Hello! It’s me, your honorary baby boomer Karen, and I’m here to talk to you about your right to ask to speak to the manager.
Hospitality is hard, I get it. I mean I don’t get it personally - I’m too busy living off my investment properties to work minimum wage - but I lived through the Depression, which I think gives me the right to complain.
So, you want to ask to speak to the manager? Let me tell you one thing little Quinoa, or whatever godforsaken hippie name your parents cursed you with - one does not simply ask to speak to the manager.
There is an attitude, a certain posture, and it goes without saying . . . a certain haircut.
So, your half strength decaf latte isn’t at your table the minute you sit down? Or you’ve brought back an obviously stained cardigan, and Millers are just refusing to give you a full refund - what is one to do? Simply take this minor inconvenience as a fact of life? Should one think long and hard about poor Falcynn working behind the counter, and how he says he simply, “can’t return used goods”?
No! It is your right - your duty - to pull oneself up to their full height, lay it on in an icy indifferent tone before drawing full breath and saying those magic words:
“I would like to speak to the Manager.”
Then the underling is forced to obey the hierarchical system on which society is built, and bring you to upper management.
These types usually fall into two categories: Roys and Susans.
Roys are preferable. Middle aged men, with a middle aged spread. They tend to be agreeable when you take a firm tone with them; it reminds them of their mothers. I have returned food processors without the blade to Briscoes and Roys will give me a full refund plus a gift certificate, “just for the trouble.”
Susans on the other hand, are a different breed entirely. They are formidable, staunch and always have a visible moustache growing. They do not take kindly to displays of authority.
When faced with a Susan, the best defence is a good offence.
I was once dining at Cobb and Co with my family, when my steak, egg and chips was served to me. I had specifically asked for my steak to be so rare that the cow was still mooing.
But instead, I was served a steak that could only be described as medium rare. What is this country coming to? So I called over the spotty waiter, with a click of my fingers - they love that, so efficient!
“I specifically asked for my steak to be cooked rare, and instead I’ve been served this tough chewy piece of leather.”
“I’m so sorry, ma’am, I’ll have the Chef make you another one straight away-”
“No that’s not good enough,” I responded - they were trying to get a fast one over on me!
“I would like to speak to the Manager please.”
Out shuffled a portly Susan, moustache in tow.
“What seems to be the trouble Ma’am?”
I explained my predicament again, the tragedy of it all.
And then Susan said something that sent a shiver straight to my artificial hip.
“I don’t see the problem, our staff have offered to make you a replacement at no cost.”
The audacity! I clutched my pearls. Knowing deep in my heart what I had to do, I picked up my cellular device.
“I’d like to speak to the Service Director of the Cobb and Co Franchise.”