Boston Pizza. Christ, what a shithole.
The first time Mrs. RickJay and I went we ordered a spaghetti for me and a pizza for her. Our drinks were delivered in ten minutes. A full half hour later my spaghetti arrived, with assurances that the pizza would soon follow. Now, you have to understand the place wasn’t unusually busy.
Every five minutes we’d ask where the pizza was. We were told, every time, “Just another five minutes!”
One hour after we’d ordered was the point at which we demanded to see a manager. “Just another five minutes, sorry it’s taking so long.” Okay.
Ten minutes after that I actually got up and tracked the manager down. Just another five minutes.
Ten minutes after that a pizza was finally delivered. What was funny about it was that the sun dried tomatoes that were supposed to be on the pizza… well, they were on the pizza, but they were frozen. Frozen solid. My wife took the pizza over to the manager and demanded to know what the fuck was going on.
Her actual, honest-to-God response: “Uh. Uh, ummm. Uh. Uh… oh, they’re SUPPOSED to come that way!”
Mrs. RickJay: “That’s ridiculous. Let me see the recipe.”
Manager: “I don’t know where it is.”
We left and refused to pay. Christ knows why we stayed as long as we did.
That was six years ago. Since then I’ve had to go to Boston Pizza three more times, all involuntarily (twice on business, once with my parents because my mother wanted to go.) EVERY time, the place was half full or less, and EVERY time it was amazingly slow and they forgot or fucked up at least two or three items. Sorry, but at this point I just don’t believe it’s a coincidence.