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Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Lies Come with that Shake at "Ribs-n-things"


Business: Ribs-n-things
Location: 4302 Rhode Island Ave. (Route 1), Brentwood, MD 20722
Date of incident: April 2006, Night of the NCAA Championship Basketball game

Quick Hit
The 2006 NCAA Basketball Championship game was ruined for me this year by too-salty pork and an even saltier carry-out restaurant owner who made an empty guarantee. Read the full story about how I was swine-dled at Ribs-n-things.

The Run-up
Milkshakes aren’t even on the menu at Ribs-n-things in Brentwood, MD. I just needed a kitschy headline to draw you readers into this harangue about this new rib joint on rte. 1. But if Ribs-n-things did sell milkshakes I’m sure they’d tell you they are the “Best Milkshakes in Town.” But you shouldn’t believe the hype.

Ribs-n-things’ slogan sets them up as the place with the “BEST BBQ IN TOWN.” Well, maybe if by “in town” they literally mean the 0.38 square mile, 3,000-person burg of Brentwood. And even then, J’s Soul Food on Bladensburg Rd. might have a little something to say about that. But this isn’t an article about who pulls the best pork. It’s simply a tale about loose lips and broken promises.

So on the culminating, championship night of the all-time greatest sporting event ever invented by man (with the UFC running a close second), the NCAA Basketball Tournament, I rolled down Rte. 1 to pick up my partner down in the Woodridge section of NE D.C. The plan was that we’d scoop up some victuals for my whole family and him on the way back out to Beltsville where we’d watch the game in my basement. We were both feeling like succulent barbeque ribs was the only cuisine befitting such a momentous event. (We’d be rooting for UCLA, by the way, since George Mason had already been knocked out after a spectacular Cinderella showing in the tourney. And because I usually root for the underdog if I don’t have a dog in the match. And, finally, because I absolutely loved Tyus Edney’s and Cameron Dollar’s performances in the tournament during UCLA’s march to the championship back in 1995.)

As my partner and I headed back north, we didn’t exactly know where we’d get these ribs, but we were sure there’d be some place—either a hole in the wall like where we ended up, or at Hard Time Café at the top edge of College Park. Not long after we crossed the MD line, this bright red awning and pastel-shaded building festooned with the sort of flags you see surrounding car dealerships caught our collective eye. Hallelujah!! It was a rib joint! A brand new rib joint, at that! So we just knew they would be trying extra hard to build clientele by offering great customer service and fabulous, thick and tender, zesty, meaty portions. So we hang a u-turn and pull into the tiny parking lot. I went inside and my partner remained in the car. The place was brightly lit and still had that sanitary, brand-spanking-new veneer to it. “A good sign,” I thought to myself. Boy, was I about to be fooled.

As I strolled up to the order-window, taking in all the porcine delights on the menu, the Asian gentleman behind the bullet-proof encasement said something to the effect of “Can I help you, sir?” Smiling, and only half-joking, I asked him, “So, are the ribs pretty good here?” “Yes, sir! Best in town. I guarantee. If you don’t like them I’ll give your money back.”

"Wow! These must be some skippy-dippy good ribs if dude is willing to refund my money just ‘cause I say they didn’t stack up to Red Hot & Blue," I thought. But, realistically, what did I expect him to say, “You know, they’re ok…could be better…”? What got me was the guarantee. But despite its novelty and seemingly sincere delivery, I even blew that off as simple bluster and proceeded to order. I mean, why would I think that I’d ever need to take him up on his warranty? It was a brand new spot, with brothers who looked like they hailed straight from Pork Loin, NC back there manning the barbeque spit, for cryin’ out loud.

Well, you know how sometimes after a situation has gone down you wish you had had an orb-shaped video camera following you wherever you went, hovering over your head recording everything (well, almost everything) that went on in your life for future playback? Or is that just me? At any rate, this was one of those instances. I wished that guarantee had been captured digitally for playback when required. Because, yes, you guessed it, it was required.

The Beef (or in this case, pork)
When we arrived home with our huge order for feeding three grown folks, a teen, and two children, we all dug in like Hurley on Lost after he found the peanut butter stash. And almost simultaneously, from different parts of the house, came the call, “Dang! These are some salty ribs!!!” These ribs tasted like one chef had begun preparing them, had to leave due to a family emergency, calling for a different chef to take over not knowing that the first chef had already salted them. And then that replacement cook, having salted them again, was put on coleslaw and replaced by a third unwitting chef who added another dose of sodium. (Okay, so I'm giving the place way too much credit by calling them chefs.) I think we managed to get through one, maybe one-and-a-half ribs each before our lips began to sting and shrivel and we had to take serious water. Talk about upset!!!! The game was on, UCLA was losing, and we couldn’t partake of this sensuous delicacy sitting before us.

