Doug Wrenn
Attention, Business Owners: Want To Know Why Business Is So Slow? It's The Service, Stupid!
By Doug Wrenn
Aug 5, 2008 - 9:53:03 AM

The better half is working tonight, which means that yours truly was left on his own to fend for himself for dinner. That's a pretty ugly sight. Suffice to say that I only know of two cooking styles: one involves the use of a microwave, and the other involves the use of a telephone. OK, so that's not entirely true; but it is mostly true! What the alternative would likely involve however is your worst possible nightmare come true: an Irishman wearing an apron. Now that really is an ugly sight! A flip of a one-sided coin could have just as easily resolved my dilemma, but being the innovative whiz-kid that I am, I managed it all on my own and chose the next logical option: I put my faith into someone else wearing an apron, probably some big, sweaty, hairy Greek guy named Nick with one big, bushy eyebrow going across his head. (Gee, come to think of it, maybe I don't look so bad in an apron after all!) So, I grabbed the car keys, and off I went. As Clint Eastwood once sarcastically but sagely quipped to his bumbling bureaucratic boss in one of his "Dirty Harry" movies, "A man has got to know his limitations." Indeed, and this one does, so I left dinner up to the professionals, or so I thought.

I opted for a local family joint, nothing fancy, but decent chow. Despite the fact that this is a ham & egger kind of place, and no, not just for breakfast, for some odd reason, Che' Grease has a maitre de to accost you with oodles of sugary, shallow and not at all meant condescension as you enter and almost stumble over the sign saying, "Please Wait To Be Seated." As the sign was right in front of the guy, I don't know why they didn't also tack on an arrow pointing to him. He asked how many I was. Now folks, I admit I have added a pound or two over the years onto this otherwise hunk of beefcake frame and natural eye candy for women, but I'm not that big. I'm still only one guy, OK, maybe three, if you count "me," "myself," and "I," but here I was standing in front of this clown and we're starting off doing arithmetic quizzes. Before I almost took off my newly acquired bifocals to hand him he apparently figured it out and grabbed one menu, adding, "Won't you please follow me?" (No, Bozo, I'll close my eyes and count to 10 while you go hide and I'll try to come find you!)

So finally I sit down in a booth meant for one. Actually, it was built for two, but I couldn't fit on that other side without constantly inhaling throughout my meal, and that's a tough task of multi-tasking while you're trying to eat.

When the people on one side of me, who came in after me were about mid-way through their salads, the waiter finally came over to take my order. I was tempted to request breakfast by that point. I also ordered a beer, mostly because about then I needed one. He asked if I would like a glass. (No, that's OK, I'll cup my hands together, and you pour, OK, Sparky?)

I was starving. For apps, I ordered both soup and a salad. Numbskull finally decides that now he's in a hurry, so he gives me both apps, plus my beer all at once. All kidding aside, I once worked as a waiter in a very fine restaurant (Which is a high-rise condominium complex now, but that's another story), where service and atmosphere were considered sacred, because my boss, a very intuitive guy, knew that there wasn't much of anything he could make that most people (other than me) couldn't make at home, so if I was to ever hand a customer two courses at once, the next item to be dropped onto a platter would have been my head. You see, Sparky? It's all about this odd little human process, called..... DIGESTION! But I....digress..

In short order, I consumed both apps and the beer like dust mites into a vacuum cleaner. On the other side of me sat two women, one of them elderly, I presumed a mother-daughter team. Actually, I think it was a queen and a princess. Both seemed like nice people, but they were obviously friends with the staff. My waiter made 5 or 6 stops there to chat, another waiter stopped to jawbone with them another 3 times, and the (I presume) owner, AKA, Mr. Maitre de, another 3 times. Then of course, was the busboy, who looked like he spoke no English. He did not stop to chat with them, but he passed by 4 or 5 times. None of these people gave as much as a look in my direction, not that any of them could see me anyway, mind you, as my empty and dirty dishes were all piled up in front of me during this entire extended period of at least 20 or 25 minutes. At one point midway through the owner, post-chat with the royalty in the next booth, walked by my table. He looked directly at my pile of dishes, sighed, shook his head and walked away. He obviously saw the unattended dishes, was disgusted that none of his staff did anything about it, but then again, neither did he. Mind you, everyone seemed to have ample time to chat with the ladies in the next booth. Finally and quite some time later, the busboy removed the dishes. I thanked him. He grunted. I couldn't quite nail down the dialect of the grunt.

