Mad Customer Service Skilz

June 9, 2009 at 1:24 AM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
  I closed Friday and Saturday last week, the first time I’ve done that in I don’t know how long.  But I do know I don’t like it, and I don’t wanna do it again.
  First of all, it was an extra day, so I have that going for me, which is nice.  But those hours combined with the 40 on my day job gave me about 75 hours last week. 

A WEEK AGO

  Early in the evening, John was cutting a pizza, like he has many times, of course.  I stopped him, because I’ve been trying to fix this for a while.  I grabbed the cutter off the table where he had dropped it.  I said, "Dude.  Put the cutter in the holder; that’s what it’s for.  If you throw it on the table, shit from the cutter gets on the bottom of the box, then the customer gets it and lays in their nice car or on their furniture, and gets pissed off."
  I continued, demonstrating.  "Also–push hard with the cutter.  You are not cutting through the pie."  I showed how, simply applying pressure.  "Man up and put some muscle to it.  I will buy you a six pack if you ever cut through the box enough to make it leak.  You can’t.  You won’t."
  He said, in a semi-condescending tone, "I’m sorry Bryan; someday I’ll be as good as you."
  Before I could respond, Dina came around the corner.  Apparently she had heard everything, because she said, "No, you won’t."  I thought that was sweet.  She was right, of course.

FRIDAY NIGHT

  Not a bad night.  I worked with Dina, and she was happy about that.  I hadn’t worked with Steve in a while either,  They were both happy to see me.  Not because I’m so wonderful and a joy to be with (although, to be honest, I am), but because anyone is an improvement over working with Stan.  But I told that last story to tell this one:
  We were having a problem with the pizzas sticking to the screens.  Let me explain why this is bad:  You can’t get the pizza off of the screen.  It sticks, the dough tears, the pizza comes apart.  Sometimes, if it’s not too bad, you can salvage it.  Often it is FUBR, and you have to remake it.
  Usually this happens when one of two things is occurring: 
  Either a) the screens are completely new and have yet to be seasoned; or
  b) the pies have been made well in advance and the dough has slowly sunk into the mesh of the screens.
  Well, the screens were all seasoned and had been for some time.  Since Stan wasn’t working, we had no pizzas sitting on screens for half an hour before we made cooked them.  (Stan is a condescending, elitist fuck.  I like the guy, but he is.  He’s never wrong, and will never EVER say, "I’m sorry."  Ever.  But also, since he feels he is better than everyone else, he tries to "over-help" people to the point of annoyance.  "Over-help," I like that.  New word.
  Meaning, since he doesn’t think you can make pizzas fast enough or good enough, he will make a bunch of skins (doughs) up in advance and let them sit on the screen so they sink into the screen, and then when you use them for pizzas, they are completely stuck, the dough rips, it ruins the fucking pie, and you can’t save it, so you have to make another, effectively doing twice the work.  Quite a time-saver.  After the first time doing this, I pitch them.  He saw me and confronted me.  "What are you doing?  You’re wasting dough!"
  I said, "No, YOU are wasting dough."
  "I was trying to help you by getting some skins up for you."
  "Don’t.  Don’t help me like that.  Stan, I am fast enough.  Over half of these I end up throwing away because they stick to the screen.  I’d rather save myself the aggravation and throw them away now."

  But Friday, Stan wasn’t there.  I was doing the dough, and it was perfect.  Why were they sticking?  One was an anomaly, two was odd.  Three was a trend.  Four and I pissed.  After five, I was beginning to take it personally.
  I didn’t know what was causing it, but I knew how to fix it, I hoped.  I started treating each screen like it needed to be seasoned.  I grabbed our generic spray can of Pam, and before I laid down the the dough, I sprayed each screen and tossed a small handful of cornmeal over it.
  It worked; no more sticking.  I wasn’t going to take any chances, so I did that for every pizza the rest of the night.  I did have a chance to examine the dough later.  Although the date didn’t show it as being expired, it acted like it was expired.  Too soft and too pliable, even straight from the walk-in, where I expect it to behave a little more stiffly.  I noticed some moisture in the tray…
  Too much water?  Seasonally, the commissary (where the dough is made fresh daily, then frozen) would change up the mix in the dough to allow for seasonal temperature changes.  While I didn’t know if this was intentional, it did seem like a change in the mix.  Dough is only these ingredients:  flour, water, sugar, yeast…And maybe something else.  Hey, that class was 20 years ago.  Anyway, it was off.
  Later in the evening it was just me and one driver, Katie.  She’s our cute little blond college girl working for the summer.  At first I didn’t like her because I thought she was stuck up.  Turns out she really is shy and quiet.  And a little nerdy, too, which is hot.  She likes sci-fi and fantasy, and plays computer games and reads and stuff like that.  We actually have alot in common.  She has a cute ass, and I wanted to wear it as a hat…In a purely non-sexual way.
  I take a call before 10 pm.  It’s a woman, and she’s drunk.  She tried to deny it, but she said she had a bottle of Scotch.  She was also upstairs in her big, big house, in the bathroom.  In the bathtub.  Her jacuzzi-style bathtub.  We had chatted for a while, so when she told me this, I felt comfortable in asking her, "Are you naked?"
  She said, "I can’t believe you would ask me that!  Of course I am."
  Sadly, I couldn’t take the delivery.  She was rich (I could tell from the address), she was drunk, and she was naked.  I asked Katie, "Well, at least let me know if she’s hot."  Katie reported back:  she was.  Dammit.  Sometimes it’s just better not knowing.
  I just wanted to mention in passing the order for 30 large pizzas that I had for midnight.  I knew about it Wednesday; it was for a midnight run fundraiser or something like that.  They said they would call by 9 or 10 when they knew for sure how many pizzas.  About 10pm they called.  Thirty large pies by myself is not a big deal, but Christ, I had already been up all day.  It drained me, and not in a good way.

SATURDAY

  I was late Saturday because I worked Friday night.  How about this:  I CHOSE to be late Saturday because I worked Friday night.  I woke up Saturday about 1030 am, went to the bathroom and then got a drink.  And then, I went right back to bed. 
  I woke up again at 1pm.  I laid around, watched TV, went and got lunch, and then right before I needed to leave for work, I laid down for half an hour.  This shit, and these hours, take alot out of me.  So fifteen minutes after I was supposed to be there, I left for work.
  Nothing special that night, but I was in a bit of a pissy mood.  Late in the evening, perhaps around midnight, someone called and wanted pizza.  But he wanted to know if we go to him.  Let’s start with the basics:  "Okay, where are you?"
  He reads off an address, the street is Long Road.  I know where that is, more or less, because we have another Domino’s on Long Road.  I said, "Okay, that’s not us.  Maybe you–"
  He said, "Okay, how about this–" and he rattled off another address, this one on Baxter Road.
  I said, "Okay, where are you?  What is your address?"
  He read off still another one, this time on Manchester Road.  A pattern was emerging.  I said, "SIR!  Sir!  Hello!  Stop.  Stop, stop, stop.  Do not read another Domino’s address to me.  I need to know where YOU are.  You, yourself.  Your physical body.  What address is YOUR BODY at RIGHT NOW?"
  "Oh, okay.  I see what you’re getting at.  I see now.  Okay."
  "What is your address?"
  He told me some bullshit address, to which I replied, "You see, THAT is the information I need so that I can tell you which Domino’s to call.  We don’t go there.  You need to call this number–" And I gave him the phone number to the store that, in introspect, was probably the wrong one.  I may have done it on purpose. 

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