Needless to say, my night was pretty much ruined. And the prospect of the trek back to D.C., expending more precious gas to take my man home, was made even less attractive by everything that had transpired. But we had to pass right by Ribs-n-things again to get him home. And, as possibly evidenced by the existence of this Web site, I’m not one to just let things go once an expectation has been set. So, of course I stopped back in, with a few of the ribs in the box.

As I approached the window this time I opened with, “Ok, I’m back to put your ‘guarantee’ to the test.” The owner, the same Asian gentleman who sold me the ribs originally and made the guarantee, looked puzzled. Then it suddenly hit him and he beamed, “Oh, I remember you!” (It had only been about three hours, mind you.) “Good. Now I’m here to put your guarantee to the test,” I repeated. “These ribs were so salty that we couldn’t eat more than one or two of them. You can taste them if you want.”

And then there was that moment. You know that moment: When you realize things are not what they seem, and think that some ugliness may be called for in order to put things back in balance. In this context it was when the owner evidently processed everything I was saying, got to the part in his head where he envisioned crediting my Visa, and suddenly went sullen. He shook his head and said that he couldn’t give me my money back, that he couldn’t do business that way, etc., etc. My retort, of course, was to ask why, then, he would make such a guarantee if he knew he would not honor it and return my money. He then acquiesced slightly and said that if I gave back the ribs he’d return some of my money. But, as I explained to him: 1) That’s not what the guarantee was, and 2) I did not bring back all the ribs, because some had been placed on various persons’ plates and I thought it would be unsanitary and messy to pick through them, place them back in the box and transport them back here. (We really only brought the ribs back out with us because my guest hoped the saltiness might wane some and he could eat them later. He’s optimistic [read: greedy] like that. I had not planned to stop back at the rib spot when we left the house. It just began to fester the closer we got to the place.)

Needless to say, we got a little loud…ok, I got a little loud and berated him, in a cordial manner, of course, for making false claims just to bolster business. Then I did something uncharacteristic. I told him he could have his sorry ribs back…and proceeded to dump them into the change plate, that little metal cut-out in the bullet-proof glass. And I walked out. In the parking lot I met two gentlemen on their way in and took the time to briefly explain my experience with the super-salty ribs. They turned around and departed in their pick-up without ever going in.

Epilogue

So, as you can probably tell, I’ve been carrying that one around with me for a while, and it has great significance in terms of the impetus for the launch of this site.

As soon as I arrived back home that night I got online and placed a stop-payment on my Ribs-n-things credit card transaction. I fully expected to hear from the belligerent owner of the place, either directly or through my bank or credit card company. But I have not.

The lessons in this story are not new ones:
  • Don’t say it if you don’t mean it; have some integrity. Quite honestly, I didn't expect to actually get my money back when I went back to Ribs-n-things. But what I did expect, given the guarantee that was issued, was a sympathetic ear, an apology maybe, but especially not to be treated with outright derision.
  • Don’t believe it unless you get it in writing (or capture it on your personal float-y video thingy).
  • Ask for a taste test. I actually did this, but the piece that I tasted was either too small to be representative of what we were getting, or it came from a different cut.
  • And most importantly, THINK TWICE BEFOR EATING AT RIBS-N-THINGS!!!!
  • And, oh yeah, when it comes to the NCAA tournament, past performance does not dictate future achievement.
Turns out it’s the ribs and the things you gotta watch out for at Ribs-n-things.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

RJ Bentley’s Salvages a Mediocre Dining Experience...
and a Customer


Business: RJ Bentley’s Restaurant
Location: 7323 Baltimore Ave (Rte. 1), College Park, MD
Date of incident: 7/22/06, ~3:00 P.M.

Quick Hit
Management and a waitress at this College Park landmark turned a down-right forgettable dining experience into one to remember, and, despite one major gaffe, managed to retain a customer.

The Run-up
It’s not often that a business snatches victory from the jaws of defeat of its own volition, when it comes to customer service, that is. Most of the time unfortunately it takes flared tempers--and nostrils--raised voices, and, too often, heart-felt threats for customers to get satisfaction these days. But management at RJ Bentley’s Restaurant in College Park, MD, must operate by some long begotten, Knights-of-the-Round-Table-esque code of customer service, judging by what me and my family experienced there today (Saturday, 7/22).

