“These are the wrong size!” he shouted. “I ordered the thirty-two ounce! These are twenty-four! I’ve got a catering order for two hundred people tonight! Two hundred! What am I supposed to put my pasta in, my hands?”
Kyle was at the counter. He took one look at Mr. Castellano’s face and disappeared into the back.
I studied the box. He was right. They were the wrong size. I pulled up his order on the computer. He’d ordered the thirty-two ounce. Somebody on our end, probably Kyle, had grabbed the wrong pallet.
Mr. Castellano was still yelling. Something about how he’d been a loyal customer for eleven years, and how this was the last straw, and how he would switch to the big company in Columbus.
I said, “You’re right, Mr. Castellano. That’s our mistake. I’m sorry.”
“We have the thirty-two ounce in stock,” I said. “I’m going to load them into my car right now and drive them to your restaurant myself. You’ll have them by eleven. And I’ll take the wrong ones back so you don’t have to deal with them. No charge for the delivery.”
