[UPDATE 6/24/2006 : It’s really important to note here, before you read this, that this — for Krause’s — is an extremely isolated event, heck, pretty much the only time in my entire 35 years of partaking of Krause’s candies. The only reason I keep it here, is because it tells a “segment” of a story in which we couldn’t, for the life of us, get good customer service and damned near anywhere over the course of a single weekend. I love Krause’s, they’re good people, with a good product, and 99.99% of the time, great customer service. I just bought a couple pounds of chocolate there the other day. Don’t read this and think that this is a “pattern” for them, it’s not.]
Hot off the heels of my crappy experience at Boston Market, D and I decided to stop at Krause’s Chocolates on our way back from Saugerties on Sunday afternoon.
Now, I stop at Krause’s all the time. I feel it’s only fair to point out that in my 34 years of life, this is the first and only time I can remember being so pissed off at Krause’s that I walked out without buying anything. It’s also a good background reference point that the way Krause’s “works” is that you wait in line over by the showcase, where they pick your candies for you, and then walk over to the register area and pay. The only time you don’t stand in line over at the showcase is if you’re just buying stuff from the “store” area, in which case you stand there, and they’ll ring you up after they finish dealing with one of the boxed-candy customers. Because you’re a quick transaction with no real effort, nobody in the candy line complains, and life is good. That’s how it’s worked for as long as I can ever remember there being a Krause’s Candys shop.
So I’m keeping track of the whole “who was here before me” thing, in the candy line. There’s one woman in front of us, and one guy with a stack of stuff at the cashier’s counter to pay for.
The two girls who are behind the counter are moving really slow today, but ordinarily, I can accept that. I overhear them wondering aloud about what happened to their third co-worker, who was apparently on break.
Ah, the woman ahead of us is being cashed out. Excellent. So we’ll be handled shortly, and this insufferable wait (about 10 minutes at this point) will be finally over.
The girl turns her attention to the guy with the pre-packaged stuff. She rings that up. He then says, “and I’d also like a pound box of chocolate.”
Now, there are a number of proper responses to this:
- “I’m sorry, sir, if you want boxed chocolate, you’ll have to go wait in that line over there.”
- “Right behind you are an assortment of pre-chosen boxes of chocolate, pick up one of the one-pound boxes, and we’ll be good to go.”
… or variations on that theme.
The proper response is not to walk over to the empty boxes saying, “What would you like in that?”
D explodes (rightfully so, I’m about 3 seconds from exploding), saying “Uhhh, excuse me, we’ve been waiting in line over here??!!” in an incredulous voice, completely amazed that the girl has this low of a level of customer service.
Hot off the heels of the Boston Market episode — as well as having an hour earlier dealt with fresh-off-the-boat-and-not-speaking-english waitpersons in two different restaurants in a rather frustrating situation where one of our friends needed a bathroom and the wait-staff didn’t speak enough english to direct them to the bathroom — my pain-threshold for “shitty service” is at an all time low. This will be the fourth place in thirty-six hours that D and I have walked out of.
I throw my hands up in the air, and I’m like “Screw it, forget it, I’m outta here.” D is still railing on the cashier, but I seriously can’t hear her because my blood is boiling. Fifteen minutes in Krause’s smelling the chocolate and I wanted nothing more in life at that point than to down a couple chocolate creams, but my inner hatred of crappy customer service has trumped that and told me I can’t have any. About thirty seconds later, D follows me out. Clearly she had more to say to the girl that I never heard. Too bad. D’s a really funny person, I bet she got a lot better quips in than “Screw it, I’m outta here.”