We stopped in for a late lunch, a spot that we had patronized before with pretty good results. Why today’s dining experience was to be so different, I have no idea.

It began inauspiciously from the moment we started to order. Our waitress Amy had to say “Sorry, we’re all out…” (baked potatoes, feta cheese, etc.) so many times that even she got a little disgusted with herself. Then later when my wife lamented that “This is a pretty sorry-looking Cobb salad,” (but decided not to complain, but make the most of it) we had officially reached our event horizon. But the worse was yet to come.

The Meat
Fortunately my two youngest children’s meals each came with an abundant amount of fries, because my son only ate one of the shrimp from his fried-shrimp basket before complaining that he did not want them. He’s usually not a very finicky eater, so my wife and I chalked it up to fatigue. And since he was chowin’ down on the fries we decided to just let it go. But for some reason, near the end of our meal, my wife reaches over and pulls a shrimp from his basket. I think she was mostly disgusted by the waste—my son having barely disturbed them. But as she inspected the half-eaten, breaded crustacean more closely, a look of repulsion came across her face and she exclaimed, “This shrimp ain’t even cooked!” (She reverts to the vernacular like that, losing her Master’s Degree temperance, when she feels one of her children threatened.) She handed the white meat across the table to me to inspect. I had seen sushi “doner” looking. It even appeared to have un-cooked, wet batter or dough in the cavity where the “vein” had been removed.


My son had been immediately exonerated of his frivolity, and now my wife’s ire had really been piqued. The next time Amy approached our table she started in, “If you’re all done I’ll take some of this stuff away and bring your check…” “That’s fine, but there’s a problem with my son’s meal…the shrimp is woefully under-cooked,” I interrupted. Amy inspected the basket and agreed emphatically, “Oh, yeah!…Let me talk to my manager…” And as she departed, my wife’s voice trailed after her, “And take that off the bill!”

My reaction was to wonder out loud, “Well, what does she need the manager for? She saw that it was undercooked with her own two eyes!” I expected Amy to simply return to tell us the obvious, that her manager--Eric, it turned out, is his name--told her to remove my son’s meal from the bill. Oh, but no! Eric had obviously graduated magna cum laude from the Golden Rule School of Customer Service. He had Amy pull out all the stops. She first asked us if my son had gotten enough to eat and whether he wanted to order something else. And then without taking a breath she matter-of-factly added, ”My manager said your entire meal is on the house today.”

Now that's how you recover after falling down with your pants around your ankles!

I was thunderstruck. We’re a family of five, after all. Since we never saw a bill, I can only estimate that the total charge would have been at least $60.00, plus tax and tip. But Amy was very apologetic and gracious about the whole thing. She seemed genuinely embarrassed by the scene.

But we declined more food, despite the fleeting temptation to be just a little gluttonous on someone else’s dime. We thanked Amy for making a potentially very contentious situation quite tenable in the end, and then my wife left her a $5.00 tip.

Epilogue
Now see, if I ran a restaurant, or practically any business, that’s the way I’d clean up my messes. Everybody has a bad day every now and then. And that probably applies two-fold to service-oriented businesses, where constant and repeated interaction with the same customer(s) can set up wait staff for failure on some level over and over again during the course of a day. But Eric and Amy did what they had to do in order to salvage everybody’s Saturday afternoon in this instance. They really "milked a chicken" ("Shorty" Don, circa 1983) in salvaging this one. Of course, I don’t know whether the chef was docked the $60.00 for falling asleep at the fry basket (actually the shrimp would have been overcooked had he/she fallen asleep, right?), but that’s not my concern. It’s after midnight as I compose this post, and my son hasn’t been painfully awakened by some vicious, shrimp-dwelling parasite yet. So I think we’re in the clear there.

Yeah, I’d go back to RJ Bentley’s, especially armed with this entreaty for the hostess or manager: “You know, last time I was here…”

Saturday, July 22, 2006

Customers—and Atmosphere—More Gracious at "Glory Land" Barbershop


Business: Glory Land Barbershop
Location: 4937 Harford Ave., right off Rte. 1/Baltimore Ave, Beltsville, MD
Date of incident: 7/21/06, ~6:45 P.M.

UPDATE: Glory Land Barbers encountered some hard times at the location above and therefore has moved. Unfortunately, we cannot in good conscience recommend their new location.


