Is This the Worst Pizza Place in the Bay Area?
“I think [Harvard Business School] should write a case about your Domino’s, as it seems to defy all conventional wisdom about business.” — Pseudonymous Yelper
By Sam Karimzadeh
We were tired. Hungry. A friend of mine was moving out of Oakland, so after lugging boxes and furniture up and down flights of stairs, it was time for the customary beer and pizza to be provided to the friends of the friends who were moving.
We placed the order online at 3:53 p.m. The delivery time was estimated to be between 20 and 50 minutes. The Broadway Street location was only eight minutes away, per Google Maps.
We watched the online “preparation meter”—an online odometer that lets you track your pizza order — tick ever closer to “Delivered” as the pizza was constructed. The progress screen froze at the quality-control stage — an omen of things to come.
My first call to see where the pizza was took place at 4:40 p.m.
Maybe I called a bit early. I was hungry and impatient, but considering that Domino’s was only eight minutes away, calling after 45 minutes wasn’t unreasonable. The manager specifically told me that the driver was on the way with the pizza. I didn’t ask for a refund — yet — but it was definitely on my mind. I suppressed it; it was just the hunger talking, right?
With the assurances of the manager, we waited patiently. Time was still on our side; we had plenty of daylight to move all of one human’s earthly belongings into the back of a U-Haul and rumble it down the 880 to San Jose.
5:14 p.m.
After waiting another half hour, I knew something was amiss. I called again. At this point, I was in full hangry mode. I wanted my pizza, and I wanted a refund, because this was, objectively, bullshit. I hate making problems for people with shitty jobs. But this pizza was a full half-hour late, and my mom didn’t raise a sucker.
The person on the phone once again assured me that the pizza was on the way and that they did not have the authority to give me a refund — only that I could cancel my order. We were all so hungry and were committed to these two pizzas. Once again we sat back and waited.
5:30 p.m.
Hangry Mr. Hyde is now at the helm, with Juris Doctor Jekyll long gone. I call again and immediately ask to speak to the supervisor. Once the supervisor takes the phone, I lay out a general timeline of the order, declare this situation unacceptable and demand a redress of grievances.
“This better be some Jesus pizza.”
The manager offers me a discount off of a future order—like I’m ever going to order Domino’s ever again. I counter with a demand that I both get the pizza and a refund. The manager OH SO GRUDGINGLY accepts. I ask when the driver will get here. She calls him while I wait on hold, picks the line back up and tells me he is on his way.
I respond with “That’s OK. I’ll stay on the line until the pizza is in our custody.”
As the pizza miraculously arrived, I remarked, “This better be some Jesus pizza.” In retrospect, I don’t know what “Jesus pizza” is. My blood sugar was low, and I wasn’t making too much sense. My guess is that a Jesus pizza is a pizza made of the body (dough) and blood (marinara) of Christ and is so good that it is the truth, the light and the way, and will totally absolve you of all your sins and literally rapture your hungry ass to heaven.
“I don’t actually believe this is a real business.”
— Daniel S., Yelp
A friend of mine went to the driver to get it. I followed just far enough to see the handoff.
“The pizza is in our custody. I repeat, the pizza is in our custody. Our business is concluded.” According to my friend who took the pizza, the driver, who appeared stoned, had remarked, “On the bright side, these are free pizzas.” The pizza boxes were stacked vertically, assuring that our pizzas would be all kinds of fucked up.
One of the pizzas looked like this:
Later on, one friend came down with really bad gas; the friend we helped move got E. coli food poisoning. Since I don’t dig on swine, I escaped the ordeal unscathed.
The garlic sticks didn’t even come with the garlic sauce. Do you know what garlic sticks are without garlic sauce? BREAD WITH SALT. That’s it. Some salty-ass bread.
The distribution of Yelp reviews is pretty insightful: two five-star reviews; three four-star reviews; six three-star reviews; eight two-star reviews; and finally, 108 ONE-STAR REVIEWS.
When we finally arrived back in San Jose, it was the story of the evening — the worst pizza-delivery experience any of us had ever experienced. Someone suggested a Yelp inquiry. We found that our experience was not an isolated one.
To be fair, there were some five-star reviews. And by “five-star reviews,” I mean it in the most literal sense I can — that there are only two. The most recent was in January of 2016 — almost a year and a half ago.
The rest of the distribution of Yelp reviews is pretty insightful: two five-star reviews; three four-star reviews; six three-star reviews; eight two-star reviews; and finally, 108 ONE-STAR REVIEWS. There are 127 total reviews, which, using math, means that 85 percent of the reviews are one star.
I notice that some of the reviews remark on the bulletproof glass at this location. Bulletproof glass? I’m guessing no one wanted to hold the place up for money but rather to avenge their shitty, shitty pizza experience.
Garfield J. wrote, “I am not religious, not one bit, but if there is such thing as hell, it must be something like the entire process of obtaining a Domino’s pizza.”
Richard H. wrote, “Having catsup on paper is only a step above this stuff.” You read that correctly — a step above.
Yobo B. lamented, “Oh, how I loathe you, Domino’s, and most especially the rookie managers that this store employs. You suck greatly.”
Lisa E. reminisced about her college days, then called for arson plus an employment program for displaced delivery drivers: “The pizza tasted like when you’d show up at one of those meetings in college because they offered free pizza, but then you get there, and the pizza has been sitting out for too long beforehand, so you end up eating a sad, not-hot pizza and try to convince yourself that it’s not so bad because you sacrificed an hour of your life that you’ll never get back for this. Maaaybe burn this location to the ground, but give the nice delivery man a job at a better one first.” How egalitarian.
Some shared my amazement at how this location could possibly stay in business.
Daniel S. wrote, “I don’t actually believe this is a real business.”
And JM H. had this to say: “As a businessperson myself, I have been amazed by your ability to create a customer-facing business that exclusively provides terrible experiences yet stays afloat. I think [Harvard Business School] should write a case about your Domino’s, as it seems to defy all conventional wisdom about business. What impresses me most is that your store so consistently calls me after I place a delivery order (I live 1,500 feet from the store) to tell me it will be 2.5–3 hours rather than the 20–30 minutes quoted, and requests that I just cancel the order. You must all be independently wealthy to so proactively turn away business. Congrats on your business acumen and wizardry.”
Examining the absolute torrent of visceral hatred directed at this Domino’s, we realized that this was no ordinary run-of-the-mill shitty pizzeria (shitzzeria?), but a shitty pizzeria of epic proportions. This shitty pizzeria beats all the shitty pizzerias in shittiness at every level that a pizzeria can be shitty. If there were a shitty-pizza Olympics, this Domino’s might be Michael Phelps. (Cue the Ron Burgundy “I’m not even mad, I’m impressed” meme.) At some point, we have to recognize the cultural value of having possibly the worst pizzeria in the state, the country and possibly the world.
Take pride, Oakland. Take pride.
