James Lileks: Griping brings validation (or a code, anyway)

For some Minnesotans, there's nothing worse than realizing that you should complain about something. We don't like to complain in person; it's so … intimate. If I wanted to confront people about problems, I'd move to New York or one of those places where they talk with their hands. But sometimes you have to complain, and you drop the big one: I'd like to speak to the manager.

You almost expect a hush to fall, but that rarely works out as you like. "What seems to be the problem?" they ask. And you think it's not whether it seems like a problem, it is a problem, but let's not start off on the wrong foot, Mister: "Yes, well, I have to say, I've been coming here for years. And usually everything's fine. But today one of your cooks ran out of the kitchen screaming and plunged a knife into my leg. See, right here. Sorry about the mess."

They respond: "Uh-huh. Well, it's not our policy to stab guests. I'll have a talk with him."

This isn't what you hoped for. You wanted a reduction on the bill, to be honest. So you say, "I was thinking, maybe a free dessert?" But by then the manager has you sized up completely. If they gave a free dessert to everyone the cook stabbed, they'd be out of business in a month. You could have stabbed yourself, you know. In this business, they see everything.

So it's better to complain online, you think. After all, the receipt has a website address, and you're encouraged to tell 'em how they're doing. And here your troubles begin.

You have to rate your experience on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being "Hours later, still hyperventilating from the boundless joy of eating six desiccated nodules of compressed chicken" and 10 being "May you and your offspring be basted with Satan's bile for all eternity." You have to decide if you were satisfied or extremely satisfied, a distinction that's hard to conceive when you're talking about parenthood, let alone a meal in a bag that someone handed you through a window.

As a frequent survey taker, I can tell you what you can expect.

The real problem was the guy who cleaned off the tables. The bar rag had been stewing in its own juices and made everything smell like Texas roadkill. Since my receipt had a website begging for my opinion, I called it up on my phone and entered: "Burger was decent, but the restaurant aroma = teenager's laundry bag." For this I was rewarded with free fries. Score! I wrote the code on the receipt, put it in my pocket, and then put the pants in the wash, where the receipt was destroyed.

Experience No. 2: that burger joint you go to twice a year, maybe. Previous visits had been acceptable, and they have packets of chili sauce that light up the meat nicely. But this time the bun was like eating an ironed newspaper. I stared at the inedible object in my hand, thinking: This isn't an accident. This was intentional. They changed the buns.

Got out my phone, did some searching: Sure enough, lots of news releases about the New Bun Paradigm, how the company was touting its revamped bun strategy for staving off fast-casual competition. Really? This? It's like eating a Frisbee.

So I looked at the receipt, connected with the website, and took the survey. Gave the staff high marks, because they'd all been perfectly pleasant. Waited for the critical bun question, because you know careers are hanging on bun acceptance. Nothing. Had to wait for the page where you add additional details, and here I unloaded: "This is not a hamburger bun. This is grilled Kleenex."

I left my e-mail address on the page where it asks if I'd like to be contacted. Never heard anything, and you know why? Because everyone at the home office is sitting around humming loudly and saying I CAN'T HEAR YOU when the bun matter comes up. Complete denial.

"What are you doing?" daughter asked when she came into my studio.

"I am telling McDonald's what I thought about the hamburger."

"Ohhhhh. Dad. Seriously. You don't have to."

But I do. And when I was done, I got a validation code, and I wrote it on the receipt. I have no idea what it's good for. It's possible I'll hand it to a guy working the register, and he'll sigh, and put on a serious face, and say, "We are sorry. Do you feel validated?"

Yes. Yes, I do. But that's because I'm pathetically easy to accommodate. The website is nice, but really, if you would just give me a sack to shout into, it would be just as good.