This Column Was Crafted by Skilled Artisans

I seem to be trapped in my own private Groundhog Day.

Here is what has happened: Before the holidays I expressed an interest in making pizza from scratch. After the holidays, a carton arrived from a cookware company with a French name, courtesy of my thoughtful daughter and son-in-law. I was excited to see that they had gotten me a ceramic pizza stone.

I was disappointed to see that despite being “ultra durable,” despite having been “formed and hand-finished by skilled artisans,” and despite being coated with a “scratch-resistant glaze,” my pizza stone was chipped.

The next day I called the cookware company with the French name and informed the nice customer service representative (CSR) who, disappointingly, did not have a French accent, that in its transit from her company’s skilled artisans to me, Item No. 1905116 had been dinged.

Her wholly satisfactory response: They would send a new stone my way post-haste; I was free to keep, discard, or give away the blemished one.

True to her word, a second box, identical to the first, arrived days later. I cut the tape, peeled back the flaps and beheld the shiny-smooth surface of my replacement stone – and then noticed that one of the handles, unprotected by the plastic foam that had swaddled the non-protruding parts of the disk, had broken off.

Next day, I called the cookware company with the French name again and, more in sorrow than in anger, told a different friendly CSR, who also did not have a French accent, that Item No. 1905116 had once again arrived a little worse for wear.

Much as I would hate to see anyone lose his job over botching my order, I gently suggested that management might want to address the skilled artisanship deficit in the shipping department.

Had the current crew previously worked as airline baggage handlers?

Aren’t the handles, like marble noses on ancient statues, the most vulnerable parts of a ceramic pizza stone and therefore the most deserving of extra protection?

Once more I was told, pleasantly and apologetically, that a replacement would be shipped forthwith and that I was once again welcome to keep the one-eared stone.

Day before yesterday the third stone arrived at my door. This one had been shipped “express 2-day.”

Surely, I thought, the third time’s the charm. With trembling hand, I opened the box.

Unlike the first two stones, the third was wrapped in brown paper. I lifted it out – and the handle crashed to the floor. I roared with laughter.

Two smaller potsherds remained in the box. I couldn’t wait to break the news to my friends at the cookware company the next day. 

For the third time I spoke to yet another friendly CSR without a French accent. For the third time, giggling, I related the sad fate of my ultra durable pizza stone. And for the third time I was promised a replacement.

This time, the friendly CSR said she would send an e-mail to the shipping department, cc’d to the customer service manager, urging them to take extra-special care with the packaging of stone No. 4.

 “Where are these things being shipped from, anyway?” I inquired.

She didn’t know. But they’re made in China.

“China?” I said. “I thought they were made in France.”

She double-checked. Made in China. I double-checked the company website. Made in France.

Now I don’t mean to cast aspersions on Chinese artisanship, but when you are told that an item is made of Burgundy clay by a manufacturer named Emile Henry, well, you picture expert ceramicists in berets who play petanques at lunchtime, guys with, you know, savoir faire to spare.

Still, it’s hard to be mad at a company that so readily does the right thing. I have to wonder, though: How long can they afford to ship four items for every one sold? I mean, I don’t have an MBA, but as a business model this seems unsustainable.

And is this to be my life from now on?

Weekly speed-dial calls to the cookware company with the French name?

Weekly descriptions from me, the aggrieved would-be pizza maker, of the crack, the scratch, the pockmarks on my fourth, then fifth, then sixth pizza stone?

Weekly apologies and assurances from the latest friendly CSR who does not sound like Simone Signoret that I will get a new one and may keep the damaged one?

If so, I’m going into the pizza business.

With one of those nice customer service representatives from the soon-to-be-defunct cookware company with the French name working the counter and me cranking out the pies in the kitchen, I think I can elbow my way into our little college town’s crowded pizza market.

With all those ultra durable stones, it would be a shame not to.