Delivery

Even though I live in the heart (or some other important organ) of NYC, I always order food from the same three places. Because when you order from A New Place, it is fraught with danger and disappointment and apparently famine.

But the other night my daughter wanted Indian food, so I called a new place.

“Greetings,” I said. “I would like to place an order with your establishment for delivery!”

We exchanged pleasantries and in my case, name, address, credit card number and measurements, and parted telephonic ways.

“How long will the wait for your tasty morsels be?” I inquired before bidding farewell.

“Twenty minutes,” the gentleman who had all my details reassured me. “Is that ok?”

“That is splendid,” I confirmed. Through extensive training that I do not recommend you undertake at home, I can now go for up to 15 minutes without a snack. An extra five minutes would be absolutely no problem since I earlier spotted a cheese wheel in the fridge.

And then I proceeded to catch up on Million Dollar Listing: NYC edition. I don’t know, does anyone else think those guys may be gay? I know, jumping to conclusions. Hunger will do that to you.

So I’m watching and enjoying and learning when all of a sudden I realize, holy fuck! Where the hell is the food?.

I call back the establishment. And explain my tale of woe.

“Hi,” I start because there is no need to be impolite, “I ordered food about 45 minutes ago and it’s still not here.”

I don’t know what I expected–an extensive Q&A, followed by a Congressional investigation perhaps, but what I got was a “he’s on his way!”

This confused me because assuming the He was’t the Messiah, how did they know that he was on his way with my order? Am I the only one ordering from this restaurant?

“How do you know where he’s going?” I asked. “You didn’t even ask for my address.”

He said something that I assume translated loosely as “crazy bitch” in his native tongue and hung up.

My daughter and I waited another thirty minutes.

“WHAT THE HELL?” I exclaimed, picking at the cheese wheel. “How can they be so irresponsible?”

“Calm down, mom,” she commanded. But the panic of hunger was starting to affect her too.

I made another call. To the same restaurant.

“It’s been over an hour,” I lamented. “Over. An. Hour.”

“He’s on his way,” the guy responded. “Maybe his bike broke and he’s walking.”

“Maybe?” I shrieked. “Bike? Broken?”

The situation was going from desperate to super desperate. The cheese wheel was now a cheese spoke.

“Yeah, he’ll be there.”

“Can you call him?” I asked. What if something happened? What if something happened to the delivery boy? Or to the food?!

“Yeah, take his number-”

“WHAT? I don’t want to call him, you call him!”

“Fine, hold on,” he said and then probably put the phone down and had a cigarette.

“Yes, he’s almost there,” he lied when he got back on the line.

We waited another twenty minutes and then the food finally arrived.

And the worst part was that even though it was over an hour late, the food was excellent.

Really, really good. So now we have to order from them again.

A week in advance, preferably.

One year ago ...

• My BlogHer - 2012