Chinese delivery

I have a friend, a good friend, who, like me, is far from perfect. One of this friend’s not-so-nice traits is the way he treats restaurant delivery people.

I know this because I’ve heard of his exploits with these hard-working, often-underpaid souls. He’s even gone so far as to phone the restaurant after a delivery telling the manager to fire the person for a mistake.

Sometimes the order is wrong,  or sometimes it’s late and consequently not as hot as it should be. And sometimes the driver can’t find the address and calls this person to find out where the delivery should be made. All of these scenarios can, and often do, set off a tirade during a face-to-face encounter with the “inept” delivery person.

Occasionally, the Jolivet Clan orders out as a treat, or out of laziness, both of which are valid excuses. Getting off track a bit as I usually do, my clever canine knows when I’m calling for delivery. Iggy sees the menu in our hands, but I’m pretty sure she knows the word “delivery,” just as she knows “ice cream” means a good old cup of Frosty Paws for her.

Anyway, I can’t even talk to the people from whom I’m ordering without the pooch barking out her order as well. So much so, that I have to escape to the lavatory to place my order. She hasn’t yet figured out how to disrupt my online orders yet, but she will.

OK, back to the main story. Last weekend we opted to have Chinese food for supper one evening. We placed our order, as did Igor, and waited to be served.

It should be noted that the delivery man for this particular restaurant is an older Asian man who is very polite and humble. Yet I know for a fact that he has been reamed by my friend several times.

Nearly an hour passed, and that was OK. It was a busy Friday night and it was pouring out. The little man came to my door with a big old bag of tasty treats, holding an umbrella to keep moderately dry.

He apologized for being late and I told him no problem. He struggled to find the receipt, with everything in his hands, again I assured him to take his time.

He told me the amount, and knowing his past experiences with at least one customer, and considering the weather conditions, I handed him a pretty sweet tip. He looked up at me (yeah that’s how small he is), and gave the biggest smile and reached out and shook my hand with a hearty “Thank you my friend.” Walking down the deck steps he again said thanks.

No one ever shook my hand for getting a tip from me before, but I know I made his night — and he made mine. It’s the little things that can mean so much. Somehow, the chow mein and fried rice tasted a little better that night.

davejolivet@anchornews.org

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