Customer: “I’d like a [burger combo] meal, and the… uh… the…” *Mumbles*

He says the last item so quietly and softly that I don’t hear it.

Me: “Sorry, sir, what was that last item?”

Customer: *Loud whisper* “The salad. It’s not for me! It’s for my girlfriend!”

Me: “Of course, sir.”

Customer: “Can you like… hide the salad? I don’t want people to think I’m gay.”

Me: “Eating lettuce is homosexual?”

Customer: “Well, no, but… you know.”

Me: *Cocking head in confusion* “No, I really don’t.”

Customer: “It’s a kinda gay meal! It’s not like it’s a steak or a burger or something! Look, just double-bag it and keep it separate from my other stuff.” 

Me: “Okaaaay? Can I get a name for the order?”

Customer: “Brian.”

I take his order, but it’s my manager who puts it all together. (He’s one of those awesome managers who works the line with us). He also heard the entire conversation. 

Manager: “That’s one Pride Special Rainbow Salad for Brian! With extra pink radish!”

Brian is red but ignoring my manager.

Manager: “One Pride Special Rainbow Salad for Brian? No? Okay, well, it’ll sit here along with the burger and fries until it’s taken!”

After a good couple of minutes, Brian sheepishly ran up to the counter, grabbed the bags, and leaves. I think he was weighing up his options of complaining and causing a scene, or just getting his girlfriend her food as quickly as possible.

I step outside to take out the trash, and I see one of our customers rummaging through it, picking out half-eaten items with a fork!

Me: “Sir, that is incredibly dangerous to your health, not to mention unhygienic and illegal. Please stop rummaging through the trash!”

Customer: “It’s not unhygienic! I’m using a fork!“

Customer: *Presenting a military ID* “What is your military discount?”

Me: “We don’t have one.”

Customer: “What?! Why not?”

Me: “Well, first of all, your ID states US Navy. We don’t even offer military discount to our own military, let alone that of a foreign country.”

Customer: “I’m not foreign! I’m American!”

Me: “You’re in Australia, mate.”

Customer: “Exactly! That means you’re the foreign one!”

Me: “Either way, we don’t offer military discounts.”

Customer: *Walking out, muttering* “Stupid foreign burger places!”

I’m sixteen, and I work in a Chinese-themed fast food place. It’s a big chain place that serves super-westernized versions of Chinese dishes. We aren’t an authentic Chinese place, and we’ve never pretended to be. Most of our clientele are happy with the self-scooping of General Tso’s chicken from our buffet, and the like.

One woman comes in who seems to snootily look down on us and all our food. It doesn’t take long before she complains.

Customer: “This isn’t real authentic Chinese food!”

Me: “No, ma’am.”

Customer: “But your store logo has a panda! That’s Chinese.”

Me: “That’s right, ma’am.”

Customer: “Well… aren’t you going to apologize?

Me: “Ma’am, I’m sorry that real Chinese cuisine doesn’t actually have fried wontons with cream cheese filling. I’m sorry that we just fry what came in the bag from a warehouse in California.”

Customer: “That’s not what I meant!” *Storms out*

Minimum wage, minimum f***s to give!

I manage a Mexican fast food place. We have an older man who comes in once a month and drives straight through the speaker to our window. At said window, he will look at me until I come over, and then he’ll start ordering.

Customer: “I’ll get a Venti Frappe, with caramel and…”

Then, midway through ordering, he realizes we are a taco place, and he drives off.

Once a month.

Every month.

For two years…