Time kept passing, and now even the younger lady in the next booth looked as elderly as her companion. My waiter still passed back and forth, not even looking in my direction, and obviously hearing impaired as well. Now I desperately wanted a second beer. (Hmm, perhaps that is their strategy, kind of like how bars serve you salty nuts to make you thirsty, this place just aggravates the hell out of you to drive you to drink!) About 30-40 minutes later in this only slightly occupied restaurant on a Sunday evening, my waiter finally showed up. After I ordered my entrée, I later wondered why he didn't ask me what I wanted with it, and I didn't see any side dishes listed on the menu. The grand surprise came with my order: pork chops pizziaola with mashed potatoes and gravy! Truth be known, besides Irish, I have some Italian in me too (but I still can't cook to save my life!). For any of you non-Italians, or as some of you west of the Mississippi or south of the Mason-Dixon might say, "non-Ay-trall-yons," believe me when I tell you that serving potatoes instead of some kind pasta with pork chops pizziaola is like wearing snow boots to an outdoor summer barbeque. Put another way, where I grew up, such an atrocity would be punishable by sentences equivalent to that of a capital felony or a mortal sin. They don't go together. Just don't do it! Only then, does Sparky ask me if I would like a second beer. (Oh, no, thank you. I once won the Bronze Medal for choking and I'm striving for the Silver now!) There are some eateries that don't serve the food hot enough. Avoid those places like the plague, because if you eat there, you just might catch it. Then there are other places that serve the food so damned hot that you can watch the seasons change while you attempt to eat it. And when you do, you might still scorch off that top layer of skin from your tongue. This was such a place. (Sparky, where's my damned beer?)

As fall turned to winter, and my oral first-degree burns were graduating to the second-degree level, Sparky finally returned, or at least I think it was him. I'm not sure, as the steam was fogging my glasses, and even if it wasn't, I still can't figure out these damned bi-focals. You need a road map and GPS to see, up, down, close far, whatever. Anyway, he asked me if I would like anything else. Ice and a first aid kit suddenly came to mind, but with now two layers seared off the top of my tongue, the best response I could muster was, "No, thank you....juth the check, pweeth. And by the way, Thparky....where the hell ith that damned beer?" (Cough, cough...)

The check not so mysteriously came quicker than anything else, and what little of a tip I left well reflected it. (For the record, with even just reasonable service, I'm usually good for 25% and sometimes more if the service so warrants it.)

There was no sign with an arrow saying, "Pay up there," but I have eaten in this place before and I knew the drill. So up I go to the counter, and who is there, but the princess from the queen-princess team. I guess Momma was in the car, but daughter was now at the counter, still yapping away with Cosmo, or whatever his name is. Of course, I had to wait for their conversation to cease. He asked me how I was. (Now he asks?) One of these days, some poor, unknowing schmuck is going to ask me that question on the wrong day and I'll give him the unabridged version for an answer. I said, "Good," as I just wanted to leave. I'm not sure if it was the aggravation or the greasy pile of sautéed peppers and onions that was almost as high as my previously ignored empty and dirty dishes, but something inside my stomach was now actually eating me! Cosmo asked the question I was dying to hear, "How was everything?" I always had a hunch that anyone who ever asks that question really couldn't care less, just like when they ask how you are. I wanted to set the stage so that I could regale the supposedly concerned Cosmo how, he too, left my dirty dishes in front me and ignored me like I was about as important to him as new rat droppings after the health inspector left while he waxed friendly with the insiders in the next booth. I replied, with emphasis, "The food was good." "Oh, thank you, Sir, I'm glad to you enjoyed it. Have a nice night." First of all, "Have a nice night" is a classic overused statement of fluff, too. Let's face it Cosmo couldn't care less what kind of night I have, and he sure as hell isn't going to lose sleep tonight worrying about it. Meanwhile, while I emphasized that the food was good, his lady friend quickly turned and looked right at me with a startled expression. She got it. Cosmo didn't, or, he just didn't care. I couldn't tell, and either way, it was unacceptable.

