Please hold while I take a moment to ponder my humanity…or lack thereof?
The other night Sophia and I and a mutual friend had drinks at Centro. Nothing interesting there. (Really, nothing, except there were herds of men coming in – groups of 4 or 5 20/30somethings at a time, probably five herds of them. Strange to see so many denim’d men and no chicklets.)
Anyway. Sophia and I said goodbye to our friend at the door as he was parked east and we were both west. It was a busy night, lots of sidewalk traffic even though it was a Thursday and almost 9:00, which is, for that area, late. As we walked and chatted, snooping in windows and discussing the rest of the events of the week, I suddenly heard a demanding, persistent, high-pitched voice. It was a little black kitten, huddled under the overhang of the library’s structure. She needed help and by Jove, she had decided we were going to give it to her.
Of course, both being animal lovers, we did. I retrieved leftovers from the kind staff at Centro and we lured her out to munch on sausage pizza. Then she crawled happily into Sophia’s waiting warm arms and purred like a vibrator.
Happy ending.
Except, as we walked to Sophia’s car, which was down the block and around the corner near Allied, we noticed a figure huddled on one of the benches in front of the library. A middle-aged black woman sat between two bags of belongings, probably everything she owned right there beside her. And she was dozing, and clearly cold.
Sophia noticed her first, and I turned to look, and we both made concerned noises – and kept walking. We both recognized nearly simultaneously the irony that we would go out of our way to help a scared, lonely kitten, but we were not going to step in to help this woman. They aren’t that different, the kitten and the woman.
Both were abandoned, one way or another. Both were out in the cold, shivering against the large snowflakes coming down. Neither had anywhere safe and warm to go. And neither was there entirely of her own choosing. In each case, help meant finding a warm, safe place for the night and making sure she – whichever she – was fed. In both cases it would mean following up, trying to find somewhere that she – either she – belonged or could go to continue to be safe and warm and fed. In either case it would be an inconvenience, an unwelcomed and unwanted distraction of our time and energies. In the end, we would take on the responsibility for another living creature.
For the kitten, we were willing to give in to the inconvenience. For the woman, we were not.
Why not? What is the difference between the two?
I’ve been thinking about this for three days now and I have no answer. No answer that I am satisfied with, anyway. Certainly no answer that says things about me that I like.
I did call dispatch as I walked back to my car, to ask someone to stop by and check on the woman. Dispatch’s number is burned into my brain because I call it constantly when I find an animal in trouble. This was the first time I’d ever used it about a human. The operator was not particularly interested. She wanted to know if the woman was bothering anyone, or drunk. Only when I said “I’m not sure she’s alive” – it’s hard to see if someone is breathing from 50 feet away – did she grudgingly say she’d have someone stop by, when they could.
Just last week there was a hubbub about some shacks that had been built in the woods to help the homeless survive the winter. As I heard the city council repeatedly discuss why the shacks needed to be torn down, I was disturbed. (Not enough to do anything about it – I bitch and yell at the TV and talk to my friends about it and when I have money, throw cash at a problem – but I’m not going to get up off my well-fed ass and take action.) I still don’t understand why the city couldn’t have worked with the nonprofit who built the shacks to come up with a plan to make the shacks safer. Or give the shack dwellers fire extinguishers. Tearing down the shacks took away the dignity of those men and the end result is they are going to spend another winter outside in Iowa. They’re not going to go to – or stay in – shelters. For one thing, shelters are temporary. For another, the psychological makeup of many of these people requires them to be free and unfettered by society. Rather than trying to force them, unsuccessfully, to be like us, or at least act in a way that makes us less uncomfortable, why can’t we find a way to let them live the way they need to, safely?
And just as important, how dare we act like we give a damn about their safety when a lonely, cold and probably scared woman sits on a bench in front of the Des Moines Library on a snowy Iowa night?
Customer service is both attitude and action
Customer service is “a thing” for me. A company can have good but not great products, and if the service is excellent – and by excellent I don’t mean men in tuxedos catering to my every whim so much as thoughtful and interested in my satisfaction (okay, that could be a man in a tuxedo but that’s a different story) – I will be back.
