Twenty-five minutes later, I arrive at your door. Ding! And I've got money in my hand. Where's my food?
Ten minutes and a parade of outgoing and incoming waitstaff later, a girl is foisted upon me. I can tell she doesn't want to work the 'To Go' lane. She asks my name, then calls in backup. They look high, they look low, no order.
A man in a blue shirt (could've been a manager, could have been a naked mole rat), I'll call him 'Bingo' because he deserves mockery, enters and *insists* that I must've called the wrong Chili's because no one has my order, and that I should go to the other Chili's fifteen minutes away because 'people do this sort of thing all the time.'
I take out my cell, show him the number for this Chili's and the date and time of the call. Ha! Gotcha.
Bingo is not pleased. He sighs the way comedians sigh into microphones to convey exasperation. He tells me they'll start another order for me right now, and wants to know if I'd like a drink while I wait.
Why yes I would. I tell him I'll have an iced tea. (Like the one I ordered.)
Fifteen minutes later? No tea. Why would you offer me a drink as an apology and fucking not bring it? Asshole! Ten more minutes slip by.
Sitting in the waiting area, it begins to feel like a bad marriage--I want out, but there's so damn much invested now. I flag down a waitress and ask her.
She brings out the meal in thirty seconds, rings me up, stares at tip jar.
I give her a dollar, just 'cause she actually helped me.
Fuck you, Chili's.
UPDATE: And yes, a complaint is registered. Mwa-ha.