Don't Call Dominoes
As I've said before, I consider pizza to be a basic food group and am in a seemingly constant search for the best in whatever city I'm in. But sometimes, like last night, when it's frigid cold outside (wind chill near 0), I have no energy after a very long day, and all I want to do is stare at the television, Dominoes becomes tolerable. I decided to stop on the way home.
What happened next sounds like an episode of Seinfeld.
This was a simple order: a thin crust veggie pizza, half no cheese. My Beautiful and Talented Wife (The BTW) prefers the no cheese part. I explained it carefully to the person behind the counter and he repeated the order...twice...to make sure he got it right.
I wait for about 20 minutes and (you guessed it) my order came out wrong. Instead of a veggie pizza half no cheese, they brought me a cheese pizza half no veggie. The guy behind the counter insisted that I was the one who was wrong and that was what I ordered. Since he doesn't know the BTW like I do, he really can't know that there's no way I would order a full cheese pizza unless I was going to eat it all myself, which I was not doing tonight. So I carefully explained...again...that I ordered a thin crust veggie pizza half no cheese and that's what they had to make.
The person behind the desk then spoke to the manager and came back with an offer: I take the improperly made pizza and they would give me another plain all cheese pizza for free. I explained that a plain cheese pizza wouldn't work, that I didn't want anything free, and that all they had to do was to make the thin crust veggie half no cheese pizza I originally ordered.
So they tried again. I even heard the manager shouting in a nasty tone to everyone exactlty what the order was supposed to be: (Say it along with me) a thin crust veggie pizza half no cheese.
I waited another 20 minutes.
And it somehow it came out wrong again. Instead of a thin crust veggie half no cheese, it's another thin crust cheese half no veggie.
This time the person behind the counter knew he was wrong and he and one of his associates told me that they were doing it again, that it was already in the oven, and that it would be out in another 15 minutes.
I realize this doesn't compare to global warming, the economy, or waterboarding, but I was cold and hungry and it was the end of a long day and all I wanted to do is eat pizza and stare at reruns of Scrubs, House, and CSI. I HAD BEEN IN THIS DAMN DOMINOES FOR 45 MINUTES AND I STILL DIDN'T HAVE MY THIN CRUST VEGGIE HALF NO CHEESE PIZZA AND HOW HARD COULD IT BE TO GET IT RIGHT AT LEAST ONE OUT OF TWO TIMES? WE WEREN'T TALKING ABOUT THE FEDERAL BUDGET, THE ECONOMIC STIMULUS, OR PEACE IN THE MIDDLE EAST: IT WAS PIZZA DAMMIT. AND IT WASN'T EVEN GOOD PIZZA, IT WAS FREAKING DOMINOES!
(In case you couldn't tell, there was more steam coming out of my ears than there was steam coming from the anything-but-woodburning contraption that bakes the pizzas at Dominoes.)
The person behind the counter then walked over to the side where the Dominoes pizza assembly line began and started to place the order. In other words, my thin crust veggie half no cheese pizza wasn't already in the oven as he had just told me. In fact, it wasn't even in the computer system they use at Dominoes so the person at the head of the assembly line who lays out the dough ("tossing" would be an, excuse the expression, real stretch) knows what to do.
So I told the counter guy who was now at the head of the assemply line to "stop." He didn't. I then said it louder thinking that maybe the person behind the counter who was now on the side didn't hear me over the din on the damn-the-taste-just-get-them-out-fast Dominoes pizza assembly line. He still didn't stop. So now hungry, tired, cold, angry, and being ignored, and I said "stop" in a seriously louder voice. This time everyone in the place--the people behind the counter, the assembly line workers, the delivery people, and the manager--stopped.
The manager then came to the front to see what was happening and acted as if he had nothing to do with the problem. I knew he was lying both because I heard him tell everyone the second time around (see above) what the order was supposed to be, and because he had hired these people. His new offer was for me to take what is now two improperly made pizzas and a third that will be made right, and he'll refund my money (I had to pay when I placed the orignal order).
