The other night, I called Outback to place a “takeaway” order.
Salad, veggies, split a steak and we're good. And I dang sure know their schedules.
Her: “Well, our manager knows. He doesn’t know how to fix it.”
Her: “Yes. It’s going on at Outbacks all over the country.”
Her: “Yes. Our answering machines are all networked, so when one Outback is closed, they’re all messed up - the machines all say they're closed.”
Her: “Why not?”
Me: “Because your answering machine notes that this is the Loop 250 location.”
Me: “Your answering machine says this is the Loop 250 location of Outback, in Midland, Texas.”
Mr. Polo: Looks at me, nodding “Yes.” Again.
Me: “You might want to let your manager know that. Okay?”
I sweetly give her my hand-written order, smile, and go to the car to wait.
I’ve still not figured out what the heck Mr. Polo knew that I didn’t.
And I don't think anyone spit in our food.
Or that's my story anyway - and I'm sticking to it, Mate.