I work at a restaurant with very tall, very good milkshakes. Most of my coworkers are in agreement that the shakes are exceptional… save for [Coworker #1], who is allergic to dairy, and thus feels she has no business commenting on the shakes beyond the price per volume.

[Coworker #2], for reasons I do not and will never understand, is convinced that [Coworker #1] has to try one of these shakes, allergy be damned. [Coworker #1] has attempted and largely failed to get [Coworker #2] to back off until this exchange.

[Coworker #2] approaches [Coworker #1] with a vanilla shake in hand.

Coworker #1: “How many times do I have to tell you no?!”

Coworker #2: “Come on! Just try it, will you?”

Coworker #1: “If you try and feed me that shake, I will vomit on you.”

Coworker #2: “Come on! You’re exaggerating.”

Coworker #1: “No, I’m threatening you.”

[Coworker #2] abruptly went quiet, turned, and walked away.

Today was supposed to be my day off, yet they called me in, and like a sad, broke puppy, I went in.

Most of the night was great — I was bartending and it’s just more fun — except for one table.

This table had four kids with them. They asked for separate checks — of course. The table total was almost a hundred, and not a single one of them tipped. They also left the totals blank. So, filled with bartending bravado, I brought the tickets back.

Me: “Oh, my God, y’all, I’m so sorry. I think I took the wrong slips. I’m supposed to take the copy that has the tip and total written.”

But these jerks were immune to the shame and told me that I had the right copies. Instead, they wrote out a note to my manager saying how awesome I was.

Gee, thanks. I’m sure my landlord will take that. Maybe I can use it to buy my son new shoes.

Oh, wait, no. Obviously, that’s dumb.

I brought the note back to my general manager. (Even without a tip, I want them to know I’m on top of things.) It turned out that one of the people at the table was a former waitress at my restaurant. And after running me ragged, she and the rest of them didn’t leave me a penny. And for the record, I take care of my tables; they had refills, extra sauces, extra napkins, extra lemons, a splash of sour mix in the former waitress’s lemonade because it wasn’t lemony enough, etc.

I always thought that one of the trademarks of a service industry veteran is that we always tip. I was wrong.

I had some great people that made up for them (as it goes). But seriously, any industry person who thinks that an “attagirl” note is an acceptable tip needs to spend the rest of their lives with twelve-top tables of after-church customers.

I decide to try out a new restaurant in town. I walk in, take one out of literally half of the restaurant’s empty spaces and… wait. I wait some more, and before I know it I’ve waited for almost twenty minutes and the staff haven’t even shown any interest in doing their jobs.

When one of the waitstaff looks me dead in the eye and then turns her back on me, I decide to just stand up and leave. I leave a one-star review on their Google review page, noting that my review is the only review that is one-star, bringing an otherwise immaculate five-out-of-five rating to a 4.9.

The next day, I get an email from the review site, informing me that the owner has left me a comment. I assume they want to make amends, as they have left me their contact number. I make myself a nice cup of coffee, sit myself down, and call.

Restaurant Owner: “Hello?”

Me: “Hello, this is [My Name]. You left your number on my review?”

Restaurant Owner: “Ahh, yes. You must be One Star.”

Yes, he genuinely refers to me as “One Star”. Considering my name is on the review comment, this is not a great first step at amends.

Me: “Uhh… yeah, it’s [My Name]. I left the ‘one-star’ review on your page.”

Restaurant Owner: “Uh-huh, you see…. the reason why we have such good reviews before yours is that we want everybody to have a good experience with us.”

Me: “And this is relevant because…?”

Restaurant Owner: “Well, when you write reviews that are not strictly true, it gives off a bad impression, doesn’t it?”

Me: “Excuse me? What are you trying to say?”

Restaurant Owner: “Well, is there something you are perhaps not telling people in that review? Like how you waltzed by the ‘Please Wait To Be Seated’ sign?”

There was never any sign.

Me: “I beg your pardon? For your information, there was no sign whatsoever, and even if that was your policy, why did your staff show no interest in pointing it out rather than remaining glued to their phones?”

Restaurant Owner: “Look, we can pretend all we want, but that’s not the reason why you called, is it?”

Me: “Oh, really? So, according to you, not only am I a liar, but now you know my motive? Go on, then. Enlighten me.”

Restaurant Owner: “We will happily give you another chance in our restaurant, but I want that review deleted.”

I sputter a bit at this. How does a restaurant owner have such gall?

Me: “Neither of those notions is what I intend to entertain. And you know what? Once I have hung up this call, I will be adding this conversation to the next review. You do not speak to who pays your income like this, and you certainly do not tell them what they will or will not do.”

I hung up the call, and I made good on the promise of another review, bringing the 4.9 down to 4.8. I know it’s petty, but in the moment, they deserved it. Not long after, a lot of “anonymous” accounts sprung up posting five-star reviews, some of which tried denouncing my own. I wonder what sad and pathetic person would have to resort to that.

I answer the phone at the restaurant.

Customer: “I ate there yesterday, and you got me sick! What are you going to do about it?!”

Me: “I’m so sorry. When did you eat here, and what did you eat?”

Customer: “Fish and chips. I ate it during the football game.”

Me: “I’m so sorry. Did you see a doctor?”

Customer: *Long stream of swearing* “I want you to pay me.”

Me: “Wait, did you say during the game?”

Customer: “Yes!”

Me: “The Broncos?”

Customer: “Yes!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t open until 5:00 pm. The kickoff was at 11:00 am. There is no way you ate here during the game.”

Customer: “…s***.” *Click*

I work in a restaurant. It was a slow Wednesday, and this lawyer regular of mine reserved a table for himself and seven of his lawyer buddies for 4:00 pm.

I like these guys. They tend to show off sometimes — one of them usually arrives in his Cullinan (Rolls-Royce) or the Mulsanne (Bentley) with his chauffeur, and other ones brag about their courtroom successes — but mostly, they are a respectable bunch and they always leave at least a 40% tip. They know and remember me by name and always ask for me specifically.

I made a pretty good prix fixe menu for them; they completely trust me with ordering for them. They ordered a few bottles of Champagne. I let them bring their own scotch — Glenfiddich, twenty-six years old — and they even poured me a few drams. Everything was going swimmingly.

They rang up a total bill of around $2,000 with a 20% service charge added on top of that, and tipped me another $400.

However, they did not plan on leaving just yet. By that time, they were really tipsy, smoked some weed — it’s legal now here in NYC — and decided to stay and continue the fun. It was already closing time by then, but what the h***? I just let them stay since I was in charge of the shift.

Since I let them stay, they became even more friendly and kept tipping me every time I checked on them. I’m not talking about twenties or fifties — only straight-up hundred-dollar bills. I kind of let them smoke inside. F*** it — they were the only table there and one of them gave me extra $500 to kind of disregard the fact that they were smoking.

They ended up inviting some girls for champagne, had a grand time, and ended up leaving round 1:00 am, drunk, high and in a really good mood.

Only two people were working that day: my busser and me. I paid him $1,500, and I left with $2,300 in my pocket. So, yeah, it was a very good day — the most that I have ever made in one shift.

I guess there is no moral to the story; I just wanted to share my pleasant experience. Cheers! And may all of you have such fruitful shifts on weekly basis.