And come to think of it, the food wasn't that good. I consumed it over four hours ago and it's still attempting an emergency evacuation by burning its way through my stomach lining. I took an antacid tablet about an hour and half ago. I'm not entirely sure, but I could have sworn I heard somebody down there laugh when it hit bottom. I can't even imagine how those evil peppers and onions are now torturing that poor, innocent little antacid tablet, heroically martyred for my desperate search of gastric comfort, but now just a mere toy for them to barbarically devour with zeal. Meanwhile, my stomach is still killing me. Sadly, this paesan is no spring chicken any more. I guess I just can't howl with the wolves any more. Actually, right about now, I'd be grateful for a belch.

I won't be back to that place again for quite a while, if at all. It's not the peppers and onions. First of all, I know better and shouldn't have eaten them anyway. Second, other than that, the food really was good, but I got treated like, well, pardon the pun, but...chopped liver, and I even had to pay for the privilege. I know people in Manhattan sometimes deliberately go to known obnoxious restaurants to be insulted because they think it's chic and classic New York, but I grew up close enough to New York City to have enough of an edge of my own. I don't need to pay for one as a hoot from somebody else.

Plain and simple, it's all about the service. If you can't handle that, or aren't up to it, then just hang up the "CLOSED" sign where the stupid reminder saying "Please wait to be seated" (without the arrow pointing to Cosmo at the counter) used to be. And I'm talking especially to you restaurant owners, and you know why as well as I do. In most places, people can swing a dead cat and hit five of your competitors. Maybe you think your special, but trust me, you're not, even if your business does survive past the typical "make it or break it" high-water mark of 5 years, and no, I couldn't care less how good your family and friends claim your sauce is.

Oh yeah, and some other sage words of advice for some of you other service-challenged service providers in our now predominantly service-related society (Does anyone see a common pattern here?):

-Real Estate Agents- Most of us out here in the public may not be rocket scientists (and most of you certainly aren't), but we're not idiots, either. I'll tell you what, if you really have another customer who "is also very interested in this property," then you have my blessing, go sell it to him, otherwise, stop peeing on my leg and telling me it's raining. Every one of you geniuses thinks you are the first to use that line. Trust me, Moses was still only wearing a training toga when that line was invented. And even if you do sell this house, I'm willing to bet that another one is for sale somewhere nearby. Am I wrong?

