What do boots and a cookie have in common? Appallingly bad customer service. I’ve had a frustrating week of dealing with absolutely loco sales/support people.
First my boots. My precious red boots. (Need I mention that they’re Campers? ;)) Well, to my chagrin they had some marks on them from last season. And silly me, I decided to take them to the shoe-repair in the Metro Centre. After pointing at said marks, I was suddenly being approached by this very anxious man with a white rag in one hand and an ominous (Was it a clear condiment-holder?) bottle in the other. Ever protective of my lovely boots, I stopped him dead in his tracks. I clearly asked, “Is that going to remove the colour?” He confidently answered, “No.” Then he proceeded to apply–I later learned–shoe-cleaning solvent to the best shoe-shopping find of my life.
In the couple of seconds it took me to ask another question, my boots dried. I looked down to see two orange spots marring the cherry-red sheen. All of that gave him time, I later realized, to surrepitously hide the white rag, which had tell-tale red blotches by then. I remember calmly stating, “It took the colour off.” In fact, I was scarily calm because I was so pissed off that my $500 boots seemed ruined.
His, yes his, yelling made me pull my eyes away from my sad boots. He waved his arms around all the while yelling! at me that he had told me he’d need to polish, that he has over 200 pairs of shoes in the back, that I was hurrying him, and that I should leave the boots if I really want them fixed. (And what? Walk back to work in my socks?)
What a bizarre stonewall tactic. But it worked. I’m usually up for a fight, but I just wanted to race away from that psycho yelling man. Which is what I did in the midst of one of his arm flails and his crackpot excuses.
No Crisp and Chewy Cookies
Christine and I went into Kensington Bakery on Bloor for dessert. She ordered a cookie, but her first bite confirmed that it was stale. She said she’d just go up to the counter and get another. No problem. Ha, think again.
I didn’t see the exchange but I heard it. I think it made even funnier.
The girl who had helped us said she couldn’t do anything about it. She would have to get the owner. After taking his time to appear from the kitchen and listen to Christine’s request, he proudly stated, in an already pissy tone, that his cookies ARE dry because he doesn’t use oil, dairy, etc. Christine said she knew all of that and that she had had the same type of cookie before, but it had tasted good.
He went on and on, pointing out the other dry cookies that were in the case. Now his tone went up in volume to yelling. Thankfully, there suddenly was a pause in his listing of dry cookie ingredients and Christine, who sounded like a forlorn five-year-old asked, “Are you telling me you aren’t going to exchange my cookie, which cost you less than a dollar to make?” Magic. He agreed, very resignedly, to give her another. But not without caution that he was doing this one time only. Unbelievable.