The Pizza of Sherwood Forest
Wednesday, November 21, 2007 at 00:00
By Marcel Strigberger
There is a pizza outfit in town that boasts that if you order a pizza and it does not arrive within 30 minutes, it's yours free. Caveat pizza emptor!
I was curious to see how anybody could possibly bake and deliver a pizza within 30 minutes. My usual pizza man, when asked how fast it'll take, retorts, "Twenty minutes". Subsequently it hits my doorstep piping cold about an hour later. I always get the feeling the driver is instructed to deliver everyone else's pizza firstly, and that the boss, in referring to my pizza says to the driver, "He likes his cold; why don't you go to his house via Milwaukee."
And so I recently decided to go for it. Hey, it was guaranteed to arrive quickly and hot. I placed my order and when I queried, the gentleman, one Chuck, assured me that I would have my order delivered within 30 minutes from the time he said goodbye or it was mine free.
My kitchen clock read 10:33 P.M. If all went well I would be enjoying either a hot pizza while watching the news or alternatively a free pizza while watching David Letterman. Then again if all went well the wolf should have been able to enjoy that third little pig.
I started waiting in anticipation. I had visions of a large assembly line with bakers frantically working, almost like in E.R. trying to save the order. "Johnson, pass the mushrooms, STAT".
Suddenly at 10:47 my doorbell rang. It couldn't be. It wasn't. It was only the newspaper delivery boy asking for payment.
Tension continued to mount. It was now 10:57. I saw no cars on my street. I started to feel like part of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. I recalled the thriller, "North by Northwest" in which Cary Grant nervously waits on an isolated highway for a mysterious character to pull up in a car and suddenly to his shock he is attacked from the sky by an assassin piloting a small airplane. I cautiously ventured to gaze into the sky.
It was now 11:02 and the news was on. There was some mention about Brazil not paying its debts. I thought to myself that I wasn't gong to be paying for this pizza. I empathized with Brazil.
At 11:16 there was a knock at my front door. It was the pizza. (Actually the pizza deliveryman did the knocking). "That'll be $13.65", he said as he handed me the box and two cans of 7Up.
I told him he was late and that I was relying upon the provisions of the contract. I advised him that the pizza was forfeited by him to me, free.
He protested, denying liability saying it was my fault.
When I ask for an explanation of this ludicrous suggestion, he noted that I lived on a street called Robingrove. He said that the computer instructed him to go to a street called Robin Hood, which street did not exist. He told me that I must have misled the order and accordingly I could not rely upon my own wrongdoing in order to procure a free pizza. He added, "You must eat a free pizza with clean hands."
I promptly denied telling anyone that I lived on Robin Hood and I told him that I didn't give a hoot that he was a few minutes late even if he was trying to serve the pizza on the Sheriff on Nottingham. I insisted the pizza was mine free and clear of all claims. I also showed him my hands.
He then told me that in any event time was not of the essence. He said that he was only about 15 minutes late and that it was implicit in the contract that the purchaser would allow the vendor a reasonable extension for the delivery should same be requested.
I reminded him of my discussions with Chuck wherein I was assured that it was 30 minutes or mine free, gratis, no charge. He queried, "Who's Chuck?" He insisted that either I pay up or he would call the police.
I invited him into my house (the one on Robingrove) to use my phone to call the constabulary if he so chose. As we walked by my TV there was now a commentary on about third-world countries not paying their debts. He looked at me as Javert would have looked at Jean Valjean. I turned off the set. My case was clearly distinguishable.
He called the police. I listened in on the other extension. The receptionist asked what the nature of the emergency was, indicating that police resources were strained that evening due to a rash of accidents, robberies and assaults. When he told her what the problem was she said she'd have a cruiser over promptly. After he gave the lady my address, she asked, "Where is Robin Hood Road?"
I figured the police would arrive in 3 hours. Had the pizza arrived as fast as the police, I would have been eating sizzling and paid for pizza.
The cops weren't taking chances. "Bring out the pizza," bellowed an officer through his bullhorn.
After a couple of minutes the officer waved away the back up cruiser. The other two officers promptly took off their bulletproof vests.
The lead officer took out his black book and pencil in hand he asked eloquently, "OK, what's up eh?"
I started to unload but he indicated he wanted to hear submissions firstly from the pizza man, who identified himself as Frank.
Frank insisted that I was trying to retain his pizza without a colour of right. He then rambled on about me misleading the computer by advising Chuck, who he said did not even exist, that I lived on Friar Tuck Road, which also did not exist.
I started to protest and the officer asked to see the pizza. I handed the pizza (now cold, the way they usually deliver it) to the policeman. He carefully inspected it and marked his initials on the box.
I asked him to return my pizza, advising him of the vendor's representation that the pizza would reach my house within 30 minutes or it's free. He had a short huddle with Frank and turned to me and said, "That was a mere puff".
I protested arguing that it was a condition going to the root of the contract. I insisted I would never have ordered the pizza on the strength of a mere puff.
The officer and Frank had another huddle and the officer replied, "This case is distinguishable from the Carbolic Smoke ball case".
I told them they could keep the pizza.
After these merry men left my house, I realized they had forgotten about the 7Ups. I pondered the situation. I considered calling up chuck or his alias and having the outfit pick up the 2 cans. Then again I didn't want them to come by at midnight and wake up some poor guy on Little John Street.
On the other hand I considered drinking them. Forget it. I took the 2 cans and dumped them into the trash. The way things were going that evening I had a sneaking suspicion that one of the cans was probably inhabited by a snail.
