Dear Feastlings,
Twenty-five years ago, on a Friday afternoon, I found myself at the Development Services Counter downtown. I was at the structural counter; I’d already been to plumbing, electrical, mechanical, signage and whatever else there was- it’s been twenty-five years and it’s difficult to remember. My last stop was the Structural counter, I believe, if that’s one of the areas that needed to be signed off on to get our Certificate of Occupancy. Behind the counter were two men, one talking with a fellow across the counter, examining a blueprint. The other stood quietly, looking off into space, absently touching his mustache.
“Hello,” I said, “I’m here to get this signed, please. I have no structural changes to the building.”
“I can’t help you,” the starer said, “I’m in a meeting.” I looked at him. He appeared to be in no meeting.
“You’re in a meeting?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re in a meeting right now?”
“Yes,” he said.
I looked at his cohort. “What about him?” I asked. “Is he also in a meeting?”
“Yes,” said the mustachioed starer.
“I have no structural changes to the building,” I said. “All I need is for someone to sign this form that says we’re making no structural changes. Is that something either of you can do?”
“No,” he said, impassive.
“What can I do, then?”
“Come back Monday.”
I did not leap over the counter and strangle him, though I imagined fairly vividly what it would be like to do so.
I’ve never worked in a bona fide bureaucracy, but I can imagine it must be frustrating and disheartening. Not as vividly as I can imagine strangling the man behind the Structural counter, but I do fancy myself able to conjure the feeling of being a cog in a giant faceless machine. I suppose the feeling of helplessness could make me less inclined to be polite, or to be of service to anyone in any way, especially if I were treated like a cog in a giant faceless machine by person after person after person. At least, that’s what I’d surmise from having dealt with The Mustache.
This week, I’ve been alternately ignored and sniped at by four staffers at the Vermont Department of Labor, and a wave of Post-traumatic Stress Disorder washed over me like a Nor-easter. At first, I was polite and unsuspecting. I’d received a letter last Friday, the 17th, indicating that I had until next Sunday the 26th to fill out a questionnaire. To complete the questionnaire, I needed to call an 800 number, which I did, and after 20 minutes on hold, I spoke to a human, who told me that in order to fill out the questionnaire, I would need to know my Vermont Employer Number.
In the twenty-five years of running an Arizona business, it never occurred to me that I might need a Vermont Employer Number, and consequently, I’ve never gotten one.
“Well,” said the person, “you’ll need that number in order to log in and complete the questionnaire.”
“Ah,” I said, “how do I get that number?”
“Oh, we don’t do that here,” she said. “You need to call a different number.”
“Ah.” She gave me the number, and I started all over again, snaking through a phone tree to arrive at a voice mailbox that told me that I should leave a message and someone would call me back.
Five days later, I got a call from someone named Evelyn, who, being on Vermont time, called before I arrived today, and didn’t leave a direct phone number, so I called back and left another message. I tried the original number again, whereupon a new person walked me through a convoluted series of questions before asking me which office I’d filed my claim at. When I told her I was the employer, she sighed an exasperated sigh and told me to call the other number. I explained that I’d called the other number and no one had returned my call for five days, and she scolded me for thinking I was the only employer they were dealing with. I explained to her that I did not, in fact, think I was the only employer they were dealing with, but that I needed to know how to deal with the fact that they needed a questionnaire filled out by me within the next four days, and that I had not been able to speak with a human for five days so far. I asked what I should do if no one got back to me by the deadline, and she said I should file for an extension.
“Okay,” I said, “can I file for an extension now, while I’m on the phone with you?”
“No. You can’t file for an extension until the due date.”
“I see. And how would I do that?”
“You’d call this number on the due date.”
“The due date is this Sunday. Are you open on Sundays?”
“No.”
“Thanks.” I pictured her, and her mustache, and I imagined, vividly, strangling her.
I called the other number again, and after a remarkably short hold time, I spoke to Connie, because Evelyn had left for the day, and for some reason, Connie was immune to the Kafkaesque bureaucracy in which she worked, and she interviewed me extensively, asking for my business name, my tax ID, and a host of other information before understanding that I am currently not, nor have I ever done business, in Vermont.
“Oh,” said Connie. “I have no idea what to do in a situation like this.”
“Neither do I, Connie.”
The upshot, to keep this email from taking up your entire hard drive if it hasn’t already, is that a supervisor has been emailed, and with any luck, I’ll waste no more than the two and a half hours I’ve already wasted dealing with this, all for someone who worked here for less than four months.
I know this has nothing to do with what’s currently going on in the dining room at Feast, but a little catharsis has been good for me, historically, even if it means someone writes me back and calls me an insufferable whiner. I already know I’m insufferable whiner. So on to what’s happening at Feast:
We have not one but two wine tastings this week, the first being tomorrow evening, with food pairings, courtesy of the American Wine Society, who’ve flung open the doors again to allow non-members to attend. Here’s the scoop on that tasting:
We also have a special visit from Felix Stepski of Marlow Provisions, who’ll be joining us this Saturday, August 1st, at 2:00 pm for our regular Saturday tasting.
Keep your eyes on your inbox for the August menu, which begins on the 4th, and for the Ferragosto menu, which we’ve decided to offer both Friday AND Saturday, the 14th and the 15th, as they’ll both be posted soon, with a mercifully shorter email from me to give you the details.
Stay well and happy, all of you.
Love,
Doug