I refused. I also refused his next offer to refund my money and give me a credit on my next order from Dominoes because I decided at that moment to never place another order. I also refused his third offer of a refund and delivering the right pizza to my home.
The manager then asked for a chance to make this right. I told him that the only way he could make this right was by refunding my money so that I could use the cash at Papa John's down the block. My exclamation point was that I made sure everyone in the place, including the two customers who had just walked in, heard me say the words "Papa John's."
FYI...Papa John's got it right the first time and had something Dominoes doesn't have: whole wheat crust. I missed Scrubs, because after spending close to an hour
waiting at Dominoes, it was over by the time I got home. I did, however, get to see several episodes of CSI Miam.
Customer Service Horror Stories
I went in to Joann Fabrics a couple weeks back. They offer craft classes, and I've always wanted to take one . . . and I was with daughter who was home on college break. So I took the brochure, and when I got home I called them and signed us up for "Painting 101".
The brochure hadn't mentioned that the supplies were "extra", and after I'd signed up they dropped that little "extra" on me. OK, so it was going to be $60 PLUS whatever the supplies cost. But hey, I'm trying to pump up the economy, and, after all, this IS a mother-daughter bonding opportunity, so OK. They told me to stop by the service desk to pick up the supply list.
Supply list? Yeah, the lady said, you have to wander the store, find the supplies yourself and purchase them before the class. OK, that's not cool (can't they box them up and just sell them to you as a kit at the service desk?), but I told myself -- after all -- it WAS a mother-daughter bonding deal and worth a little extra hassle.
So I stopped by the service desk. HTH (handsome and talented husband) was left in the car to read the paper and listen to MPR. "This will only take 10 minutes," I said. OK, so it was a small lie, probably 20 minutes, but he's serviced if he has enough reading material.
A the service desk hey handed me the supply sheet, but it had "Painting 201" printed at the top. "What's this?", I asked. "I signed up for 101, and look, we're painting neophytes and we don't want the Harvard level stuff. We can't handle 201 yet, the listing said "101"."
Well, whoa and damn. The lady at the desk had to call in the National Guard to find out the class level. And, wouldn't you know, they didn't know for sure. And they couldn't find the supply list for the 101 class anywhere anyway, and they weren't sure there were enough students in the class to run it ("corporate says we have to have four to run it", protested the male employee. "But we've run classes with fewer before and just don't tell corporate," said another. "Screw corporate." "But they are sending over a corporate trainer for this one," retorted the guy employee. "Damn," said the other one, "do you know her?". "No," replied male employee, "but I think she's a commercial graphic artist."
At this point I cut in to remind them that they still hadn't answered my question about whether this was 201 or 101 level class. Service desk lady blinked, brought out a 3-ring binder, and began flipping through pages. She found the supply list for 101. "Here it is!" she announced. More conversation ensued about the difference between 201 and 101 (different substrate, different brushes and colors to purchase). I realized a half hour had slipped by, and they still hadn't answered my question (which level was the class?), and HTH was still in the car, hopefully not suffering from mass destruction frostbite (images of frantically driving to emergency room and my ruined marriage flashed). So I said, "Look, I have to go, but I'll come back later after you've figured this out. Just leave a note and the correct list here at the desk, and I'll be back to get it."
Great, no problem. Right.
I went back the next day, and the lady on the desk had no idea what I was talking about, and couldn't find any documentation of my conversation with staff the previous day. She called a different manager, who assured me that this was indeed a painting for dummies class, and then she gave me the supply list and waved me to one side of the store (16 aisles).
I wandered over there to find the items. The list had only paint colors and numbers. Were they in bottles or tubes? What brand? It was daunting -- there were three aisles of paint.
After 10 minutes of searching and wondering I headed back to the service desk. I blurted out, "This has been such a negative experience that I'd just like to get my money back and move on with my life."
They looked stunned . . . like I was nuts.
Well, whatever. I'm not going to reward bad customer service, and I'm glad you didn't either Stan.