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I’m Just Peachy, ‘Pedro’ — How Are You?

Have you ever been involved in one of those ‘personal touch’ customer service gimmicks that backfires horribly? I run up against the same one over and over again, once a week or more. And you know — even after months of this nonsense, I still haven’t set these people straight. And yet, I keep coming back. The dance of the dingleberries goes on.

This particular slice of eye-rolliness comes courtesy of one of our (many) local fast-food Chinese restaurants. For their food, they can’t be beat in the same price range. As delivery time goes, they’re phenomenal. Dominos Pizza got nothing on these folks. But the problem — the annoying, brow-furrowing issue with this establishment — is the phone call.

Now, first of all, let me clear something up — I’m not going to complain about not being able to understand the person on the other end of the line. For one thing, that’s rude. They’re just doing their job; who am I to poke fun at them? For another, it’s not very PC. Tsk.

Mostly, though, it’s just not relevant. Can I understand the guy answering the phone? Not particularly. But I catch at least as much of the conversation as I do when I call other Asian joints, or try ordering at the drive-through at one of the local burger shacks. I’ll take an unfamiliar accent to the crazed ramblings of a pimply sixteen-year-old IM phreak any day. And super-size on Sundays.

So, it’s not that. Instead, it’s their customer database. They’ve got one of those fancy dealies that links phone numbers up to addresses. And names, too — that’s where the problem comes in. See, they’re trying to make ordering more convenient — pick the phone number off the caller ID, link it up to the address, and then all they have to ask is ‘Whaddaya you want?‘ Great. On paper.

The problem is, they have to set the number up. And, like most places, they want to stand apart, to provide service with a ‘personal touch’. So, the first time we called, they asked for my address — which they got right — and my name… which they didn’t. So now, when I’ve got a hankering for some fried rice or wonton soup, I don’t have to tell anyone the delivery address. But I do have to put up with this:

‘Hello… oh, hello, Jeremy! How are you tonight, Jeremy? What would you like, Jeremy? Want to start with the eggrolls… Jeremy?‘

*sigh*

So now, I’m Jeremy. I could probably clear the whole thing up, but that would take a half an hour and several thousand brain cells that I simply can’t spare. And so, as I said, the conga of the cluetards marches on. You can call me Jeremy. I’ll be your partner for this dance. Let’s tango.