| I glance at the clock:
8:00 p.m. Still no sign of the pizza I ordered at 6:00 p.m. No advisory
e-mail either. Starving and cranky, I scan the company website one
more time for troubleshooting options. Convinced the Internet ordering
system was ingenious and infallible, I hadn't considered that one
day the pizza might not come.
Distracted by a blinking light on my cellular telephone, I check
for voice messages. No messages, but one caller: the pizza company.
When I press call return, the phone is immediately passed on to
the manager before I can even state my name. It seems they all know
my story and had been waiting for my call.
"I tried to phone you, but there was no answer", says
a shaky voice. I wait for the rest of the story. Grudgingly it seems,
he continues in a shy voice "I don't speak English so I couldn't
leave a message".
We live in Japan. I placed the order on an entirely Japanese webpage.
The conversation transpired in Japanese. Nothing about my name or
telephone number indicates that I even speak English. Do I have
to assume a new identity to get treated like a respectable pizza-ordering
citizen? Troubled by my non-Japanese name, this poor man could no
longer perform his duties properly.
Prejudices aside, hunger and satisfaction were my main concerns.
I feel nothing but relief when the deliveryman rings my doorbell
at 8:30 p.m.
For all my patience, I am rewarded with one lousy drink coupon
and a torrent of apologies. I had never expected a free pizza, but
I did anticipate a little more than a free coke, and incessant bowing.
A simple explanation would have sufficed.
I dive into my dinner - cold and stale. In all the commotion, they
must have forgotten to make me a new pizza.
Suddenly my regular pizza joint had been blacklisted, and they
didn't seem to care. Having to pay for sub-standard quality and
being met with such apathy, I'm left feeling dissatisfied and frustrated.
Perhaps companies, hit by the economic crisis facing Japan, should
consider cleaning up customer service – it's free!  |
