Column: Missoula's Dish

Curbside Service: Bitterroot Motors Meets the Waitress on Wheels

By Danielle Lattuga, 6-10-08

Every seat in the house was full.  The front door was propped open and I welcomed the slightly cooler waft of air that hit me upon exiting the kitchen.  People milled about on the sidewalk, sipping IPA’s and Prosecco, while they waited for their tables. 

Not a minute passed when my hands were empty.  I stepped swiftly through the restaurant and I felt my hips swing as I pivoted and turned to navigate tables, patrons, doors, and co-workers who spun and swirled around me. The rise and fall of voices, the clanging of silverware and plates provided the soundtrack punctuated by “oohs and ahhs,” laughter, and kitchen clockwork. I felt the heat on my cheeks and belly, not only from the warm evening, but from the many bodies filling the space around me.

This was the kind of night that carried me through the slow seasons—a night when the restaurant felt like the center of the world and we rose to meet such a lofty feeling with the grace and energy of gears moving in unison.  Yes, the well-oiled machine . . . a gentle, but commanding steady hum. 

The thing is, I really know nothing about a well-oiled machine, so when the one that I rely on becomes broken, I feel a bit helpless.  Yes, the confident, well-informed waitress, who abandons her klutzy nature on the dining room floor, has just dropped her plates.  I can fix a weed whacker, but I can’t fix my truck.

I am not a fan of vehicular goings-on.  I spent many years in Missoula without a car, and didn’t really become dependant on one, until the last couple of years.  It kills me to use the resource, plus, I’ve never been a fan of traveling faster than my own feet can carry me (unless they are strapped to a pair of skis, or a snowboard). 

Therefore, when it comes time to make a repair to my truck, I am reluctant to act on it, and not at all thrilled about sinking cash into it.  This was the state I was in recently upon discovering that my driver’s side seatbelt was busted.  With all my natural inclination to do so, this was one repair that I couldn’t ignore.  I commute 25 miles to and from town.  I see what happens on the highway.  Not wearing a seatbelt hasn’t been an option since the days of my youth—the carefree seventies, when children played twister in the back of their Mom’s station wagon on the way to the Grand Union to get groceries—but especially since a seatbelt saved my sister’s life when she totaled the family car on a dirt road in the back woods of Vermont.

A co-worker breaking my tailgate handle within days of the seatbelt merely ensured that I would call the mechanic.  I really like hauling stuff.  It’s the one thing I like about driving: getting rid of stuff, and picking up dirt for my garden. Broken tailgate, no cargo.

Being female, and virtually uneducated about the mechanics of automobiles, I have a natural distrust of mechanics, and dealerships in general.  I assume that I am going to be bull-shitted and ripped off, which is kinda’ funny, because I can’t say that in all my years of owning a vehicle, I have really been ripped off, by a mechanic (insurance companies are another thing altogether).  Yet, I always seem to revert back to the awkward pre-teen persona when I enter the auto repair domain—nervous, not entirely trusting and knowing what I want, but not sure how to get it.

In a restaurant, you trust that you are going to have a pleasurable experience--that is the expectation. But most of us don’t look forward to spending money on our own cars, unless we’re pimpin’ out our ride with a sweet paint job and lighted rims or a bumpin’ stereo system.

Even if a mechanic is a stand-up knowledgeable and skilled dude (or dudette), they already have expectations stacked up against them. When I think of it this way, it makes my job look like cake (well, it helps that I serve cake, too.)

When I pulled into the service entrance at Bitterroot Motors a couple of weeks ago- I felt the nervousness rise from my gut, and almost looked in the mirror to make sure I didn’t have any food stuck in my braces (circa 1990). 

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to pull into the garage entrance (a “please pull into the garage” sign would have helped a novice like me), so I parked at the entrance and slid out from behind the wheel to see a row of work stations along the left side of the garage. Each station was fronted with a black board that had customer’s names listed on them.  They even spelled “Lattuga” correctly, and that work station belonged to John, the man I had spoken to when I made the appointment.

While John entered my info, another man gathered the necessary info from obscure locations on my truck. I was offered a ride back to work, but had lined one up.  I told John I would probably need one for the way back and he said that wouldn’t be a problem.

Later in the morning, John called me with a quote and asked for my approval. Then he called me to tell me that the tailgate was fixed, but that he would have to order a part for the seatbelt. 

He patched me through to a man named “Rich,” so I could arrange for a ride.

“Hi, can you come pick me up, so I can have my truck for the weekend?”

“I’m sorry; I don’t think we have enough gas to do that.”

I could hear the smile in his voice.

“What, you don’t have enough gas?  I’m not surprised.”

“Where are you?”

“. . . If I’m not out front when you get there, just come inside.  And if nobody’s there, just yell my name- since my desk is downstairs.”
Rich came to pick me up in a white minivan and we drove clear out to the airport to shuttle another woman back to the dealership. On the way, he asked what was wrong with my truck.  I told him that the guys had fixed my tailgate, but that my seatbelt was still broken. 

“That’s a safety issue.”

“Yeah, I’ve been buckling into my passenger buckle and not carrying any passengers. I live out of town, so I drive the highway a lot.  It makes me nervous.”

He crinkled his brow.  “If I can get you a rental car for the weekend, will you take it?”

I giggled awkwardly.  “Well, yeah, if you could . . .”

He was on his phone before I could finish. The guy he talked to said they couldn’t do it because I didn’t buy the truck from them . . . yadee yada yada. 

I thanked Rich for trying.  I really appreciated that he even thought of it.  Over the course of the next 30 minutes, I learned a good deal about Rich’s life.  He was full of jokes.  I understood why he was good at his job.

When we pulled into Bitterroot Motors, he went back to it: “I’m going to try one more time to get you a car.  I’ll meet you at the check-out desk.”

“Okay, you really don’t have to do this.  I appreciate your help.”

I walked up to the counter and was retrieving my key when Rich came jogging in. 

“We’ve got you set up.  We’re getting you a car.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, just come in here . . .”

I stepped into the office behind the check out counter and he collected my license and insurance.

“So, your seatbelt’s broken, huh?” One of the guys was chatting with me while I waited. 

“Yeah.”

“Ford will pay for the rental,” Rich piped in.

“No they won’t.” The guy smiled at me. 

“It’s a safety issue.”

“Ford won’t honor it.”

I understood that Bitterroot Motors was taking care of me—not that I needed to hear whether Ford would cover it to know that—but I didn’t mind. I never expected to be given a rental.

That’s the thing about exemplary customer service, you don’t see it coming. It’s easy to tell when customer service is poor; you can make a whole list about what went wrong.  With good customer service, you may not notice anything, except that nothing went wrong. It’s excellent customer service that gets people talking about the pleasant surprises that make loyal customers. 

“They wrote my name on the board, so I knew where to go!”

“They actually came in below the quote!”

“They GAVE me a rental car for the weekend!”

Subtle touches, individual qualities, plain compassion for your fellow human.  And I was just looking to come out of it without being ripped off. It wasn’t just a well-oiled machine; it was a ride in a limousine. 

Like this story? Get more! Sign up for our free newsletters.