A professional woman in her early-forties comes into our coffee and donuts place.

Customer: “Cappuccino with no milk.”

Me: *Confused* “Would you like soy milk?”

Customer: *While looking at her phone* “No, I said no milk.”

Me: “Are you looking for an espresso?”

Now she looks up, incredibly frustrated.

Customer: “No! I want a cappuccino with no milk.”

Me: “Ma’am, a cappuccino only has two ingredients: milk and espresso. If there isn’t any milk, it’s just an espresso.”

Customer: “How stupid do you have to be to not be able to fulfill a simple request?! Just make me a f****** cappuccino with no milk, and stop asking questions!”

I make an americano and hand it to her. She looks at the coffee and then at me.

Customer: “What the f***?”

She walked out and threw the americano in the garbage.

I work at a restaurant located inside of a bar. The bar owns the building and all of the tables are owned by the bar. We occupy a corner of the room with counters surrounding us and we dont serve the food to tables, we give customers buzzers and page them to come get their food when it’s ready.

Because of our location in the bar, many customers just assume they can buy alcohol from the food counter with their meal. Another thing to note is that we have no control over special events or where in the room they are located, so it’s very common that bands set up their speakers right next to where customers are ordering.

One day, we have a LGBTQ event with loud music and speakers right next to the counter when a drag queen comes up and tries to order. I’m 16 at the time and have only been here for a few months.

Queen: Do y’all have any (muffled)

Me: I’m sorry, I can’t quite hear you.

Queen: Do you guys still have cranberry (muffled)

Me: I’m sorry, I still couldn’t hear you. Are you asking about our salad? It has cranberries in it?

Queen: Oh, you guys are out of cranberry tequila? That’s too bad.

The music is now in between songs and we can hear each other.

Me: Oh, tequila? Yeah we dont have alcohol here. This is the food corner. You are gonna want to go to the bar over on the other side of the room.

Queen: Oh, thanks dear.

I definately understand why she would’ve been confused about what section sell what, but one of my coworkers was really confused because I was very clearly too young to have my smart serve and also we have a sign that says order your food here. It was over a year ago now, but I still remember it as my first story I could tell about work that people found interesting.

I was working at this school many years ago, in a small town where some 40% of the inhabitants were Finnish immigrants. Most worked at [Major Corporation] in the nearest city. That city also had a large number of Finnish immigrants, and there were entire work teams at [Major Corporaton] with just Finnish workers. Thus, only one of them needed to be able to speak and/or understand Swedish, and the rest got by speaking Finnish.

One day, the phone rang in the teachers’ lounge. I answered, and on the line was this elderly Finnish lady who apparently only knew a handful of words in Swedish. I gathered that she was trying to reach the pool house. It was in the same area as the school, and they partly shared a name. I quickly found their number in the phone book, and I explained to her that she had reached the school and gave her the number she had to call. She just talked over me, saying, “Pool house,” over and over again. So, I hung up.

A couple of minutes later, the phone rang again. It was the same lady. This time I explained to her in English that she had the wrong number and gave her the correct one. She still just talked over me.

Ten minutes later, the lovely lady called again. This time, I switched to French. She continued to just talk over me.

Five minutes later, she called again. Once again, she kept talking over me, instead of admiring my amazing explanation in Spanish. After I hung up, I unplugged the phone.

And yes, we did have a Finnish teacher, but she split her time between two schools and this was her day at the other school. My Finnish is less than rudimentary; I can’t even count to ten. I do know the phrase for not covering the radiator in Finnish (as does probably 90% of the Swedish population). Unfortunately, this amazing knowledge was useless in this situation.

Johnny whole personality is “you can’t tell me what to do” honestly it’s like a child has somehow become 36 and now barely holding in to a job in our factory.
He’s allowed to get away with it, because his dad is a manager here, as far as I know his dad has never pulled rank, but everyone seems nervous to do anything.

I run the opposite shift that Johnny’s on, when the other manager calls in sick, I stay late to ensure his shift gets started OK.

Johnny staggers in late, and seems to be having trouble staying up right.

Me: what time do you call this?

Johnny: who the hell are you?

Me: today, I’m you boss. And your late.

Johnny: pff whatever.

Me: have you been drinking?

Johnny : do you nit know who my dad is? Oh wait here he is. Your in trouble now.

His dad: whats going on?

Me: I think Johnny’s drunk, he smells like he’s soiled himself.

Johnny: thats a lie, I didn’t. Dad tell him to f*** off.

His: Johnny go home, your embarrassing me and yourself.

Johnny: he’s lying!

His dad: I can smell the booze from here, go home before I suspend you.

Johnny: your not my boss.

(That’s true, he doesn’t have any authority over Johnny, he looks at me slightly lost.)

Me: yeah, I am though. Suspended , unfit for work and a danger to others. You can try to fight it with HR tomorrow, today. Go home

(He reluctantly leaves, luckily his dad follows him out and takes his car keys from him. Eventually Johnny’s dad take another role in the company on a separate site. Johnny gets fired two months later.)

My mother had me when she was very young: my grandparents disowned her for choosing to keep me, and my father was not involved in my life. My mother and I were extremely close as a result.

One of our favorite things to do together was cooking. We couldn’t afford to eat out or expensive foods, but my mother had a gift for turning almost anything into a gourmet meal. I was insanely proud of her and wore the term “Mama’s Boy” like a badge of honor.

When I was 17, my mother became ill and went quickly. I expected to end up in foster care until I turned 18, but my father was contacted and agreed to allow me to move in with his family (his wife, my 5 year old brother, and my 7 year old sister).

My father and stepmother were not cruel to me, but they didn’t pay much attention to me either. However, I did end up becoming extremely close to my brother and sister and I loved spending time with them. One night my father and SM were working late and asked if I would babysit and make sure that the kids got dinner. They asked that I make them burgers and fries.

I couldn’t resist showing off a bit. My mother had a fantastic recipe for hamburgers that only used a few basic ingredients and I served the kids her special burgers, seasoned fries, and balsamic carrots. They loved everything and even asked for more carrots.

When my father and stepmother got home, the kids raved to them about their dinner and told them that (my name) should always cook for them. I noticed that my stepmother looked a little annoyed by this.

The next day SM confronted me, accusing me of making her “look bad” in front of her children and demanding an apology. I can have a bad temper, but I tried to stay calm and told her that I was not going to apologize for feeding my siblings a meal that they enjoyed.

She then asked “Where did a BOY learn to cook anyway?” I was confused and told her that my mother had taught me. She went storming off, and then looked back and said “I bet it was terrible and (brother and sister) were only being polite!”

The next year was tense, but I finally was able to move out into my own place and I’m now training to be a professional chef, using the recipes and skills my mother taught me. Since they still sometimes need a baby-sitter, my father and SM do drop the kids off at my house from time to time, with the understanding that if I’m going to feed these children, I’m not going to half-ass it.