A Tale from the Other Side of the Pond...

When I was eighteen I had the opportunity to go to Germany. It was fun, and I learned some interesting things. One of the things I learned is that customer service works very differently over there. My (German) friend, who I was staying with, kept apologizing to me for how store clerks behaved. She'd lived here (in America) for a while, and apparently she'd gotten used to American store clerks.

Recently I read I'm a Stranger Here Myself by Bill Bryson. According to him, British customer service is pretty bad. Maybe it's a European thing? Anyway, here's Bill Bryson:

"My wife and I flew to London with the demented idea that we would try to get [our new apartment] more or less furnished in a week. I'm not sure if I had forgotten or if I never knew, but it came as a surprise to me to disover that the furniture sections of London department stores don't actually sell anything. They just put out attractive items to look at.

To ensure that no one buys anything, they generally leave these sections unmanned. I believe there are whole floors at John Lewis of Oxford Street that have not seen a member of the staff since just before the war. Here, and elsewhere, you can wander around for hours, waving credit cards and calling out 'Hello? Hello?' in perfect confidence that no one will ever come to serve you.

If by some miracle you find an employee who is willing to attend you, it would be wrong to assume that this means you will be able to conclude a transaction. We made this discovery on the second morning when we went to Peter Jones, another large and well-known department store, to buy a breakfast table for the kitchen. There were about eight types to choose from and, after a careful look, we made a selection.

'I'm afraid that one's been discontinued,' said the sales assistant.

'Then why, pray, is it on display?'

'We're waiting fo the new models to come in, and we didn't want to leave a blank space on the floor.'

But of course.

My wife and I conferred and went for our second choice. It wasn't a particular special table but it had a card on it saying that it was available and in stock, which meant at least we could take it away with us.

'We'll take this one,' I said

'Certainly, sir. We can have that to you by Monday of next week.'

'Pardon me?'

'Or the Friday of the following week at the very latest.'

'But the card says it's in stock,' I sputtered.

He favored us with one of those bland, condescending smiles that you only ever see on people in the British retail trade who are dealing with foreigners. 'Indeed, it is -- in our warehouse in Swindon.'

'So we can't have it now?'

'No, but you can certainly have it by the second Wednesday of next month.'

'But you just said Monday of next week or the following Friday at the very latest, or something,' I said, confused.

'Precisely, sir -- the third Tuesday of the month after next.'

[...]

It was like this for almost everything. The longest delivery date we were quoted was fourteen weeks when we ordered a sofa.

'Fourteen weeks?' I cried, aghast. Now excuse my rough colonial edges, but fourteen weeks is a period of time an American shopper cannot conceive of. To an American shopper there are just three spans of time: now, tomorrow at the very latest, and we'll look elsewhere. The idea of waiting fourteen weeks for anything, other than perhaps a baby, is unknown."