My buddy Ed recently bought an Audi SUV.
“A week later, I got a survey from Audi asking me about my experience buying the vehicle. After almost an hour of filling it out, I gave up. I went to the end where it asked for a final comment. I said this survey made me wish I had bought a BMW.”
It seems like everything you do, everywhere you go, or whatever you buy ends up with a survey in your email. “How did we do? Please take a few minutes and complete this survey.”
Survey overload
Last week I ate at a restaurant. I ordered my usual, a bacon cheeseburger and fries. Then I got a survey in email. I don’t know how they tracked me down. I guess I dropped my card in a fish bowl for a free lunch.
The survey asked what I thought about the service, the quality of food, was the waiter polite, did anybody from management drop by my table, and whether someone thanked me by my name when I left.
By my name? When I’m eating a burger, I prefer to remain anonymous. I’m not joining a Thursday night bowling league with the waiter.
My first mistake was playing golf a couple of weeks ago. Then came the survey: How was your golf experience? Were you addressed by your name? (Again, let’s keep this professional.) How was the friendliness of the staff? How was the knowledge of the staff? How long did it take for your round? How likely are you to recommend this golf course to others? What did you like most about your golf experience? (The ride home.)
Then the survey asked for my phone number in case they wanted to ask me follow-up questions. So I gave them Reg “Third Degree” Burns number. I’ve suffered enough.
I visited Europe last month. I stayed in three different hotels. Each hotel asked me to fill out a survey. On top of that, Expedia sent me a survey to review my check-in at each hotel.
Then the airline got into the act. How was my flight, how was the boarding process, did I enjoy the meal, was the staff courteous?
How would I know? When I fly long-distance, I pop a little helper and I’m comatose before wheels up. I wake up on final descent, wipe the drool off my face, and stumble to baggage claim.
I had a guy fix my garage door opener remote. He sent me a survey and asked me to post it on either Facebook or Google.
I called to make a doctor’s appointment for my annual full cavity search. I got a survey asking about the person who answered the phone and made the appointment. Not the doctor – the receptionist.
If you look at your receipt at fast food restaurants, often you’ll find a link to a survey to review the food and service. If you complete the survey, you’ll get a free Whopper or Big Mac or some other bribe.
My supermarket has a built-in survey on the credit card scanner. I hit “skip.” When I check my email, as soon as I see “Let us know how we did,” I hit delete.
Restaurants, take note
I asked several friends, do you get a lot of surveys in email from restaurants, etc.? They all said yes. Too many. They all said they don’t fill them out.
That’s how I feel. If a restaurant wants to know how its service is, they should hire one of those secret shopper companies. Or pay me for my opinion.
I’m not a good one to ask, anyway. I’m not someone who sends back food or demands to speak to the manager.
One of my favorite dishes is chicken fried steak. I always order it dry, without the cream gravy, or whatever that glop is. I know it ain’t gravy. When I forget to say hold the gravy, I take a butter knife and scrape it off. I don’t send it back. It was my mistake.
Last week, I ordered wings at a sports bar. The wings arrived cold, covered with so much Buffalo sauce it was closer to eating Campbell’s Chunky Soup. Didn’t send it back.
A few months ago I got a burger that was still frozen in the middle. The ice crystals were crunchy. Didn’t send it back. Actually it was very refreshing.
The exception to the rule
I can remember only one time I squawked about service. I was on a plane from Houston to New York. One row directly in front of me was a large human being who, to be kind, stunk. He also snored like a mountain lion. He was gassy if you catch my drift, and downwind was the last place you wanted to be.
I called the flight attendant over. I whispered, “This guy is killing me. I have to breathe though a sweater.” When they saw me talking to the flight attendant, several other passengers spoke up. The flight attendant told us that he already was in contact with the airline and every passenger within four rows, front and back, both sides of the aisle, would receive compensation. I think we got a $50 credit or something.
I’ll eat a frozen hamburger, but inhaling someone else’s passed gas, that’s where I draw the line.
