I entered the Mixx at 2:35 and stood beneath the sign that said ORDER SOUP AND SANDWICHES HERE.  I’ve done so scores of times.  A lady comes over and takes your order on an iPad and swipes your debit card.  Easy-peasey, puddin’ pie.

But no one came.  I shouldered my computer bag, set it down, stood on one foot then the other, peered around the place and finally spied the usual person, across the way, cleaning tables.  She noticed me seeing her, and turned away, throwing her rag on table top.  Hmm.  I could not help but wonder.  Finally, she came near enough for me to ask her, “Please, may I order?” whereupon a guy in the kitchen hollered at me to come to the register.

I did so, confused but willing.  The woman whom I’d seen came over and said, “You have to order at the register.” I asked if their process had changed — but before I got past the word “process”, she pivoted to leave.  I stood there, waiting for something more to develop since no one was at the register to take  my order.  Finally, the woman returned and said, “Did you need something else?”

I set my bags down and said that I’d like to order.  She advised me that she was not the order-taker.  She gestured to the register as though it might have special powers.  I asked, again if I could order, and I didn’t even let one hint of sarcasm slip into my voice.  She told me — again — that I had to order at the register.   Confusion overwhelmed me but I remained calm, asking — again — if their pro—-  “Would you like to see a manager?”

I told her that if it would help matters, sure.  She bellowed across the kitchen and my, could she bellow for a scrawny kid three inches shorter than I.

By this time my bag refused to return to my shoulder and I felt that any moment I could burst into tears or giddy laughter.  I noticed the time:  3:00 p.m.  Thirty minutes seemed a long time to wait to order and I felt quite virtuous for having done so without screaming at anyone or getting the least bit huffy.  The manager asked what I needed and I said that really, I just wanted to order soup.  And the manager looked at the retreating back of the pivoting server and sighed.  I had the feeling that I was not the first  person to experience the firecracker’s ways.  The manager asked what had happened and I told her, smiling, teasing a little, woman to woman, getting the story out without over-dramatizing or disrespecting anyone.

I placed my order and handed the manager a twenty.  She pushed it back towards me and told me that my food would be right out. She smiled.  She said, “Thank you for your feedback, and for being so nice.”

Nice!  You hear that, Joanna, up in heaven?  Somebody thought I was nice!  Maybe your influence has finally taken root.  And the carrot soup at the Mixx is divine, and well worth the wait.

Here’s where:  The Mixx