I have three examples of recent customer service experiences:
First: Kari ordered three items from Nebraska Furniture Mart. One was a large kitchen appliance, one an electronic item, and one a rug. She ordered these in May and was told there would be a 6-8 week wait. That was fine. But then the trouble started. The kitchen appliance arrived 12 weeks in. And it was damaged in delivery. Not damaged to the point of not working, but this is an item that cost extra because of its aesthetic, and that aesthetic was marred. The company offered two choices: return the item and get something else (this was the last one available, apparently) and wait another 12 weeks, or accept a very small financial compensation (less than 1% of the cost of the item) and no reimbursement for the delivery that resulted in the damage. Then, after another 6 weeks, Kari was notified the electronics item would come between 11:00 to 1:00 and she had to be there to accept delivery. She had a big meeting that day so I volunteered. I postponed a meeting I had scheduled from 1:00 to 2:00, and then sat to wait. And waited. And waited. I got nervous as 12:30 approached and they hadn’t yet arrived. But they called Kari and said “no worries! we’re running late! we’ll be there by 2:00!” So I rescheduled my appointment for another day, and waited. And waited. At 2:45 I called Nebraska Furniture Mart myself to find out about delivery. (You have to understand, I was sitting in one of my best friends’ homes with nothing much to do but play with the dog; I couldn’t even watch TV because that’s what they were delivering!) Finally the delivery truck arrived – two hours late, with no apology and not even a modicum of politeness, just grunts and grumbles and “sign here.” And Kari had to pick up the rug herself (yes, even though she’d had two other deliveries) or incur an additional delivery charge that was almost more than the rug. She picked it up, and as soon as she unrolled it found that someone had stapled a delivery tag to the rug, which had pulled multiple rows of weave at the edge. Ugly. So, Kari had three separate experiences with one company, and not one of the three was acceptable. And they don’t seem to care.
But Sofia and I have each had extremely positive experiences in the last month. Sofia went to Centro for brunch during the Arts Festival. She ordered the breakfast pizza, ate one slice, and asked if she could leave it to pick up later, after she was done wandering through the art. She was told “definitely!” but when she returned to get her pizza, she was told someone had thrown it away. In many venues, “oops, so sorry” that would be the end of it. But Centro understands excellent customer service. They made her a brand new pizza, boxed it up, and sent her off with it. And you can bet she’ll be back, and she’s telling everyone she knows about this great example of customer service, and the friends she’s told will be in.
My own customer service event happened just yesterday at Ulta, the cosmetics superstore in the Gates of Hell – er, I mean West Des Moines. I popped in Thursday to pick up an expensive cosmetic item that I can’t live without. I bought a couple of other items, too, so I had a bag. I got home that night and found the other items I’d purchased, but not the very expensive item. The next morning in the car on the way to a meeting I leaned over and looked around the passenger seat and floorboard where the bag had been. Didn’t see it. So I called Ulta, to see if perchance the item had been left on the counter. The young lady that answered the phone was very warm and receptive. I explained the situation, she put me on hold very briefly, and returned to say she didn’t see anything laying around the counter, she was sorry. Now, this is where many businesses would have ended the story. But not Ulta. She then added “Just bring your receipt in and we’ll give you another one. No problem.” Of course immediately after our conversation I found the item that had gone missing. This is an item I can purchase in many places closer to my home, or even online. But I’ll go back to that store because I know I’m going to get excellent service in addition to my purchases.
Customer service is many things. We often go to the Star Bar, on Ingersoll, for afternoon cocktails (what we like to call Think and Drink sessions). The atmosphere is good, and some of the food items are great (and some are terrible). But I’ll tell you what we don’t go for: the service. It’s often hit and miss – if you’re sitting on the patio, you may or may not get attention. Even when you do, unless it’s from the bartenders (who are very friendly and attentive), you’re going to get a sullen expression that makes you wonder if you’re interrupting the server’s personal time. No smiles, no interaction, no feeling of ‘glad you’re here.’ Just (sometimes) efficient delivery and removal of orders, and the check. If there were another venue in the same area that had Edamame and the patio, we’d be there. So this venue gets our business in spite of themselves, not because of themselves.
What are your employees saying about to your customers? Are they there just to get a paycheck or are they investing in the long-term relationship?
