Showing posts with label Retail. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Retail. Show all posts
2009-06-12
2009-06-02
Dear BW3 in Norwood, Ohio
Fuck you.
Seriously. Fuck. You.
Now, having said that, let me tell you the ways:
1. Lying bartenders.
2. Shitty service.
3. Clueless manager.
4. Lying managers.
5. Clueless bartenders.
Let me explain.
1. Lying Bartenders
I walk into BW3's at 6:50 p.m. I would love to play some Buzztime Trivia, get ready to watch hockey, and suck down some iced tea because I'm on call for work and won't drink. Which is good, because they're out of the beer I normally drink, anyway. I ask for a trivia box. Bartender says "They're broken." I say, "What?" She says, "All the boxes are broken. Nobody can play."
Now last week when I was in there, same bartender told me that most of the boxes they had were in disrepair and she didn't have any that worked behind the bar, however, I managed to snag one from a server on the restaurant side. And yes, her tip reflected that, and her lack of service.
So her telling me that this week was even lamer. So I order an unsweetened iced tea, take a seat and read the USA Today since trivia doesn't work.
But wait. I look around. There are people playing trivia. And poker, too, which operates on the same server.
Hmmmm. Lying whore.
So I continue reading the paper, sending text messages to one of the managers at the BW3 I play at and give him the torrid details of this disaster in the making.
Which brings us to:
2. Shitty Service
So after an hour of sitting there with a single (now empty) glass of iced tea, the other server, who was very nice, comes up and asks if I want a refill. I say yes, and would like to order food. She says, "Oh, let met get (other bartender)." I say "No. I'd much prefer you and she's already lied to me once tonight and ignored me after my initial order. And you've not lied to me yet. And noticed me sitting here with an empty glass. So you win." She laughed. The kind of laugh that people laugh when you point out one of their co-workers sucks and they can't agree, but acknowledge that you are correct by a) laughing and b) not denying or defending. So I ask her if she can put the hockey game on and she says "Oh, sure. What channel?" I tell her, she puts the game on instead of Women's Tennis and all is good.
Next time she comes around, she says "Oh, you wanted food, too, right?" and takes the order, makes sure my iced tea is kept filled and eventually brings my food over. That's when I ask to speak to her manager. Which leads us to:
3. Clueless Managers
Josh comes over and introduces himself nervously. I tell him about outright lie from the bartender; the total lack of service, the sitting there for 25 minutes with an empty glass, how I spend three or four nights at various BW3's and tip accordingly.
He says, "I'm sorry. Thanks for letting me know" and walks away.
I look around the bar, I count heads. There are 52 people there. All the bar seats are full, four guys are playing poker (on the allegedly broken Buzztime Trivia system) There are 9 people in Red Wings jerseys, 2 in Red Wings hats; 5 in Pens jerseys, 3 in Pens t-shirts and 1 with a hat; compared to two people wearing Reds hats. No Reds jerseys, no Reds t-shirts.
So what's the sound in the bar? Game 51 out of 162 games the Cincinnati Reds will play during the 2009 Major League Baseball Season. Hey, I understand I'm in Cincinnati. But a smart bartender / bar manager / etc. will look at the crowd, determine what they're there for, and adjust televisions accordingly. Even if it's not for the home team. The popular overrides the local, especially when the local is 2-1/2 games out of first place. I've been in bars in Cleveland that show Steelers Games. Bars in Columbus that show Bengals games. Bars in Columbus that show Steelers games. They base it on the crowd.
Except the BW3's in Norwood. Who had sound for the Reds game.
So I ask Josh about it. This brings on:
4. Lying Managers
So the other manager on that night, who's name I didn't get, was working the AV equipment. He walks past, I ask him why he has the sound on for the Reds game, not the STANLEY CUP FINALS. He says, "Someone asked for the sound on the Reds game." So I ask him to look around and judge the crowd and see who's watching what. He says, "I have to go with what Josh wants on the sound." And walks away.
Josh walks past again. I catch his attention, again, and he, again, nervously approaches me. I ask him why I had to ask for hockey on TV versus women's tennis when it's the Stanley Cup Finals. He says, "Oh, I didn't realize it was the finals." Really? How is that possible that you run a sports bar and don't know that? Oh, you're lying. You get a daily sheet of what's on the various sports channels that your bar pays for. I know this because I've seen it.
He then says, "Oh, and I talked to the server about the trivia. She said the server needed rebooted, and the other manager did that. She should have gotten you a box, though." Yeah, ya think? Again, he walked away offering nothing more than an apology.
And, unknown to Josh, if you reboot the server, you kick all the people playing off the server. I know this. I manage about 3,000 servers, and if I reboot one with a user connected and using an application on that server, they get disconnected. So, Josh, you, too, are a lying whore.
And finally, we wind up with ...
