I’m one of two concierges at a high-end hotel in Los Angeles, so most of the people I serve tend to be fairly cosmopolitan. A couple in their late fifties from Montana is definitely not. They have been at the hotel for a couple of days already, and my coworker has supplied them with a list of highly-rated restaurants in and around Beverly Hills, and at their request, managed to get them a last-minute table at a VERY celebrated Japanese restaurant last night.
It is afternoon and I see them heading over to the concierge desk, looking extremely upset. The wife is already yelling as she approaches.
Wife: “You’d better get our money back! That d*** restaurant made us pay three hundred dollars for that s*** they dare to call food!”
Me: “Ma’am, I’m here to assist you in whatever way I can, but I do request you that lower your voice a little considering we’re in the lobby.”
The wife starts to sputter angrily, but the husband steps in.
Husband: “That restaurant your coworker sent us to did not serve us real food, and we were basically robbed, and I demand that we get that money back.”
Me: “I’m really sorry to hear you did not enjoy the food, sir, but the hotel cannot refund you money that you spent at an establishment not affiliated with us. I can, however, try to get you a comped meal at one of the high-end restaurants that we enjoy a continuing relationship with.”
Wife: “Fine, but it had better be real food.”
Not wanting to cause any further upset, I try to figure out what kind of food would appease them. I figure their complaint is the smaller-than-average serving sizes at high-end restaurants similar to the one they’ve been to, since this tends to be one of customers’ primary issues.
Me: “My apologies, ma’am, I just want to clarify that when you say real food you mean bigger portions?”
Wife: “No! I mean real food. Good American food, not that fruity garbage they fed us last night. This is an American city, for f***’s sake! How could they serve us all of that raw fish and expect us to eat it like we’re f****** [Asian slur]s?!”
Me: *Trying to not react* “Ma’am, I’ll have to ask you to refrain from using such derogatory language, or I will be unable to help you. I apologize if it was not made clear to you that you were requesting a table at a Japanese restaurant. I can book you a table at a restaurant that serves American pub food or a steakhouse, if those seem all right to you.”
Husband: “We shouldn’t have to work so hard to get a good burger, you know? How can people in this city survive on this ethnic s***? It’s not meant for good honest Americans to eat.”
Me: “Again, I’m sorry if your experience last night did not meet your standards. Now, should I reserve a table at the bar tonight for you two?”
Husband: “Yeah, and it had better cost as much as that dump last night. I want my money’s worth.”
Me: “I’m sorry, but this place isn’t as expensive as the Japanese restaurant you went to, and I don’t know if I can even find you a place serving burgers where your meal would cost as much as an eight-course sushi dinner.”
Wife: “This f****** city is full of idiots! [Asian slur]s & idiots! Who values this s*** over good, honest American cooking?! We should never have come here. We can’t even eat!”
Me: “Ma’am, I’m gonna ask you to stop using that word and to speak at a much lower volume, or I will have to refuse to help you any further. You might not have liked the food yesterday, but you sat there and ate it and then you paid what that food costs. The hotel does not bear any responsibility for your negative experience there. Moreover, your outburst is disturbing other guests, whose experiences within the hotel we are responsible for. I can get you a reservation at a restaurant tonight, but only if you speak to me and my colleagues politely.”
Wife: “The gall of some people! Fine! Get us a table at an expensive restaurant, that doesn’t serve sushi or whatever. One of those fine-dining places, with real food.”
Me: “I’ll send you a list of places, with menus for each, so you can make sure you like the restaurant you end up going to. Just call the concierge desk once you’ve made your choice and I’ll make the booking.”
At this point, it’s of relevance that I’m of Indian descent, and I look it, while the other concierge is white.
Husband: “Actually, can the other girl make the list? I don’t want you to pick out whatever curry places you go to; we only want American food.”
I’m pretty livid at this point, but before I can react, the wife jumps in.
Wife: “Don’t worry, she came here to escape that place! She probably finds it as stinky as we do! You’ll find us proper food, right?”
I am so gobsmacked that I can’t think.
Me: “Yes, ma’am.”
I still hate myself for how I ended that conversation, but it probably saved my job. I sent the list and the menus up to their room, but they hadn’t called back by the time I left. My coworker told me she had a pretty uneventful encounter with them when she made the booking, and they seemed pretty happy with the place they ended up going to.
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For The World Is Hollow And I Have Touched The Pie
