After my bout of laundry-generating digestive disobedience I drafted a letter to the corporate head office I felt was responsible and voiced my concern for the cleanliness in one of their franchise locations. I didn't really want anything more than an "I'm sorry to hear about your shits without giggles--we'll give that kitchen some elbow grease and get'er back to 'like new' condition"--which is what I fully expected would happen.
Days turned to a week or so, and nothing.
In the meantime, the Manager of the Edmonton Coast Plaza (whom I wrote immediately following my letter to the offending restaurant so that I could heap praise on him and his crew for a series of terrific experiences I have had staying with them) responded to my email in under an hour. The Coast Plaza in Edmonton is class all the way.
Then, one evening my phone buzzed to life. Lo and behold--and Edmonton number! And you'll never guess who it was.
The Capital City Health Unit.
The fella I got was a case study in nervous telephone mannerisms, which is why I am willing to cut him some slack in this following exchange:
H- "So, Mr. Goddard--"
B- "Brad is fine."
H- ". . .oh. . . okay--Brad. Brad, you experienced some diarrhea recently after eating at R----'s?"
B- "I actually had some diarrhea and vomiting."
B- "At the same time."
B- "Yeah. It was pretty wild there for a while."
H- "Oh! Sounds serious."
B- "Yeah--I didn't know which end to aim at the toilet. Hahaha."
H- "Oh. Uh. . . did you--I mean--did you go and take a stool sample at a clinic or hospital?"
B- "Nope. I rode it out. When things settled down the next morning, I stopped thinking I was going to die and sat down with a flat ginger ale and watched Coronation Street."
H- "Oh. So no stool sample, huh?"
B- "No--but if you have some forensic guys, I could give you my underpants. Their blue light would definitely find something; I had a bit of an accident."
H- "Oh--we don't have the resources for that type of thing."
My best joke in the food poisoning arsenal, and that's his comeback? Not enough resources?
I didn't know if I should tell him that I was kidding, or that I would write a letter to my MLA requesting funds for a CSI: Capital City Health Department to process dirty trousers.
At the end of the conversation, H determined inconclusively (because I hadn't pooped in a cup) that judging by the timeline and symptoms it sounded like food poisoning. I told him that his professional opinion made me feel much better.
I was joking again.