Sand(wich) Of Time

, , , , , , | Right | August 15, 2018

(I work at a local sandwich-and-coffee eatery in a college town. A lot of students stop by for lunch, but since they all get out of class at the same time, the lunch rush is crazy. One of our sandwiches is extremely popular, but it takes a little longer because it goes in a panini press and we only have space for three sandwiches. An average wait time for this sandwich during the lunch rush is twenty-five minutes. When a lot of these get ordered in quick succession, something like this happens at least once a day. It is noon:)

Me: “Here’s your receipt. We’ll have your food out to you as soon as we can, but this sandwich usually takes a little longer.”

Customer: “Okay.”

(At 12:15:)

Customer: *to a very busy me* “Um, excuse me, I’ve been waiting like twenty-five minutes for my [sandwich]. Can you go check on it?”

Me: “Your sandwich usually takes a little longer because it’s a panini, but I’ll go check.” *goes to the sandwich line* “Do you guys have a [sandwich] in the panini press?”

Coworker: “We’ve got like ten [sandwiches]. Do you know which one it is?”

Me: “Yeah, her receipt number is [number].”

Coworker: “It’s waiting to go in the press.”

Me: *goes back to the front* “They’re working on it.”

Customer: “Yeah, okay.”

(At 12:20:)

Customer: *to someone else* “Um, I’ve been waiting like 45 minutes for my [sandwich]. Can you go check on it?”

Coworker: “It’s probably in the panini press, but I’ll go see.”

(My coworker goes away and comes back.)

Coworker: “Yeah, it’s in the panini press.”

Customer: “Well, okay.”

(At 12:25:)

Customer: *to yet someone else* “Um, I’ve been waiting like an hour for my [sandwich]. Can you go check on it?”

Me: “You know your receipt is time-stamped, right?”

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A Wait Doesn’t Carry Much Weight

, , , , , , | Right | August 11, 2018

(I work in a small deli. One particularly busy Saturday, I am running the front of the store by myself, trying to keep up with the rush, while my coworker is busy baking our bread product in the back. About ten people all arrive at the same time, approximately half of whom order sandwiches that take the longest to make. I rush through everything, but I’m sure they still wait in line for close to ten minutes, plus another ten for their food. A customer and her husband both order breakfast sandwiches. I take their food out to them with a smile and while I am there, the wife — who, I happen to notice, is on a website putting up a review — asks me if I am a manager. I am not, I answer, but I tell them my manager’s name and when she’ll be in next. Fast forward a couple days later. I go into work, where my manager ambushes me as soon as I come in the door to tell me about this phone call she got yesterday, on my day off, from the very same customer:)

Customer: “Is this the manager?”

Manager: “Yes.”

Customer: “I want to make a complaint.”

Manager: “Okay.”

Customer: “I was in on Saturday, and it looked like you only had one employee here, and we had to wait for a long time!”

Manager: “So?”

Customer: *huffing* “Well, that’s just ridiculous! We had to wait in line, and then we had to wait for our food!”

Manager: “Was it busy?”

Customer: “Well, yes, but—”

Manager: “And what was my employee doing while it was busy? Was she outside having a smoke?”

Customer: “Well, no, she was helping other people, and making food.”

Manager: “So, what are you complaining about, then?”

Customer: “Well, I had to wait!”

Manager: “And?”

Customer: “You need to hire more people!”

Manager: “Maybe. But we’d rather have ten good ones than twenty mediocre ones. Was your food good?”

Customer: “Yes, but—”

Manager: “So, you have nothing to complain about. The food was good, and you got good service; you just had to wait. This isn’t a fast food place. If you want fast food, there’s a burger place down the street. Next time, go there, so you won’t have to worry about waiting. Now quit wasting my time. I have work to do.”

(And then she hung up. I only wish I’d been there to see it.)

Funerals Don’t Have To Be Funereal

, , , , , , , | Related | August 6, 2018

My great, great grandmother was quite a character all her life. When she passed away, the family gathered for the funeral, and milled around, sharing stories in subdued voices about memories of her.

Shortly before everyone began to file into the room, the funeral director came in. He was looking very frazzled, and wringing his hands. He apologized profusely, and said that the funeral couldn’t start yet; her body wasn’t there!

Apparently, the morgue sent her to the wrong funeral parlor, in an entirely different city! The hearse was on its way to pick her up, but… well… the funeral was going to be delayed.