5. Clueless Bartenders
Now me being me ... I decided to share my lack of enjoyment of the 90 minutes I spent at the BW3 in Norwood with the bartender who lied to and then ignored me. Because I'm all about the customer service.
In my wallet I have the receipts from my Saturday night at BW3 playing music trivia and watching hockey; and my Sunday night at BW3 playing trivia and watching hockey. Both show a bar tab of about $35 with a 20% and 30% tip (sorry, service on Sunday was significantly better than Saturday). If I'm spending 4 hours at your bar, I tip like I'm spending 4 hours at your bar. I was a bartender. I know the system.
So after I tell her what a total opportunity she blew, she looks at me and says, "Well, people who normally drink iced tea don't tip well." I said, "Yeah, I know. But when you assume that and ignore accordingly, and lie to your customers, and act like you don't really care about your job, all that is reflected in your tips that you receive from all your customers who recognize shitty service and tip accordingly. Or don't tip. Perhaps you should learn that the phrase TIPS actually stands for To Insure Proper Service ... meaning, I get proper service, I tip accordingly to the time and service, not the bill. I'm sorry you work in a BTW’s in a shitty college-level neighborhood bordered by a ghetto ... but we're not all like that." Or something close to that, hitting all the highlighted points there I made. But I did use the 'BW3's in a shitty college-level neighborhood bordered by a ghetto' part.
So ... to sum up this missive ...
BW3 in Norwood ... Fuck you.
2006-12-27
An Open Letter to Ronald M.
Dear Ronald,
It is with much sadness I must tell you, our relationship is over.
Yes, I can no longer eat at your fine chain of dining establishments.
It's not that I don't like your food. Your coffee is legendary, the apple pies totally tasty, and every so often I need a dose of the grease that is a quarter pounder to get things moving, if you know what I mean.
And I think you do.
So why am I ending our relationship?
No, it's not another new year's resolution of better eating. I know the occasional greaseburger in and amongst itself isn't going to kill me.
You see, around eight this morning, at your fine dining establishment at the intersection of Salt-Springs Road and US Route 422 in Mineral Ridge, Ohio, I had an eye-opening experience when I stopped to get a coffee.
The line at the drive-thru was quite long, but there was only one person inside at the counter, so I parked and went in.
Yes, like most relationships, when you open that door unexpectedly, sometimes what you see will change your whole outlook on the relationship.
As I stood at the counter waiting to order my coffee, I was looking over the menu trying to figure out what would go well with the coffee. What was I hungry for? A McGriddle? An Egg McMuffin? Perhaps even a Sausage Biscuit.
Then it all went downhill, fast.
One of the managers (I could tell by the white shirt she was wearing) in the food prep area walked away from the breakfast-sandwich building counter to spit a big loogie into a trash can - right next to the fry-a-lator.
Seeing that someone who was about to make the food I was planning on eating is sick will do wonders to cure your appetite. However, that's why I'm breaking up with you.
As I stood there, still kind of shocked to have seen someone in the food prep area of a restaurant spit into a trash can, the inbred and/or retarded looking fry-a-lator girl pulled a rack of hash browns out of the grease. As they dripped dry, she grabbed another rack from the stack behind the trash can the white-shirted manager just spit into, and put it into the holder to load up with more frozen potato goodness.
Apparently that much physical activity caused her some sort of wardrobe malfunction.
She stopped, and reached into the one-size-fits-most elastic-waisted black stretch pants issued by your fine corporation (I could tell by the Golden Arch logo on the ass) to tuck the one-size-fits-most 2x maroon shirt back into place.
I worked fast food, for that big-headed guy they call the King. I know you're not friends, but you have a lot of things in common. Bad fitting uniforms are high on the list. I know that the uniforms he gives, as well as yours, are not only made of the cheapest material available to third-world sweatshops, they're ill-fitting as well.
And I've worked in advertising, too, and I know that you use actors in your commercials, because I've not seen an attractive person over the age of 18 working at any of your establishments in my lifetime.
The closest the fry-a-lator hash brown woman will come to a McDonald's commercial is if she stands next to the television when one is broadcast. I'm not talking about her looks - I'm just talking body shape. She is high waisted and short-torsoed with a lumpy ass, a lumpy belly, but not a lumpy chest.
No, that's not an insult. For the record, I'm one of the few white guys in the world who will admit I like pear-shaped women with big asses.
But back to fry-a-lator girl.
Because of her odd body shape, the ill-fitting, one-size-fits-most shirt was extra big on her, and hanging well below the waist, in both the front and back.
That, my large-footed, red-haired friend, is not a guess.
I know this is fact because I watched her reach down to about mid-thigh on both the front the front and back of her pants, adjusting the shirt.
Bare handed.
When she was finished - and that whole process took about 30 seconds and included her smoothing the ass area of her pants from inside her pants - she then turned back to the fry-a-lator.
