On being the victim of circumstance and the after-hours HVAC market

Note: This column appears in the 8/19 issue of The Glendale Star and the 8/20 issue of the Peoria Times

I am a reasonable fellow. I am neither, I don’t think, cheap or lavish, falling somewhere in between Costanza and Trump. Like most people I prefer to know the price of something before I purchase it. Occasionally however, there are those transactions in life where the urgency of the matter dissuades price from becoming an issue and, as a result, price becomes an issue. I do not like these occasions.

First let me say that there are others more well versed than I in making any transaction a casual one, and these people I have come to know, mostly, as Italian. An example I have used before is going to a fine Italian restaurant with my father-in-law –- one where you won’t see a price on the menu –- and watching the dynamic work between him and the waiter. Without words, my father-in-law says, “I am willing to pay for a good meal, but you better not screw me over,” and the waiter acknowledges, without words, “Indeed, I will not.”

On occasion I have attempted this on my own while out with my wife. “I’ll have the fish special, sir…market price!” Then I spend the rest of the meal on edge, wondering how drastically the fish market has fluctuated, only to eventually discover that my tilapia is $75.

But these situations are self-imposed and avoidable. It’s the unavoidable situations that irk me, as you are at the mercy of the other party. For example…

Last week our air conditioner conked out right as we were putting our daughter to bed. When you live in Arizona, in August, having the A/C go out, from an urgency standpoint, is the equivalent of having to go to the emergency room. Should you research other emergency rooms first? Can you wait until tomorrow? Maybe. If you are a masochist. As a result, you don’t think about price.

Well, you do. I do. But not out loud. I called the company listed on our thermostat because they installed the unit, which was under warranty, and they sent someone out within the hour.

Granted, I was willfully ignorant throughout the process. Price wasn’t mentioned over the phone or upon the technician’s arrival, and I didn’t ask. Mostly because I didn’t want to know, plus even if I did know, I figured, what am I going to do? In formulating the potential cost in my head I even factored in their inevitable explanation as to why, in fact, our unit was not under warranty.

Turned out the part that needed fixing was under warranty. Great! So, it would only cost…$330. Market price.

Because we called “after hours” –- we called at 6pm -- we incurred an additional cost for both the service call and the labor. (I always enjoyed those being two separate costs by the way – as if the technician will come to our house and instead of fixing our A/C, we’ll watch a baseball game together.) I am now arguing the cost with the company, a process by which I inevitably come across as cheap and stupid. Fun times. But I am willing to sacrifice my dignity for a greater good, and fight those who take advantage of unfortunate circumstances and the willfully ignorant!

I will lose, of course. I am a reasonable fellow.

The inexplicable reality of bad service in a bad economy

Note: This column appears in the 10/1 issue of The Glendale Star and the 10/2 issue of the Peoria Times

How fresh is the fish?

This is the question my wife asked to our server during our first night out together in forever, by Westgate, at an establishment that shall remain nameless to protect the identity of the incompetent.

We had waited about twenty minutes to ask this question, and were only graced with our waitress’ presence after she had apparently lost an argument with another server as to who was going to wait on our table, an ordeal that I was fortunate enough to capture out of the corner of my eye. As a result, she was forced to introduce herself, and did so thusly, with eyes to the ground and speaking quickly and softly so as to add to the general awkwardness: Hi my name is (unintelligible) and I’ll be your waitress do you know what you want?

No, miss –- the pleasure is all ours, I assure you! It was at this point when my wife asked the aforementioned question.

Now, this is a legitimate question. My wife is Italian, and we are both from back east. Being privy to the inner-workings of both Italian and east coast culture, I understand that there are no boundaries on fish-related inquiries. To ask the question “How fresh is the fish?” to a decent or Italian server is to establish a level of trust. You are in essence saying this: I have a general awareness of fish freshness, so don’t try and give me the week-old halibut you’re trying to get rid of. Your server, in return, now understands you mean business, and will treat you with the class, service and fish-freshness that you deserve.

Believe me I have been at many a restaurant where my father-in-law has asked this very question. How fresh is the sea bass? Many times the server will simply say: No. You don't want that fish. Don't you worry about it, I'll take care of you. There are no additional questions needed. The trust has been established. Sure enough my father-in-law will be served a flounder that was caught and gutted as recently as five minutes ago. This is, as I have come to understand it, the essence of being Italian.

So if asking this question in Brooklyn is appropriate, then asking it in a non-Italian restaurant you have never been to before that is contained within a landlocked state of hunters and carnivores is certainly appropriate. Expecting an appropriate response is quite another matter.

Our waitress’ initial response to this question was a blank stare that said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I am going to stare at you until you elaborate.” My wife stared back. It was a stare-off! Eventually my wife relented, and simply repeated herself: How fresh is the fresh?

“Oh,” said our waitress. “It’s, ummm (looking around on the walls, for evidence of the restaurant’s fish policies, I presume)…fresh. They cook it right when you order it.”

Oh, really? So it wasn’t prepared this morning and left sitting under a hot lamp all day, as if we had just ordered a cod sandwich at Arby's? Fantastic! We’ll have the salad.

What amazed me was not the fact that she associated the promptness with which a fish is cooked with its freshness. (I wasn’t even sure this girl knew what day it was, much less what time the salmon arrived.) Nor was it the fact that she charged us $1 for more bread (!), or the generally awful service.

Because I was able to observe a lot during the lulls when our waitress was m.i.a., I was left amazed that a restaurant in one of the most popular and up-and-coming areas of the Valley, in this terrible economy, chose to operate so indifferently and carelessly. Believe me that this place will not be around in three months.

Another lease up for grabs. One less stop for the fish delivery truck. But don’t blame the economy –- hey, we paid our extra $1 –- blame incompetence.