Okay, I'm not expecting free corn bread for life, but I'm a little bitter. Back in September--which is now last year--Eddie and I decided we should pick up some Boston Market for the family. We put our order in ahead of time online as we always do, and then drove to pick it up.
We got there and the place was pretty empty. We went right up to the cash register and said we were there for our order. The cashier called out to one of the workers, Did you get that order set up for me hmmmmm? There was a distinct condescending tone in her voice, but I don't know what goes on there all the time, so maybe the benefit of the doubt is that the worker doesn't listen and the cashier gets exasperated. Maybe. Really, I don't care. I just want my food and I like when people respect each other, so I was itching to get out of there already.
The server pointed towards the back of the kitchen and to the counter behind the register. Our food was sitting out, uncovered, in both places. The cashier, whom I think was a manager because her shirt was a different color, covered all the plates and then asked us something about gravy. She suggested we get the larger size for cost effectiveness, so we agreed. That's when she asked the server for a family-size container. The server handed her a container. The cashier would not take it from her. She simply repeated, Family-size. The server held out the same container.
You'd think it would stop there because Eddie and I both caught on that the container in the server's hand was not family size, and that clearly she didn't know what it meant. So instead of saying, No, the bigger container, the cashier kept repeating, Family size. She kept saying it more loudly as if volume was both the problem and the solution. Finally, she grabbed the bigger sized container, held it up for the worker, and said, Family sized.
Meanwhile, a line of one person formed behind us. Her plate of food was ready to go. The other server set it out next to the register. Uncovered. Sitting there. So while the container size debacle was occurring, the woman behind us rightly pointed out, My food is getting cold! Sing it, sister! So was ours!
No one responded to the woman behind us. Instead, the gravy and container took precedence, and finally we were able to pay and get the heck out of there after twenty minutes. Twenty. Minutes. Isn't speed the reason for online ordering? For shame, Boston Market, for shame!
The drive from Boston Market to my parents' house is about five minutes. Either the food had been sitting out a long time in the restaurant or my car acts as a flash freezer because by the time we got it home, it was lukewarm at best. For shame, Boston Market, for shame!
I separated the meals and found that my dad's meal contained spinach as a side, which is not what he ordered. Now if we'd ordered in person or over the phone, I'd understand that someone can mis-hear an order, but we'd ordered online. All they have to do is read and check off what they do. My dad is on blood and heart meds, so spinach is basically poison for him, so I took the rest of his food out and put it on a poison-free plate and gave him my side of lukewarm veggies instead. I could get all slippery slope here and say, For shame for trying to poison my dad, Boston Market, for shame! But I won't.
While we weren't over the moon about our meal, it was still a meal. We could heat up the cold parts (though I'm not sure if that rids the food of possible salmonella). Then Eddie asked, Where's the corn bread? And I was like, Oh, yes, that will save this meal!
So I opened the bag of corn bread, stuck my hand in, and pulled out what looked like a corner of a mini-bread. Then I dumped the bag and got what you see up top. A pile of corn bread pieces and crumbs. That. Was. It.
FOR SHAME, BOSTON MARKET, FOR SHAME!!!
I got my phone, snapped a pic, and tweeted at Boston Market:
They tweeted back at me a number I should call. I called the number and left a detailed message because no one answered. Then I went onto their website and submitted a complaint there.
So in November I tweeted again since it was the only way I received the first response:
Well, I'm writing this, right? Which means I got nothing. Except bitter. And now I'm done. Except for this:
For shame, Boston Market, for shame!