Our local International House Of Pancakes is closed. It was no surprise, that a business poorly managed, with dismal customer service went out of business.
Victim of modern times and tastes? Hardly–more a cautionary tale of how not to run a business.
Five years ago, the place was tip-top. It was sad to be disappointed over-and-over with poor service.
On my last visit, customers waited to be seated; tables weren’t cleared; trash cluttered the floors. A member of the wait staff grumbled about making change for a twenty at the front check out. Wasn’t that why he was there?
When they were opened twenty-four hours, shift workers, could grab a cup of coffee at two in the morning. One morning, at four AM, they were out of regular coffee. There was plenty of decaf. I didn’t want decaf. Decaf wasn’t going to keep me awake at that early hour. The manager claimed to have failed to reorder.
Other than “Business Closed” signs, the bad memories came back. Especially, the certificate for a free breakfast, offered after my poor customer service complaint to their 800#. I used it in my local restaurant. They charged me double price.
Restaurants come and go. This restaurant previously housed an Outback steakhouse franchise. We could use another decent breakfast restaurant–especially one with a buffet.
The same young man was behind the counter last evening. With so much pent-up energy, he bounced up-and-down while taking customer orders. My faithful favorite burger franchise, decorated with orange and white stripes was about to let me down.
I should have known something was up last time, when my favorite burger with grilled peppers and onions wasn’t on the menu. “Did they still have it?” I inquired. “Yes, ‘Mr. Bounceabout’ answered.”
What a let down. My favorite burger had been discontinued since my last visit. The bouncing counter attendant announced with cold finality.
Disappointed? Yes, but it wasn’t a deal breaker. Why did menu favorites come and go? An acceptable substitute found, and a chance to explore new menu options.
At first I wanted revenge. Spraying Roundup on something he held near and dear? No, didn’t want to start a war. Displaying tacky plastic flowers where my lilies formerly were? Nobody in the neighborhood would get it.
My neighbor was a little too enthusiastic about spraying weed killer this spring. He doesn’t yet know it, but his flowering crabapple tree is on the critical list–as well. I doubt if he could tell a lily leaf from a blade of grass anyway.
This would make a good case for the Judge Judy show. Out of three different types of lilies, only one was left. These were on my property–there was no encroachment. I was most disappointed that the ones, with three yellow, and three brown petals were gone. These came from my daughter’s yard in Illinois.
Today was transplant day. All surviving lilies were transplanted, far away from my neighbor, and his notorious spraying. I’ve included a picture of how things looked two years ago. The deep red and gold lilies were all that remained. They’re, not in bloom, left of the yellow/brown lilies.
I’m still shocked, in disbelief, that a neighbor and good friend passed away last night. He was within a year or two of my age.
Rick and I were retired communications workers–for the same company in adjoining states. We could fall back on telling telephone “war” stories. Rick always lent a helping hand when needed.
Because of Rick, I have buried telephone service to my workshop. It’s an old-fashioned landline. How else were my antique telephones going to work? With ringers as loud as firehouse gongs, they’d refuse to operate on wireless–the very idea.
Every good thing that will be said, Rick deserves. He was one of the good guys. Me and the dogs will miss him. We couldn’t pass by Rick’s house on walks without Max putting on the brakes. Max loved to see Rick–go back to his workshop. I know it was an interruption. Rick refurbished golf carts. Rick always found the time.
One size fits all, misfits
Screamed, indulge me!
Make me happy!
Boys from Possum Junction
Veronicas from Pecatonica
Sat around the parlor table
In a séance, for miscreants
Conjured spirits, of
Recently departed ambitions
Contemplated, turning points
Of contention, where, how, when
Relationships went askew
Couldn’t make up, for
What, wasn’t there
Folded arms–a few stifled yawns later
Cautious glances, at watches
Last words, soon forgotten
Boredom ended, with
Sunday morning breakfast has been a tradition for as long as we’ve been a couple.
Not that chain restaurants aren’t good in their own rights. When the same entrees become old and tired, it’s time to find something new.
Last Sunday, we drove by two local, diner-type restaurants–they were both closed. Back to good old Cracker Barrel for usual fare.
Today, an old favorite, known for comfort food, let me down. Formerly, they had breakfast buffets on weekends. They were open, and we were the only, early morning diners.
It seems in the last nine years, due to the economy, the Sunday breakfast buffet was no more. They still were open with a lunch buffet on weekdays.
The quest continues for a mom-and-pop local breakfast restaurant–within a 20 mile radius. Food, prepared with love–because love conquers all.