Out Goes the Water, In Comes the Art
So, the Des Moines Arts Festival is number ten in the nation. Yahoo! That’s great. That’s wonderful. That’s fantastic. Actually, it is all those things. The twist is that it’s number one because the artists (good for them) make some nice change during this three-day annual event. And sadly, maybe because of that fact, the art is pricing itself out of the hands of Des Moines Everyman and Everywoman. Most of us can’t afford to invest two tanks of gas in a piece of jewelry or a photograph, much less something that’ll run us six car payments. But that’s okay; apparently some of our neighbors can, in fact, afford art that is truly an investment, so they’ll keep our rating intact for us. And we, the less spendy, will enjoy a wander through the creative psyches of others.
This year I went on Saturday night with Sofia. I’d never attended in the evening before, and it’s a whole different vibe than a daytime visit. We both ran into lots of friends and acquaintances. Unfortunately for me, we also spent much of our time in line at the wine & beer stand, where I discovered a not-terrible red called Paint the Town Red (no idea what the winery was, sorry!) that was passable enough; I had 4 plastic cups of the stuff in under 2 hours. (Note to future self: remember to eat before sucking down the booze.) Realizing too late this was a bad plan, Sofia and I found the least offensive food item available – cardboard pizza, bleck! – and sat ourselves down on Meredith’s garden wall to people watch.
Sometime during this tame adventure two things of note occurred: one, we were invited to attend a private party at American Dream Machines, and two, an acquaintance of Sofia’s from somewhere in the Iowa boonies called to say he and a friend were in town and would like to hang out.
We called Kari and her gentlemen friend, Mark, to see where they were in the jungle of art., and invited them to meet us at the coolest auto facility in Iowa – and maybe the Midwest. As we wandered the showroom full of 50’s, 60’s and 70’s sex machines, drank more wine, enjoyed retro canapés like peanut-butter stuffed celery and (insert brow wiggle) brownies, all to the groovy 70s jungle boogey beat, it became clear it was going to be a night of interesting events. Sofia’s friends arrived and soon everyone was getting down in the front room under a flashy disco ball to the DJ stylings of a gimpy afro-headed white boy doing his best to return to the day. Sadly, since we were invited spontaneously, we didn’t get the memo about 70’s dress. Our co-partyers did, however. I’m pretty sure there aren’t a pair of white platform vinyl boots left in the state. And those were on the men.
At about 11:00 pm the six of us decided to leave the hip crowd for a quieter venue. Kari dragged her man home to, um, wash his hair, while Sofia and I and the two boonies boys (hereinafter referred to as BB1 and BB2) headed across the river to the Continental. Curiously (she claims it had to do with the long walk back to the garage) Sofia arrived a good 15 minutes after BB2 and I. But what do I know? According to rumor, I supposedly called Kari asking where Sofia was. This, I do not remember. If it’s true (which I’m sure it is) it’s just an indication that I was having a fine time, enjoying my collection of cheap red wines.
At the Continental, BB2 and I parked ourselves out back and ordered beverages. Eventually Sofia and BB1 arrived to join us, and much hilarity ensued. BB2 has a habit of making a cat-woman like growling sound whenever something risqué is said, and I have a habit of saying risqué things whenever they come into my head, which is about every second. So BBS is apparently a real estate developer by day, Julie Newmar/Halle Berry by night. Insurance agency owner BB1 was too busy making lovesick cow eyes at Sofia to demonstrate any of his own quirks – well, wait, I seem to recall the phrase “Am I in your fab 5?” being repeated over and over – but our lovely server, who shall be heretofore referred to as “Lovely Server,” definitely contributed to the evening’s entertainment. Aside from being straightforward in her opinions and outright hilarious, she showed she’s not burdened by the boring conventions of committing to one sexual preferences over another; just after telling us her boyfriend is a musician in a famous band, she came on to Sofia in a big, bad way… although Sofia was too dense to pick up on it.
Deciding a little alcohol absorption was necessary, we ordered more drunks – er, drinks – and two appetizers: carpaccio, and some kind of salmon – honey barbecue maybe. I remember the carpaccio was good, actually it very well may be the best I’ve had since leaving California, and that includes the version I’ve had at Splash. I don’t know if I even tried the salmon… things were getting a little less focused at that point.
