Floundering Clue Quotient

There’s nothing quite like a drenching rain after a coupla days of oppressively heavy, grey skies with air so thickly, stiflingly muggy that you’re certain the planet’s become one giant steam-bath.

Yesterday, post work, Jen and I planned to meet for a wee adult bev. All day it’d looked like the heavens would unload a spectacular torrent but by quitting time the skies hadn’t given us so much as a tear. I figured I’d walk.

The Amazing Bob was all ‘But it’s about to downpour!’ I couldn’t be dissuaded but he did talk me (nag me) into bringing a rain-hat.

It’s three miles from home to Froggies. Most of that journey can be made along the wooded paths limning Broad Meadows Marsh. The walk is beautifully and densely shaded. I figured that, even if it did finally rain, I’d be covered.

Heh.

Just as I was emerging onto Sea Street, for the last half mile of the trip, every last cloud broke open, dumping an ocean's worth of the wet stuff.

It was beautiful.

Felt great on my sunburned shoulders!

By the time I arrived at Froggies, I was soaked right down to my under-drawers. That rain-hat? It did an awesome job of keeping my hearing aid dry — WIN!

After a visit to the restroom, where I attempted to squeeze out some of the abundant moisture, I took a seat at the bar. Drowned rats probably had more smooth style than me at that point.

Now, if you’re the manager of a nice joint like this and one of your regular customers stops in after having been caught out in a storm wouldn’t you, fer example, get her a towel? Maybe offer to toss her over-shirt into the dryer? Get her a hot toddy STAT!

Don, that evening’s cheaply, mundanely dressed, overly hair producted, out of shape manager was behind the bar. Did he do any of that? That’s a giant negatory big buddy. Not only that but he starts talking, I could see his lips move, but not to me — he was in profile to me.

When it seemed there could be no one else to whom he was attempting communication, I spoke up.

'Hi, I’m deaf — are you attempting to speak to me? If so, please face me so I can try to read your lips.'

He deigned to make a quarter turn, STILL not facing me, and asks what I’d like to drink. That’s it.

Upon my request for a hot toddy, he vanished. Poof.

A few minutes or so later, one of my fav barkeeps, Scott, appeared and asked what I’d like to drink. ‘the hell? What was that charade with the idiot manager Don all about? He couldn’t simply tell Scott, (who makes THE most brill hot toddy EVAH!) what I wanted?

So then, not only did this socially incompetent nitwit treat me like I was a particularly homely and possibly smelly flounder — he didn’t place my drink order either. WHY do people like this enter professions where the’ve any contact with the public? HOW do customer service skill lacking, jerkwaddian fools get promoted above dishwasher? He seems absolutely Asperger’s-esque (not to dis, in any way, folks who actually HAVE this syndrome!).

For the record, I may have looked like an older, drowned, hippy-ish Italian rat but I was a tremendously cute one and I did NOT smell!

For the record number two — the chefs, cooks, wait staff and bartenders at Froggies are all, every last one of 'em, fantastic to the nth power. That and I love the atmosphere, the environment of the joint. It’s the management — their sneeringly condescending, snobbish and flat out offensive attitude make it clear that their clue quotient, as to what constitutes winning customer service, is well into the sub-basement, less than zero realm.

Yeah, I’ll frequent the joint again. Of course I will. If the staff ever starts following management’s horrendous example though — I’m gone.