My first clue that this wasn’t going to end well was the fact that Russo’s NY Coal-Fired Pizzeria is located in the following states: Texas, Tennessee, Florida and Arkansas. Nothing makes me think of NYC pizza more than Texas, Tennessee, Florida and Arkansas. I ignored this blinking warning sign and forged ahead with my delivery order. Why? Because Russo’s offers gluten-free pizza, and I’m off the wheat. Plus, it’s good to try new places. Right?
James and I are busy all week–and often all weekend–so when we have the opportunity to just relax, we do it. For me, laid back weekends at home = avoiding unnecessary bra wearing. I don’t know if you gentlemen can appreciate this state of being, but there’s nothing finer than being cut loose from the bonds of propriety and just letting it all hang out. What I’m saying is, I was free-titting it tonight and loving it. But that was then.
I should back up. I ordered my gluten-free pizza from the Russo’s on Bunker Hill. I thought we were closer to the one located in the Marq-E, but they don’t deliver to our neighborhood. The guy taking my order at the Bunker Hill location had a hard time understanding the name of my street. I said it slowly. I spelled it out. He spelled it back to me. Incorrectly. I tried again. It seemed we had reached some sort of accord, though I was worried he still hadn’t mastered my location. I gave him my credit card information and placed my order. He said it would be 45 minutes. He was wrong.
When we were at the hour and 15-minute mark and deep into hunger territory, I called the restaurant. The girl who answered the phone checked on my order for me. She said that the delivery dude was en route. Uh huh. I gave her our cross streets in case he called in because our street is very dark, and you can’t see numbers on any of the houses. In an effort to help the guy, James and I were even standing on our front porch at this point, ready to flag him down.
Another 30 minutes goes by. My slight irritation has blossomed into full-grown OH HELL NO. (I realize that there are lots of people on this twirling ball of rock who have horrible lives and deal with nastiness I can’t and don’t want to imagine. So my not getting my bullshit gluten-free pizza in a timely fashion sort of pales in comparison.) (But I’m still going to tell you my story.)
I call the restaurant. Thanks to the handy iPhone, I don’t have to look up the restaurant’s number because it’s in my recent calls (this is now my third time to call them). The young woman answers again. I introduce myself, again, and say that I’m calling to check on the status of my delivery, again, worried that if the driver was indeed en route last time I called (30 minutes ago), our pizza will be a congealed mess. She puts me on hold and an older woman answers “hello,” then promptly hangs up the phone. I stand there in my driveway, staring at my phone, pondering whether or not I need to drive to this restaurant to work it out in person, when my phone rings. It’s not the number for the restaurant. I answer.
There’s a lady on the other end of the phone who says that I just called her restaurant and asks what I want. I tell her my tale of pizza woe. She asks my name and address and (too quickly) tells me that they don’t have an order for me. Um, yeah you do, I say. The young lady confirmed my order 30 minutes ago and said it was on its way. “Oh, she must have not really looked up your order,” the woman tells me. Way to sell your staff down the river! “We have an order for…” At this point she starts rattling off the addresses of people they have orders pending for. None of the inappropriately shared addresses are mine.
“You didn’t place an order with us,” she again tells me. Yeah, I did, I say. I’ve called you three times now. “I don’t have your number in my caller ID,” she says. “You must have ordered with another location.” At this point, I hear the deep-voiced man who took my order talking in the background. She confabs with him for a moment and then FAKES A CALL to another Russo’s location, asking if they have an order for me there. She doesn’t say my name, nor does she completely state my address. She says something about a gluten-free pizza and the name of my street and then “hangs up” the other call. Doesn’t say good bye or thank you or that this bitch thinks she ordered from us when she ordered from you. Worst faked call ever.
She now tells me that I ordered my pizza from the Marq-E location. I already know the Marq-E location doesn’t deliver to my hood, plus I have her restaurant’s number in my phone, not the other location, plus I can hear the man with whom I placed my order talking in the background, so I let her know that she is incorrect. She then says, “they said your pizza is on the way, so I can’t help you.” OH HELL NO. She did NOT just blame her shitty service on another location! We are now at the two-hour mark. And she is gaslighting me.
Until this moment, James was going to be the point person for the transaction because I wasn’t dressed for company. Now imma get up in this business. I put on company-appropriate attire, get out $2 to give to the delivery driver for gas and prepare to send those pizzas back.
And nothing happens. Another hour has passed, so I think it’s safe to say that the pizzas, they aren’t coming.
It’s one thing to lose an order. Or maybe the delivery driver couldn’t find our house and returned with cold pizza. Mistakes happen, and most normal people are pretty reasonable if you apologize. But to argue with me about where I placed my order (and then lie to me that it’s on its way) is inexcusable.
I’m not sure which makes me the maddest – not having any dinner or having to put on a bra on a quiet Saturday night.