There was a beat of silence, and then the entire family managed to start laughing.

My great, great grandma had always told the family that she was always late, and would likely be late to her own funeral. She was! About two hours late to be exact.

The story is now family legend, of how great, great grandma was late to her own funeral, and it was the one family funeral that was conducted with snickers and giggling.

Worked Out For You Late-ely

, , , | Working | July 25, 2018

(In my manager’s defense, I have been late three times in the last two months. I wake up with ten minutes to get into work; it is a forty minute walk. I call in to work.)

Me: “Hello, it’s [My Name]. I—”

Manager: “Look, [My Name]… If you’re going to be late again, just don’t bother coming in.”

Me: “Okay.”

(The next time I come into work, the store manager calls me into the office. She gives me a verbal warning for not turning up for my shift. I explain what happened and recount the conversation. She calls the manager into the office.)

Store Manager: “Did you tell [My Name] not to come in?”

Manager: “Well… Yes, but I didn’t think he’d take it seriously.”

(I got away with it and the manager got in trouble. A lucky escape.)

Draco Sērus Nunquam Titillandus

, , , , , , | Working | July 24, 2018

(Since you can never tell tone in these stories, I’d like to clarify that my tone during this conversation was friendly, then transitioned to accidentally but unapologetically bewildered, while the owner’s tone was like Draco Malfoy being forced to talk to Muggles. I’ve been to this animal produce store several times before. A family of three owns it and runs it by themselves. The son is a chipper Richie Cunningham clone and his parents need to swap the sides they sleep in bed, because they’ve both rolled out of bed on the wrong side every time I see them. I shop there because it’s the closest, most reasonably-priced place that I know of. My husband and I have a huge to-do list for around the house, with a few errands to run downtown. While each of the locations we need to visit are close to each other, morning traffic can be complicated, and they open at different times. So, we order the visits the best way we can to get to each store upon opening, as early as possible, to get home quickly. I double-check websites and Google to be sure we don’t waste time. First stop: produce store. It’s 7:55 am. We’re there five minutes early. No big deal; we’re happy to sit.)

Husband: “Do you find it suspicious they’ve not moved any of the bales out?”

Me: “A little bit, but they’re probably not busy this early and can move them while they’re open.”

(Eight am comes and goes.)

Husband: “They’re probably running late. Let’s go to [Store #2] and come back.”

(We do. We get back to the produce store around 8:40.)

Me: “They’re still not open. I’ll check their website… Yep, 8:00 am Saturdays.”

Husband: “Maybe it’s not been updated.”

Me: “Google says 8:00 am. So does their Facebook page.”

Husband: “Weird.”

(We run another errand. We return at 9:30 and they’re open. We get what we need and go to pay.)

Owner: *grunts*

Me: “Hello! Just these and a bale of straw, please.”

Owner: “Sure.”

Me: “Just out of curiosity, do you open at nine on Saturday?”

Owner: *looks at me sideways* “Yes.”

Me: “Oh, okay, no worries.”

Owner: “Why?”

Me: “Oh, no, it’s just that we thought it was eight.”

Owner: “It’s not.”

Me: “Oh. That’s odd.”

Owner: “No, it’s not.”

Me: “Well, I just double-checked, and Google said eight.”

Owner: “It’s never been eight.”

Me: “And your website, too.”

Owner: “No, it doesn’t.”

Me: “Yep, and your Facebook page, too.”

Owner: “They’ve never said eight. You read wrong. Eight am, Monday to Friday.”

Me: “Look. It doesn’t matter too much to me, but you probably want to check yourself.”

Owner: “We’ve never opened at eight on a weekend. Here. Take a business card so you know when you can come next time.”

(I read it.)

Me: “It says eight.”

(Her face turns red, and I think I spot steam pouring out her ears.)

Owner: “I just had these printed. Stupid company printed it wrong.”

Me: *being accidentally cocky, I let slip* “Do they run Google, your Facebook, and your website, too?”

(The owner looks like she’s gotten a third-degree sunburn, and steam is definitely pouring out her ears now. Wondering what is taking so long, my husband has come back inside and overheard part of the conversation.)

Husband: “The sign on the door says eight, too.”

(I lost it and cracked a giggle, while the owner just stared in pure rage. Honestly, my morning was thrown upside-down, but I wasn’t even angry about it. We made do. They’ve never been nice people to deal with, and it’s not the first time they’d given the “customer is always wrong” attitude.)

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