There is a pizza outfit in town that boasts that if you order a pizza and it does not arrive within 30 minutes, it's yours free. Caveat pizza emptor!
I was curious to see how anybody could possibly bake and deliver a pizza within 30 minutes. My usual pizza man, when asked how fast it'll take, retorts, "Twenty minutes". Subsequently it hits my doorstep piping cold about an hour later. I always get the feeling the driver is instructed to deliver everyone else's pizza firstly, and that the boss, in referring to my pizza says to the driver, "He likes his cold; why don't you go to his house via Milwaukee."
And so I recently decided to go for it. Hey, it was guaranteed to arrive quickly and hot. I placed my order and when I queried, the gentleman, one Chuck, assured me that I would have my order delivered within 30 minutes from the time he said goodbye or it was mine free.
My kitchen clock read 10:33 P.M. If all went well I would be enjoying either a hot pizza while watching the news or alternatively a free pizza while watching David Letterman. Then again if all went well the wolf should have been able to enjoy that third little pig.
I started waiting in anticipation. I had visions of a large assembly line with bakers frantically working, almost like in E.R. trying to save the order. "Johnson, pass the mushrooms, STAT".
Suddenly at 10:47 my doorbell rang. It couldn't be. It wasn't. It was only the newspaper delivery boy asking for payment.
Tension continued to mount. It was now 10:57. I saw no cars on my street. I started to feel like part of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. I recalled the thriller, "North by Northwest" in which Cary Grant nervously waits on an isolated highway for a mysterious character to pull up in a car and suddenly to his shock he is attacked from the sky by an assassin piloting a small airplane. I cautiously ventured to gaze into the sky.
It was now 11:02 and the news was on. There was some mention about Brazil not paying its debts. I thought to myself that I wasn't gong to be paying for this pizza. I empathized with Brazil.
At 11:16 there was a knock at my front door. It was the pizza. (Actually the pizza deliveryman did the knocking). "That'll be $13.65", he said as he handed me the box and two cans of 7Up.
I told him he was late and that I was relying upon the provisions of the contract. I advised him that the pizza was forfeited by him to me, free.
He protested, denying liability saying it was my fault.
When I ask for an explanation of this ludicrous suggestion, he noted that I lived on a street called Robingrove. He said that the computer instructed him to go to a street called Robin Hood, which street did not exist. He told me that I must have misled the order and accordingly I could not rely upon my own wrongdoing in order to procure a free pizza. He added, "You must eat a free pizza with clean hands."
I promptly denied telling anyone that I lived on Robin Hood and I told him that I didn't give a hoot that he was a few minutes late even if he was trying to serve the pizza on the Sheriff on Nottingham. I insisted the pizza was mine free and clear of all claims. I also showed him my hands.
He then told me that in any event time was not of the essence. He said that he was only about 15 minutes late and that it was implicit in the contract that the purchaser would allow the vendor a reasonable extension for the delivery should same be requested.
I reminded him of my discussions with Chuck wherein I was assured that it was 30 minutes or mine free, gratis, no charge. He queried, "Who's Chuck?" He insisted that either I pay up or he would call the police.
I invited him into my house (the one on Robingrove) to use my phone to call the constabulary if he so chose. As we walked by my TV there was now a commentary on about third-world countries not paying their debts. He looked at me as Javert would have looked at Jean Valjean. I turned off the set. My case was clearly distinguishable.
He called the police. I listened in on the other extension. The receptionist asked what the nature of the emergency was, indicating that police resources were strained that evening due to a rash of accidents, robberies and assaults. When he told her what the problem was she said she'd have a cruiser over promptly. After he gave the lady my address, she asked, "Where is Robin Hood Road?"
I figured the police would arrive in 3 hours. Had the pizza arrived as fast as the police, I would have been eating sizzling and paid for pizza.
The cops weren't taking chances. "Bring out the pizza," bellowed an officer through his bullhorn.
After a couple of minutes the officer waved away the back up cruiser. The other two officers promptly took off their bulletproof vests.
The lead officer took out his black book and pencil in hand he asked eloquently, "OK, what's up eh?"
I started to unload but he indicated he wanted to hear submissions firstly from the pizza man, who identified himself as Frank.
Frank insisted that I was trying to retain his pizza without a colour of right. He then rambled on about me misleading the computer by advising Chuck, who he said did not even exist, that I lived on Friar Tuck Road, which also did not exist.
I started to protest and the officer asked to see the pizza. I handed the pizza (now cold, the way they usually deliver it) to the policeman. He carefully inspected it and marked his initials on the box.
I asked him to return my pizza, advising him of the vendor's representation that the pizza would reach my house within 30 minutes or it's free. He had a short huddle with Frank and turned to me and said, "That was a mere puff".
I protested arguing that it was a condition going to the root of the contract. I insisted I would never have ordered the pizza on the strength of a mere puff.
The officer and Frank had another huddle and the officer replied, "This case is distinguishable from the Carbolic Smoke ball case".
I told them they could keep the pizza.
After these merry men left my house, I realized they had forgotten about the 7Ups. I pondered the situation. I considered calling up chuck or his alias and having the outfit pick up the 2 cans. Then again I didn't want them to come by at midnight and wake up some poor guy on Little John Street.
On the other hand I considered drinking them. Forget it. I took the 2 cans and dumped them into the trash. The way things were going that evening I had a sneaking suspicion that one of the cans was probably inhabited by a snail.
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© 2007 Marcel Strigberger. This article CANNOT be copied or reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the Author.
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