COLUMN: Muffin Madness

should not have to fear for their personal safety when they complain about service. Have you ever been punched out for complaining about bad service before? Let me tell you: it hurts. This delicious saga that still left me awestruck begins with my regular visit to My Favorite Muffin, 40th & Locust, for a plain bagel with cream cheese and tomato. Usually badly made and always over-priced, I justify my trips there -- or used to -- in that they gave my otherwise chaotic life a sense of order. And anyway, something about the place attracted me. The smoke-free sterility, the speedy service, the happy, attractive crowd all turned me on. And they almost always got my order right. In retrospect, I could only wish that the worst part of this visit was that they forgot to put the tomato on my bagel. And I hate it when they do that. Anyway, the trouble all started when the cashier -- let's call her "Tara Watson" for fun (you'll understand later) -- decided not to ring up the transaction on the cash register. I've worked in retail for three years now, and usually that means only one thing: that the cash is going straight into your pocket. But maybe, I thought, just maybe, "Tara" was getting in some last minute practice for her upcoming GRE exams, rehearsing that damn mental arithmetic. Or maybe not. That she stuck in an extra dollar when adding $1.30 to $1.40, which says something either about her math or her impression of me. But at least the woman stuck to her guns, you have to give her respect for that! For the next five minutes, she adamantly insisted that this simple bill totalled $3.70. Naturally, I fought for my dollar. Dior, the manager of the Muff (who had been standing there the whole time), intervened and handed over my precious minimum-wage earnings. I was pissed. Not only had "Tara" cheated the store,and me,out of cash, but she had the attitude of a mule! So I turned to the lady (my first mistake of the afternoon), bagel in hand, and suggested, "Next time, why don't you use the cash register." "You got a problem?" she asked, taking on a self-righteous posture (hip swayed to the side, head bobbing up and down, mouth open, eyes disbelieving). Cut forwards. After much attitude from Ms. "Watson," I decided to make a formal complaint. Dior, ever the friendly little manager, suggested I fill out a Customer Comment form. He also informed me that this irate employee's name was Tara Watson -- hence the nickname I've given her. Now I don't know if any of you have ever filled out a Comment form at My Fave, but the questions run along the lines of "Was your bagel (a) Excellent (b)Satisfactory (c)Not Very Good." There was no question reading "Did our employee (a)Rip you off (b)Rip off our store (c)Give you lip (d)All of the above." But there were 4 lines left for comments, so I eagerly scribbled in my furious complaint, and left satisfied I had done my job. What I didn't realize is that two of "Tara's" friends -- two big, dumb, and overly macho friends -- had followed me outside the store. With little discussion, in which they expressed displeasure with the fact that "She could get fired because of this," they beat the hell out of me. At noon. Last Wednesday. At 40th & Locust. Blood flew out of my mouth and across my white "34th Street Magazine" t-shirt. Flesh was torn from the inside of my mouth between my teeth and the fists. I was hurt and scared. And all because of a lousy dollar. Of course I involved the police, and have since contacted the general manager and the district manager of the Muff. From conversations with the manager of another My Favorite Muffin, it turns out that Customer Comment forms are not a valid means of complaint -- they're just thrown away. It turns out that no Tara Watson has ever worked at that, or any, My Favorite Muffin restaurant in West Philly. Her name is Jessica. (Not too common a mistake --Tara for Jessica?) It turns out that Dior and Jessica (previously Tara Watson) have decided that I called her a "black bitch." True, or not true? Why don't you ask my (African-American) girlfriend what she thinks. Basically, this entire situation is fucked up: does anybody else see something wrong with a system where customers are too afraid to complain? Or even when they do, the complaints are promptly thrown away? Where Muffin stores have henchmen and swift violent punishment is handed out? Where Billybob's can get away with not posting their prices for over a year despite regular complaints, and where I see rats in McDonald's on a regular basis? Where the only local commercial movie theater has crappy sound and doesn't give a shit if you complain? Okay, so this experience has made me a little paranoid. But as we approach the end of the millennium, I feel that the issue is no longer "are you paranoid" -- the issue is "Are you paranoid enough?" Don't get me wrong. My Muffin experience wasn't officially sanctioned, it doesn't go all the way to the top (Mr. Muffin wasn't involved). But at least one employee, one manager, and several (possibly) unpaid thugs are directly indicted, and should be immediately fired. But until the situation there is cleaned up, I can only advise anyone who made it this far through my sob story not to complain at the Muff. You too may be washing blood from your shirts before long. And my only advice to Jessica, Dior, and their two Gustappo buddies, is: next time, try picking on a real journalist, or someone with real clout. It sucks that I'm just a student.

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