do." I stopped short of saying, "We actually charge for the food you eat...amazing, isn't it?"
"Well, I think she should have told us when we ordered it," he replied.
His friends continued to stare at me, the restaurant manager. They all knew the power they held: they might never come back.
Worse, they might tell ten of their friends how they hate the place. Then, their friends would tell ten friends. And so on, until, according to all of the articles I'd read, memos I'd received and lectures I'd heard about "customer service", 38,000 people would stay away from my restaurant forever. The books, too, all say to "take care of your customers. Turn them into raving fans. Go "beyond expectations." Also, what you learn on the job is that, is that if you don't, they will write a letter to your corporate office, who will send them lots of gift certificates and get you into trouble.
And, after all, is $4.00 really worth losing 38,000 potential
customers, or missing out on that next promotion?
I tried to smile. I tried to be charming. "You know what, sir. The $4.00 isn't as important to me as making you happy and making sure you'll return. I'll take it off of your bill."
All the while, I am thinking of my favorite pejoratives: asshole, dickhead, jackoff, douchebag, fuckwad. Shit for brains.
I walked back to the server station and shoved in my manager card. My finger hit the touchscreen like Bruce Lee poking out someone's eyeballs.
Touch sauce. Touch sauce. Touch Promo. Touch Food. Touch Done. Touch Check. Touch Combined. Touch Done. Touch check. Touch combined. Touch done. Two new checks printed out, minus the $4.00 charges for their sauce.
Easy as pie.
On one of the checks, according to yet another in a long series of corporate memos which I filed in the drawer in the "Things corporate sends to make my life hell" tab, I was supposed to write the reason for the adjustment and then send it in to the office, where I was sure some $7.00 per hour office temp shoved them into a room full of cardboard boxes full of other useless paperwork.
"Dickhead didn't want to pay for his sauce," I wrote on top of the check, with my black felt pen.
I stuffed both checks into my shirt pocket, where they nestled in with about a half-dozen other tickets containing such explanations as "server error", "rung in on wrong table #", and "didn't like".
When Mary turned the corner, she almost ran into me. "Did you talk to table 11?" she asked.
"You know," I vented, "Why can't I just call the phone company and say 'I called China the other day and no one bothered to tell me that you were ACTUALLY GOING TO CHARGE ME FOR IT!"
We had a good laugh, thinking of all the other companies we could imagine ourselves walking into and demanding free stuff, knowing all the while that only in restaurants do people get things and expect them to be for free.
"Did you drop the new bill?" she asked, after our giggles died down.
"No, here you go," I handed her the adjusted bill, and went back to trying to catch up on the glassware situation and the lack of food running that night.
30 seconds later, Mary approached me again.
"Table 11 wants to see you again."
"What now?!" I was righteously indignant. "They want me to pay for their Chicken Cacciatore because they thought it should come with Tootsie Rolls?!!"
"I'm not sure," said Mary, sans the wry smile.
I re-approached table 11. Again, the same guy was holding the unpaid check.
Slowly, he turned it so I could see it as he pushed it towards my face.
Pulsing, glowing, and buzzing like a flashing neon light in a moonless desert were the words, which I had written on the check. The one I
accidentally pulled from my pocket and handed to Mary for her to present.
"Dickhead didn't want to pay for his sauce."
And that's how John, Cassandra, Rick and Marta got their free dinner, a case of champagne and $250 in complimentary gift certificates that night.
Send your
restaurant nightmares, real or imagined, to Dinersoft.
|
Email
Dinersoft
|
|
