How Can I Not Serve You?

The easiest column a scribbler for an expatriate-oriented newspaper like the Budapest Times can write is one in which the author hoots and howls over real or imagined lapses in Hungary's service culture. You know the kind I'm talking about: "I'm just so angry with the electric company! They said they were going to be there on Thursday at 9:00 a.m. sharp, and didn't show up until October…" or "If that waitress gives me the stink-eye one more time, I'm just going to snap." But sometimes what's necessary is also what's easy, especially if I can make it even easier by using up half my normal space with lightly-edited excerpts from some of the letters I've recently gotten from readers who feel that they have unjustly suffered from the shortcomings of modern Hungary's customer-service culture.

Up first is faithful correspondent S.C., who last week sent me a mad but measured note about a pair of back-to-back affronts.

"Recently I paid a visit to the KFC at Király utca on the Nagykörút. On my way to order I decided to visit the men's room. A woman in uniform accosted me and demanded I pay for using the toilet. Okay, so that's the norm here in Hungary, but usually it's fairly low-key and voluntary. At most Hungarian joints there's an ashtray with money in it, indicating that you should tip. Occasionally I don't tip, but I don't remember being hassled about it. The woman at the KFC was really aggressive. I explained that I was a guest at the restaurant and she asked to see my receipt. I told her I was about to order and she told me to pay, and that it would be deducted from the bill. I argued with her for a bit, then she gave up in exasperation - tossing off a comment that since she could see I didn't understand I should just move on. I was so fed up I decided to boycott the place."

But that'll be Ft 200 if you've had the spicy wing bucket.

Shaken by S.C.'s report, I went over myself to the KFC in question, where I happened upon what I assume was the same aggressive toilet toll-operator (pictured right) who likewise hit me up for my choice of Ft 100 or written proof that I had eaten something finger-lickin' good. Of course, as S.C. points out, it is indeed an unfortunate reality of life in Hungary that you are often asked to pay to use a toilet in public spaces like restaurants, the unfortunate part being that pay-for-play toilets are usually dirtier and smellier than free toilets by a factor of the forint rate being charged. But KFC is not a normal Hungarian public space: It's a branch of a flagship American fast-food chain. And a big part of what makes American fast-food joints great is the convenience not only of getting something nasty to eat, but leaving something nasty as well, without having to pay extra, or go through some convoluted voucher-exchange procedure. In other words, a free trip to a spiffy bathroom is a standard component of the expected service package, and if it isn't provided, it's bad service. I'd say the folks at KFC should count themselves lucky that S.C. and I showed up, rather than Colonel Sanders, because if he had, they probably would have had their franchise yanked, if not hog-tied and forced to work on the old man's cotton plantation. Bad show, KFC.

But as I said, S.C.'s trials had only begun: "I was shopping at the Batthyány Spar at about closing time when one of those uniformed 'insecurity' guards shouted at me that the place was closed and I should go immediately to the cash register. I acknowledged the guy, and moved to pick up a container of milk. He demanded I drop the milk and move immediately to the cash register."

Drop the milk and head immediately to the cash register! What is this, post-9/11 America? No, seriously, S.C. makes an important point here, because the fastest-growing segment of customer service in Hungary is in what retailers call "shrinkage control," i.e. blockheaded rent-a-cops who follow you around trying to make sure you don't steal stuff. Of course, this focus on security probably reflects a serious shoplifting problem. But as a general rule, people don't shoplift milk by carrying it in open view to the cash register. And even if they did, Spar should instruct its security guards not to be rude to them, until they catch them walking out the door with it. Bad show, Spar.

Speaking of supermarkets, I have my own little hypermarket horror story. A few weeks ago, I was heading out to the country on a Friday night, and stopped by the Budaörs Auchan at around 8:30. At approximately 9:00 I got on a longish line. At 9:20, I and the others waiting to check out started looking around, expecting the store to open another register. As I stood there, trying to figure out whether to cut my losses and head across the M1 to Tesco (which has a rule that a new checkout is opened if more than a few people are in line), cashiers came and went, and gaggles of security guards lounged about, no doubt swapping stories about terrorizing people wanting to buy milk at closing time. That I eventually spent an hour in line was outrageous enough. The fact that neither the cashier nor any other member of the Auchan team even acknowledged that anything was amiss is appalling. Bad show, Auchan.

Another little food-related gripe. Last week I had lunch at Mokka, expressly because of their very decent and decently-priced lunch menu. But when the waiter brought the menus - surprise! - the list of budget items was left out of the normal, full-priced menu. I won't claim that this is part of a master let-soak-the-dumb-foreigner plan, but let's just say it was an awkward moment that I've experienced at other downtown eateries before. Lunch specials are not called "specials" because some special patrons are not told about them.

Next comes M.B., who regaled me with a tale of Kafkaesque enslavement in the bowels of a Matáv automated call-answering system so long and bizarre I won't print it in full for fear of scaring whatever children may be reading. Suffice to say that, if you plan on calling Matáv to order one of their high-speed Internet packages, you will probably still be on hold by the time the entire country is one big wi-fi hotspot.

All that said, I am an optimist about customer service in Hungary, especially now that so many world-class retailers are setting up shop here. Take, for example, Beate Uhse, which just opened its first store in Hungary at Teréz körút 58, becoming the latest outlet of the famous eponymous sex-toy and porn emporium founded by the woman who was the world's first female stunt pilot, before becoming an airwoman in the Luftwaffe in WWII.

If you'd like, we can special order an even bigger one, with spikes and chains

Aside from having a fantastic selection of product for amorously-adventurous adults, the store has a friendly and professional staff that would put many luxury boutiques to shame. So if your love life could benefit from a little something extra - perhaps a pair of fur-trimmed, "Elisa" acrylic high-heeled shoes, a Fireball bustier, a Fancy Goose Charmer Vibrator, or just your normal king-sized tube of Super Ständer Penis Cream - I'm sure the good folks at Beate Uhse will be more than willing to give you a hand. And even if they tell you to "shove it," they are probably just trying to be helpful.