• Lawyers- In most other lines of work, most people work more, not less, after they receive their first payment.
• Contractors- Hey guys, return a phone call once in a while, OK? And pull your damned pants up! I could park a bicycle in that thing for crying out loud!
• Government workers-Shut off that damned voice mail. You can't fool us. You're right there at your desk, and we know it!
• Doctors- Tell me the truth...do you really read that tedious drivel that you leave out for us to read in your waiting rooms?
• Telemarketers- Or, more appropriately, the very few who actually get me on the phone, and not my answering machine, not only did I answer the phone, but I'll be the one who pays for it when the bill comes in next month, so trust me, you don't have to ask....I am the "decision maker in the household," which is why every time I make a decision with one of you people, you get the same immediate response from me...CLICK....bzzzzz...And by the way, if you have at least half a brain in your head and want any modicum of luck with your next cold call, here's a clue, try actually treating him or her like a real person, and just talk to them, without reading from that corny, goofy, overly conspicuous script that your boss swears will work. (PS-Ask him to show you his high school diploma some time and watch the good times roll!)
• Hotel Desk Clerks (either on the phone, or in person)-Look, I promise whatever I ask of you will be reasonable and within your job description, and I'll even try not to trouble you with any requests at all if I can help it. You have other things to do, and I respect that. But when or if I do ask you for something, don't give me that BS happy face, cheery talk and tell me that you will "be more than happy to do that for me." Nobody is that happy to do anything for a perfect stranger, especially when they're working, and most people aren't even that happy in general unless their highly medicated or just plain loopy, so can the canned speech and just do whatever I ask with just a reasonable modicum of civility and promptness, OK? Chances are I just need an extra pillow or something, not the dog and pony circus, so park your teeth back in your mouth.
• Waitresses in diners- I'm sorry...do I know you? Have we met before? Perhaps we once had a romantic interlude together? (If we did, it must have been late, dark, and I must have been very drunk at the time!) After 20 years of faithful and loving marriage, my own wife doesn't call me "Hon," so who the hell are you? And for crying out loud, spit that damned gum out! You're giving me a headache!
• Counter people in fast food restaurants- 1.) I prefer to only repeat my 3-item order 4 times, maximum. 2.) I haven't even considered whether I want my cup of coffee or soda for here or to go, so could you please decide for me? By the way, you people do still put lids on the cups, right? 3.) No, there is nothing else that I want. That is why I stopped talking. This is usually the time when you ring up my order. 4.) No need to wish me a nice day. Cosmo already beat you to it. 5.) SPEAK ENGLISH! Seis) See Cinco.
• That faceless voice over the microphone in the drive-thru of the donut shop- First of all, call an electrician, or else tell your co-workers to stop flushing the toilet in the background while your talking. The audible quality of your response sounds worse than the last distress call from the Titanic before the band stopped playing. Secondly, I've done this before; I know how to do it. I really don't need you to tell me, "Please drive up to the window," but if you could give me a little heads up as to how much money I owe you before I get there, that would be a real handy little piece of information!
• Internet Technology Help Desk People- You do know English. Good for you, and thank you for that. And I know that where you are in Calcutta, the way you talk is normal, but I'm here, so I'm still not used to it, so while you understand English, I cannot understand your English, and let's face it, unlike that waitress in the diner, you and I will now most likely spend half the night on the phone together, and that's after I finally get relieved from being kept on "hold," so if you do call me "Hon," you actually probably earned the right, but I would at least like to understand it when you say it. Fair enough?
• Just about anybody I have to call over the phone-If this call really is "monitored for quality assurance," then why do I have to keep pushing all these damned buttons for 20 minutes to finally get a live person who will then only ask me each of those same stupid questions all over again? Please, comrade, Big Brother, or whatever your name is, if you are going to bug my calls, at least make it worth my trouble, OK?
• Counter People at the donut shop- Even though I didn't choose to use the drive-thru lane, that's probably because I needed to use the men's' room. And by the way, it needs more soap, the toilet doesn't flush, and that stupid hand dryer only blows cold air. I really only want one or two items, so I really don't see our business relationship blossoming much longer than a minute or two. You can leave that conspicuous tip jar on the counter in front of me if you want to, but you're going to have to do something pretty spectacular before I actually consider putting something in it!
• Any type of service technician that needs to come out to my home and thinks I have all day to take off from work just to wait for him- Just bill me for your services. I'll gladly send in a check. It should be there "some time between January and December."
• Airlines-UGGHH!!!! Forget it! I wouldn't know where to begin, and I would never be able to end.
• Deli Counter people- I didn't ask you to decrease the price of my sandwich when I told you I didn't want the obligatory cheese, lettuce, pickles, and tomatoes on it. So why are you whacking me an extra fee because I asked for sweet roasted red peppers on it? (Don't worry, that kind my stomach can handle!)
• Hotels/Car Rentals/Airlines-How did you people ever conduct business before the advent of the now "mandatory" credit card for reservations? And no, you cannot have that little 3-digit security code from the back of my credit card. My bank says I'm not supposed to give it to you. I guess that is why they call it a "security code," huh? We used to trust you people with the number on front before, and what did we get for it? Identity theft! And now you want what, my security code? Oh, yeah, well that makes sense, because the number on the front isn't reliable any more.... because of identity theft! Somebody please stop this circle, I think I would like to get off now!
• Banks-OK, so now let me get this straight: I pay a fee to use my ATM, and I also now pay a fee to come in to the bank to conduct my business too? I just assume use my mattress, but it doesn't pay me the pittance you people call "interest." I'll tell you what; I'll meet you in the parking garage. Just ask for "Deep Throat"!

Get the gist now? I could probably do this all night, but the better half just arrived home and it's getting late so I need to sign off. And I still need to edit this thing yet, if I can only figure out these damned bi-focals. Now let me see, for close down, no up, no...um...

Just remember...service, service, service! Like I said, it's not rocket science.

And please, whatever you do, don't tell me to have a nice night. I've heard that too many times already, and nobody ever means it. Besides, those damned peppers and onions still won't let that happen anyway.

Doug Wrenn