Somewhere around 1:00 p.m. we decided to call it a night. BB1 escorted Sofia to her car, while I assisted BB2 in locating his car. And that’s where this story shall end, to protect everyone’s reputations, be they good, bad or indifferent.
Biaggi’s Do It Yourself Center
Went to Biaggi’s on Wednesday for a birthday dinner with him-and-her (him being Kelly, her being Linda) friends of mine. Normally I love Biaggi’s because even though it’s a chain, the food is consistently good and the service is excellent. But this visit was enough to make me question whether I’ll be back again. Fortunately it wasn’t my first visit so I know there are better times ahead. I hope.
I was running late and I called the hostess and asked her to let my friends know, which she did. When I arrived, she was friendly and teasing me that I wasn’t late as I’d expected. So far, so good. Warm reception, actually accomplished her mission to advise my friends of my slight delay.
It was at the table things started to go – east. Not south, because that means bad, and things just weren’t quite on center.
Our waiter (I’m going to call him John Boy because he had that look to him, Richard Thomas before the accident and Twelve Angry Men) appears a few minutes after I do and announces he’s been waiting to describe the specials until I showed up. Normally I wouldn’t think twice about that, sounds fine, but his tone made me feel like a tardy student, and I’m twice his age. (Good God. Pause for a moment of silence for my lost youth and beauty.) He doesn’t ask me what I want to drink. He recites two specials, throws the special list on the table, and says, “There are a couple more on there.” He still doesn’t ask if I have interest in a beverage, so I tell him I would like an Arnie Palmer. He nods and leaves.
Linda, Kelly and I play chat, chat, chat, like your hat, as Kari calls it.
John Boy returns, with my Arnie Palmer and an appetizer Kelly had ordered before I arrived. He tells me, “Move your bread plate so I can put this down.” (“This” being the appetizer.) Now, there are two better courses of action here. One, make it a request, rather than an order. Or, even better, put my beverage down so you have a spare hand, then move things around however you want them if you don’t like what we’ve done with your table. It’s not that I mind helping you out – in fact, I often do of my own volition – but to be told what to do in such a disapproving tone was seriously off-putting.
More chat, chat, like your hat. Our entrees are delivered. Someone else drops them off and things are fine.
And then our own John Boy returns. He has thoughtfully brought me a fresh Arnie. He nods to my mostly-empty glass. “Give me that one.” I do. He hands me the new beverage. Doesn’t put it on the table. Hands it to me. Truly, folks, I’m not lazy, I’m not a bitch, and I’m only two-thirds princess. Benevolent princess, let’s say. I do kindness for others. I insist on it from my friends. So I’m not as demanding as I sound. It was just the combination of ‘tude and rude that bugged me here.
So, when we’re finished eating, John Boy returns to clear away our dishes. Even though both Linda and I have more than half our entrees remaining on our plate, he says nothing about containers for our doggies. Linda asks him for one. I amend that and say she’ll be taking mine, as well. John Boy finally steps up, sort of, and says he’ll put them in containers in the back and return them to us.
Then he asks Linda to hand him her plate.
(sigh)
If Biaggi’s is going self-serve, they’ll need to adjust their prices downward accordingly. I’ve had much better service at the local Chinese buffet (my neighbor loves those places and drags me twice a year, kicking and screaming). In a restaurant like this I either wanted to be charmed into assistance or treated like the paying customer I am. We’re not on the mountain, John Boy. This ain’t family style.
UPDATE from 10/1/08
I went again with three friends. Believe it or not, we had the same crappy server. Same issues as before, but he added some new ones to his repertoire. For instance, all four of us asked for coffee, but he only brought three cups. He brought out appetizers, but did not bring utensils – which we had previously requested. I asked if the bananas foster could be prepared without biscotti. He said he’d find out. He returned with everyone else’s dessert and told me no, they were premade and could not be customized. Ya know, Joe, I might’ve liked to have known that a while ago so I, too, could have something sweet. I sure hope he’s in law school or something. Service is just not his future.
iowasbestkeptsecret