The wheel that squeaks gets the peach pie
Quickly in and out of DFW, we got to Memphis. The world keeps changing and there were nice big, clear signs showing the way to the Uber/Lyft pickup area. Airports are now embracing what they so recently tried to ban.
Once inside the Sheraton, we started thinking of food. The room service menu looks decent, including a beautiful peach pie dessert and something called barbecue soup.
But we were at a national. I come to these things for the socializing as much is for the bridge. The lobby and the restaurant would be full of people I know from all over the country, so I didn’t want to hunker down in our room. We put our shoes on and headed down to the restaurant, which was still open for another half hour.
On the phone, room service swore they had the same menu as the restaurant. Room service lied. Everything was different; there was no barbecue soup and, most importantly, no peach pie.
I ate my club sandwich, whining all the way. There was peach pie in the kitchen, but bureaucratic bloody mindedness was saving it for room service. So close, so far away.
Then the night shift boss lady came by and heard my sad tale of woe. Miracles were arranged, bureaucracy was slaughtered, and look what appeared in front of me.
Hot, fresh Georgia peach pie, caramel, ice cream and whipped cream. Heaven on a plate.
I guess a business needs to have systems and policies and rules. It great when line management knows when to break them to keep the customer satisfied.