And with the same hands she just had down the front - and back - of her one-size-fits-most elastic-waisted black stretch pants, opened the bag of frozen hash browns, reached in the bag and loaded the hash browns in the rack.
Bare handed.
Without washing her hands in the sink right next to the fry-a-lator.
That's why were breaking up.
If I'm going to have a close encounter with the ass area of a woman, it's gonna be on my terms, be my decision, or be the result an involuntary buck of her hips that moves the field of play. It will not be because an inbred/retarded fry-a-lator girl leaves fecal matter on my hash browns.
Good luck in the future.
Sincerely,
Me.
It is with much sadness I must tell you, our relationship is over.
Yes, I can no longer eat at your fine chain of dining establishments.
It's not that I don't like your food. Your coffee is legendary, the apple pies totally tasty, and every so often I need a dose of the grease that is a quarter pounder to get things moving, if you know what I mean.
And I think you do.
So why am I ending our relationship?
No, it's not another new year's resolution of better eating. I know the occasional greaseburger in and amongst itself isn't going to kill me.
You see, around eight this morning, at your fine dining establishment at the intersection of Salt-Springs Road and US Route 422 in Mineral Ridge, Ohio, I had an eye-opening experience when I stopped to get a coffee.
The line at the drive-thru was quite long, but there was only one person inside at the counter, so I parked and went in.
Yes, like most relationships, when you open that door unexpectedly, sometimes what you see will change your whole outlook on the relationship.
As I stood at the counter waiting to order my coffee, I was looking over the menu trying to figure out what would go well with the coffee. What was I hungry for? A McGriddle? An Egg McMuffin? Perhaps even a Sausage Biscuit.
Then it all went downhill, fast.
One of the managers (I could tell by the white shirt she was wearing) in the food prep area walked away from the breakfast-sandwich building counter to spit a big loogie into a trash can - right next to the fry-a-lator.
Seeing that someone who was about to make the food I was planning on eating is sick will do wonders to cure your appetite. However, that's why I'm breaking up with you.
As I stood there, still kind of shocked to have seen someone in the food prep area of a restaurant spit into a trash can, the inbred and/or retarded looking fry-a-lator girl pulled a rack of hash browns out of the grease. As they dripped dry, she grabbed another rack from the stack behind the trash can the white-shirted manager just spit into, and put it into the holder to load up with more frozen potato goodness.
Apparently that much physical activity caused her some sort of wardrobe malfunction.
She stopped, and reached into the one-size-fits-most elastic-waisted black stretch pants issued by your fine corporation (I could tell by the Golden Arch logo on the ass) to tuck the one-size-fits-most 2x maroon shirt back into place.
I worked fast food, for that big-headed guy they call the King. I know you're not friends, but you have a lot of things in common. Bad fitting uniforms are high on the list. I know that the uniforms he gives, as well as yours, are not only made of the cheapest material available to third-world sweatshops, they're ill-fitting as well.
And I've worked in advertising, too, and I know that you use actors in your commercials, because I've not seen an attractive person over the age of 18 working at any of your establishments in my lifetime.
The closest the fry-a-lator hash brown woman will come to a McDonald's commercial is if she stands next to the television when one is broadcast. I'm not talking about her looks - I'm just talking body shape. She is high waisted and short-torsoed with a lumpy ass, a lumpy belly, but not a lumpy chest.
No, that's not an insult. For the record, I'm one of the few white guys in the world who will admit I like pear-shaped women with big asses.
But back to fry-a-lator girl.
Because of her odd body shape, the ill-fitting, one-size-fits-most shirt was extra big on her, and hanging well below the waist, in both the front and back.
That, my large-footed, red-haired friend, is not a guess.
I know this is fact because I watched her reach down to about mid-thigh on both the front the front and back of her pants, adjusting the shirt.
Bare handed.
When she was finished - and that whole process took about 30 seconds and included her smoothing the ass area of her pants from inside her pants - she then turned back to the fry-a-lator.
And with the same hands she just had down the front - and back - of her one-size-fits-most elastic-waisted black stretch pants, opened the bag of frozen hash browns, reached in the bag and loaded the hash browns in the rack.
Bare handed.
Without washing her hands in the sink right next to the fry-a-lator.
That's why were breaking up.
If I'm going to have a close encounter with the ass area of a woman, it's gonna be on my terms, be my decision, or be the result an involuntary buck of her hips that moves the field of play. It will not be because an inbred/retarded fry-a-lator girl leaves fecal matter on my hash browns.
Good luck in the future.
Sincerely,
Me.
2006-01-03
Idiots With Keyboards - Vol 2
So yesterday I was kinda hungry for pizza, and remembered that Papa John's is just around the corner from me ... I remembered this as I was staring at a coupon for a free dessert pizza (by the way, pizza crust with fruit filling ... genius!) on the counter at Blockbuster.
