In the Dawg House

Guess what I'm doing right now? Well, besides blogging. I'm grocery shopping!

I've reached a new low--using the internet as a pathetically lazy way to buy groceries. Yes, I am trying out the local store's shopping service. I actually like grocery shopping, so I'm kind of confused about why I'm doing this. Maybe so I can blog and shop at the same time. Maybe it's the novelty of the idea. Maybe I'm just intrigued by this way of being. The prices seem a wee bit higher than if I had actually gone to the store, so this is probably going to be a one-time adventure. I pick the groceries up tomorrow around 8 AM. I hope they throw in some thank you chocolates.

Last weekend, we visited a new eating establishment. I call it this because it's kind of a restaurant, kind of a brewery, kind of a hybrid. We'd heard great reviews and I heard they had a killer veggie sausage. So, we met the Gaybors for a late lunch at this Dawg House kind of place.

It was crowded--like no seats available crowded. We weren't deterred as the cashier indicated things open up pretty fast. With that promise of glory, we ordered our food.

They gaybors ordered their food after us. Please note that statement. In fact, lots of people ordered food after us.

It was quite the wait for any food to arrive--I'd guess 20 minutes. This for hot dogs. You'd think hot dogs would be quicker, but what do I know?

By the time the Gaybors received their food, half the place had cleared out. I was still feeling pretty good about things. But... when I saw the people next to us get their order--it had the same foods we had ordered--that gave me pause. We had been sitting there a LOT longer than they had been.

Confused, I sent the wife to the front counter to inquire about our food. After all, now we were at THIRTY MINUTES without food and the Gaybors were more than half way done with their lunch. I felt the hangry building inside of me.

I could tell the wife was being polite, God bless her. When she returned, we had the pleasure of watching table after table get their food. That did it. I took action.

I barked at the cashier person about our lack of food. They blamed the wife's chicken. I assured him that we had seen other people get their chicken without issue. When he babbled about this or that, I stopped him and demanded to see the manager.

DEMANDED.
LOUDLY.
WITH MUCH HANGRY-NESS.

I was done with this lying youngster. I wanted someone who had the power to do something.

Imagine my surprise when this 12 year old came out of the kitchen. 

Okay, so she was probably 21 years old, 22 tops, but she was soooo not what I had envisioned coming out of that kitchen. Incredulous, I asked if she were indeed the manager. When she replied she was, I paused...

...and, then I opened the biggest can of WHOOP ASS I have ever bestowed upon a food establishment manager. 

I pointed out that it had been over FORTY FIVE friggin' minutes for a veggie dog and a chicken sandwich. I made it clear that we had watched person after person get their chicken sandwiches. I growled about how our dinner dates were done with their food, with time to spare. I went on and on, frothing at the mouth.

The next words she said will live in infamy:

"I heard that there was a Mother Clucker Down."

Mother.
Clucker.
.Down.

Mother Clucker Down! I had to turn away so she would not see me stifling a laugh. 

So, the wife's sandwich--yes, it's called the Mother Clucker--was on the ground or under the frig or still in the freezer or at the hotel next door or whatever. Wherever it was, it was down. Down for the count.

Once I was able to stop laughing, I put my scowl back on and turned back to the 12 year old. I demanded a refund.

She looked at the order and then got a rather horrified look on her face. (She has no poker face. She needs to work on that.) She noted aloud that we were indeed going on AN HOUR waiting for our food. Nervous, confused and definitely flustered, she started babbling about this and that. I cut her off. I didn't need to hear about how two cooks called off for their shifts or the woes of her life. I wanted food and a refund.

She basically THREW money at me. I got a full refund.... and, miraculously served our food immediately. IMMEDIATELY. Go figure.

I'll never know what really happened in that kitchen. Perhaps they lost our order three times. Perhaps they ate our food and thought we wouldn't notice. Whatever. I was pretty sure we'd never go back there and we would never give the place rave reviews, those Mother Cluckers.

Good news is that my veggie dog was kick ass. I'd order that thing every day for a week if I could. The wife said her chicken sandwich was pretty good. I can't say she was overwhelmed or had a tear because it was so good. It certainly wasn't worth an hour wait.

The manager came over to make sure we liked our food. I'm sure that was about the last thing on the planet she wanted to do. I had been a royal bitch and scared her to the point she probably piddled on herself. I was nice enough. She wasn't stupid enough to say something like she hoped we'd come back.

On our way out to the car, I thought about going back and giving her some reassurance. In the end, she had done the correct thing--refunded my money and apologized. I mean, it's not like she is the owner and this isn't exactly a five-star restaurant. She's certainly not a seasoned manager and god knows what type of training she's had. But, I kept my mother clucker self from doing so and instead went home. She'll have to pay for therapy by herself.

I've decided that when things aren't going well, I'm going to yell, "Mother Clucker Down!" That should solve any problem I might be having. I feel better just thinking about that.

I don't think I'll yell that when I pick up my groceries tomorrow 8 AM. Although, if I have to wait an hour for groceries, I will be yelling something similar.....

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