Quick Hit
A customer at the barbershop I frequent made our night and strengthened our faith in mankind through one generous, self-deprecating act.


The Run-up
Sometimes people moving
through a place can take on the characteristics of that place, at least during their transition through that space. Somebody said, When in Rome, do as the Romans. So, tell the truth: When you visit New York City don’t you steel yourself to be treated rudely and to defend yourself in kind up there? And if you visit the south for more than a couple of days don’t you catch yourself adopting a bit of the local drawl...y'all?

Well, as evidenced by the incident that took place at Glory Land Barbershop in Beltsville, MD, yesterday, a calm, personable, friendly place of business can even foster benevolent gestures amongst its patrons.

Glory Land is a great, albeit still new-ish, little barber shop for black hair (a distinction worth noting simply because of the natural segregation of the races/hair types that normally characterizes barber shops). It’s owned by Fred. That’s all I know him by, his first name. Fred is a very bright guy from Africa. I think he even has an MBA or something. I've even overheard him explaining the concept of diminishing return and the foibles of the Bush administration with regard to developing countries, to some patrons. He’s extremely soft-spoken and gentle in manner, and very accommodating, as well. On at least two occasions I’ve shown up at the shop as he was turning out the lights (because I could not recall what closing time was on those particular nights, not because I’m inconsiderate that way), and he has seen me coming and told me to come on in and that he’d get me done. Like I said, a really good guy.

Fred’s largess is evidently infectious, too. On my way home from work yesterday, Friday, I called Glory Land at about 6:30 to ask Fred how crowded it was over there. I wanted to take my son, mainly, and squeeze myself in, too, if time permitted. Fred said that it was rather quiet and that he was working on one head but had an appointment coming in at 7. I asked if I could reserve a 7:30 slot for me and little man. He said no problem.

When I walked into the house five minutes later, my son had already eaten dinner and was just chilling. The thought crossed my mind that if we shot to the shop real fast that maybe Fred could fit one of us in prior to the arrival of his 7PM appointment. So I rousted my boy and we bolted. When we arrived at the shop at about 6:45 Fred was just finishing up with a customer and no one else was waiting. I looked at him and he said he could possibly fit one of us in. I get my head pretty much shaved, no shaping necessary, so he took me first. While I was in the chair Fred phoned his 7 o’clock to ask him if he could push back his arrival time to around 7:30. I protested that we should not bump this customer from his time. My son and I were perfectly willing to wait. So Fred told him “never mind” and that he’d see him in a few.

The Meat
So between the time I sat in the chair and was done, approximately three customers walked in, greeted Fred and everybody else in the shop warmly, and took seats in the waiting area. Fred was the only barber working at the time, of three who ply their trade at Glory Land. I did not know whether one of the gentlemen who walked in was Fred’s appointment, but when he was done with me, around 7:05, I headed for the seat next to my son. But Fred proceeded to beckon him, my son, to the chair. I turned and said, “Oh, your appointment’s not here yet?” Fred nodded towards a well-dressed young gentleman who had sat closest to his chair and said, “Yes, that’s him right there.” But the gentleman chimed in and said, “No, he [your son] can go ahead.” I insisted that it was not our intention to bump him from his time slot and that my son would wait his turn. But this gentleman insisted, retorting, “Naw, let him go so that you two can roll out.” I thanked him, told him that was very kind of him, and sent my son to the chair (so to speak). When Fred had cut my son’s hair—exquisitely, as usual—we thanked the altruistic gentleman once more, paid and tipped Fred, and arrived back at home ½ hour earlier than we anticipated.

Epilogue

This blog endorses Glory Land Barbershop wholeheartedly, not only for the comfortable atmosphere, but for their skill with the clippers, as well. I’ve never been dissatisfied with a cut, and don’t ever recall seeing another disgruntled customer over there. And the way many shops are run nowadays, with loud rap music shaking the mirrors on the walls, or risqué videos part of the décor, obnoxiously loud talk amongst patrons and barbers (often profane in nature), Glory Land Barbershop is a welcome refuge. It's a little difficult to find, even though it's only a stone's throw off busy Rte. 1 (seriously, I could stand in the doorway of GL and chuck an aerodynamically sound rock right into the turning lane), sharing a strip-mall address with Hogs on the Hill and a popular nail salon, but it's worth the extra effort to find.

And here’s to the kind gentleman who did me and my kid a big solid yesterday evening. I hope to see you there again in the future so I can return the favor.