I was at Blockbuster because there wasn't anything good on TV Monday night ... everything I watch is still in reruns (Lost, Comedy Central shows. Yeah, that's all I watch), so I've been renting a lot of movies (because I don't have enough of my own to watch) ... and I don't know if "Big Brother" really exists or not ... but like Bill Hicks said about his rental habits ... draw your own conclusions: Last night I rented Family Guy, Season 2, Disk 3 & 4 and Ultimate Fighting Championships 46 (Couture vs. Belfort II) and Ultimate Fighting Championships 48 (Shamrock vs. Kimo). Yeah, felt like laughing and fighting ... whereas Mr. Hicks was renting Sonic the Hedgehog and Clamlappers, Volume 501 (because, as he says, once you watch the first, you're hooked).
So anyway ... I grabbed the coupon and headed over to my local Papa John's ... and my Papa John's Pizza Experience wasn't very good ... for a number of reasons ... and frankly, I was surprised, because I'd never had a bad Papa John's experience before. So when I eventually got home, I tossed in a DVD, started to eat the pizza that was close to what I ordered, and while scanning the flyer pinned to the box loaded with coupons I noticed a "comments" email address where I was invited to discuss my pizza experience.
Yeah .... you know what's coming:
(my email to PapaJohnsConcerns at rrohio.com was titled, "At least the garlic sauce was good" and is reprinted here for your reading enjoyment:)
So having recently moved to the north side of
Or it did.
Today's first visit to my local Papa John's store is an experience not worth repeating.
Hadn't even planned on it. Was getting some movies to watch, there was a coupon for a free Sweet Treat with a pizza order, I was thinking, hey, there's a dinner idea ... Papa John's. And it's just around the corner from my new apartment. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.
Yeah.
I went into the
I go back to the store at 5 and am told it will be a couple minutes more.
There was a blueberry Sweet Treat that came out of the oven in about 5 minutes. It wasn't mine. I ordered apple.
After another five minutes, not another word from anyone behind the counter, and nary a look in my general direction ... and a total of 50 minutes from the time I ordered my pizza and sweet treat, I left, with just the pizza.
And then got home and discovered it wasn't right.
Or your thick crust has gone on the Atkins diet and lost some significant weight. I'd hate to see the thin crust if what I got was the thick I ordered.
But the garlic sauce was good.
According to the label, my "pizza experience" was (mis)managed by Eric S.
The only other numbers on the ! label that matter: 3828 / 0102/0027
----------------------------------------
So then some other stuff happened last night and I ended up heading out to smooth out a misunderstanding (Eric = Idiot) and I flipped on the radio and that was when I realized that the Ohio State Buckeyes were in the Fiesta Bowl ... and that kickoff was just after 5 p.m.
Now I don't know if you're aware of this ... apparently OSU football is a big deal in Columbus.
Yeah.
Which totally explains why Papa John's was so crazy busy, behind, and forgot my Sweet Treat.
And I don't know if you're aware of this, either ... I was probably the only man (and one of the few bipeds) in the city on Monday who wasn't aware of the OSU game, and watching it.
See, I'm not a Columbus native, I've been here a year, and I'm not a fan of college sports at all ... and in the 12 months I've been here done my best to avoid drinking the kool-aid that turns normal people into, as Rebecca says, worshippers of the nut-headed mascot.
Add to that I've lived in the Pittsburgh area for the past 7 years ... where pro football is all that matters ... and the only time you hear of a college mentioned is when discussing where the current Stiller played his college football, and why wasn't it at Penn State.
So now you have my excuses for not being aware of this Fiesta Bowl thing on Monday ... or maybe I'll claim that I was watching TV, but only because I was trying to figure out what was happening with my boy Maurice Clarett ... because we went to the same high school (years apart). Yeah, you can take the thug outta Warren, Ohio; but you can't take Warren, Ohio, out of the thug.
Perhaps he'll be able to share a prison cell with our good congressman James Traficant. Or the former mayor of Warren. Or several of the other elected officials who have gotten prison sentences. Yeah, Youngstown has the mafia, but Warren has the dumb crooks.
Mo is just one more in a long list of famous Warren, Ohio, criminals.
I did get a nice response from Papa John's offering to talk to me on the phone ... where they'll probably give me coupons or free stuff ... but here was my response:
It's really not that big of a deal ... as a former retail manager, I know you don't get much feedback, good or bad... it wasn't until I was in my car later last night (after I sent the email) that I realized that the OSU bowl game was on (not a Columbus native, and not a college sports fan) ... but the insanity that was the Northeast Columbus location at 15 minutes prior to kickoff all makes more sense to me now ... so no worries ... I'll be back ... and I'll check the sports calendar first!
DOH!
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