As a black American living in Germany, I’ve had my share of “unusual” experiences with strangers based on my skin color, whether it’s someone getting up and moving when I sit across from them on a bus or a smarta** teenager coming up to me and yelling, “Yo! Yo! Yo! Compton!”

My most memorable ones always involve small children, such as one child who removed her hand from her mouth and proceeded to rub her slobbery fingers on my cheek, causing her poor mother to turn bright red and profusely apologize.

But my favorite was an incident in which I was working in a restaurant sweeping up and a woman motioned me to come over. She motioned toward her daughter who looked about three or four.

Woman: “My daughter won’t eat her food and keeps watching your every move. I think you’re the first black person she’s ever seen. Can you say something nice to her?”

I made sure to put on a large smile, told her my name, and asked for hers — which she squeaked in a barely audible voice — complimented her stuffed dog that she was clutching, and gave her a fun-sized packet of jelly beans that employees include with kiddy meals. By then, she managed a smile, and her mother thanked me before I went on back to work.

They did come back to the restaurant a few other times after that, and the mother would always come to my register, with the child smiling brightly whenever she saw me.

I just hope the impression I gave will be a lasting one on that sweet child.

I work at a cafeteria which is located just under a fancy restaurant owned by the same owner. The restaurant has gotten a big group of tourists for the late evening, and they have a nice party.

My coworker and I (both women around twenty years old) are the only ones working in the cafeteria, which is more or less empty since it’s almost closing time.

She’s a beautiful young woman with elegant movements and fine features. I, on the other hand, am plainer; I use no makeup and let the pillow decide my hairstyle in the mornings.

While we’re working on closing for the night, one of the guests, a drunk man around thirty years old, comes down from the restaurant, stumbles up to us, and starts talking.

Drunk Guest: *Gesturing to my coworker* “Wow! You’re beautiful!” 

He’s continuously talking about how good she looks for quite a while, before he turns toward me.

Drunk Guest: “And you…” *cups his hands on his chest* “You got big boobs!”

Related:
Making A Boob Of One Self, Part 9
Making A Boob Of One Self, Part 8
Making A Boob Of One Self, Part 7
Making A Boob Of One Self, Part 6
Making A Boob Of One Self, Part 5

It is the Saturday night before Father’s Day. A table of four comes in around: it looks like mom, dad, and two adult children. It’s been a heck of a night, and I rush over to greet them and get their drink orders. When I return, I ask if they are ready to order or if they need a few more minutes to look at the menu. They ask for a few more minutes, so I rush off to make the thousand and a half salads I need for other orders. When I return:

Me: “Are we ready to order? Any questions?“

The mom asks about our calzones and pastas, eventually ordering a dinner with a salad, while the son orders a calzone and a salad. The dad is pointing between himself and his daughter.

Dad: “Y’all do half-and-half pizzas?”

Me: “Yes, sir.”

Dad: “Cool. We’re going to split a medium, half [specialty] and half [other specialty]. And a salad.”

Me: “One salad? Big or small?”

Dad: *Grunts* “Small.”

I start reading back everyone’s orders, and just as I’m about done, the dad interrupts me.

Dad: “I wanna use the coupon y’all sent me. The Father’s Day Special thing.”

Corporate often sends out coupons for holidays without telling our management. Fortunately, it isn’t too big of a deal as the coupons generally only apply to online orders, though sometimes my boss will honor it in-store if the customer prints it out so we can keep a paper trail.

Me: “Okay, I’ll have to check with my manager, as I personally am unaware of which coupon was sent out.”

Dad: “Yeah, hey, if you can do the coupon, make that medium a large.”

I find my manager taking a breather from the kitchen and ask about the coupon. He rolls his eyes and tells me to give him a minute to see if he can pull it up. I make the three salads, and as I’m taking them out, I stop by my manager again. He hands his phone to me, displaying the ad.

Manager: “$10 off a $50 or more online order. Valid only on Father’s Day. If he prints it out and places an order tomorrow, we will accept it. Or he can use it online.”

As I reach the table, I explain this to the dad. He stares at me.

Dad: “I gotta print it out? How am I supposed to do that when I’m sitting here? Y’all got a printer I can use?”

Me: “I’m sorry, we don’t. But you can print it out at home, and we can accept it tomorrow. Only tomorrow.”

Dad: *Exasperated sigh* “Man! Just give us the medium, then. And where’s the other salad? We each got one! Four people, FOUR SALADS!”

I race back to the salad table and quickly put together a fourth salad, annoyed since I specifically confirmed the order for three. When the rest of their food comes out, Dad is pretty quiet. The rest of the meal goes well, and as I’m getting ready to take their bill, I feel a bit sympathetic, understanding the disappointment of not being able to use the $10 off.

All of our takeout boxes have coupons printed on them, and I usually end up with a pocket full of them by the end of the night. I dig one out for $1.50 off of a medium and apply it to their $65 bill. I explain to Dad that although we couldn’t honor the other coupon, I was able to find a different, smaller discount that I could give him. In the nastiest tone, the dad laughs.

Dad: “Ha! A f****** dollar fifty. Like that’s gonna do much!”

When they left, I collected my $2 tip from the table and decided to screw sympathy and trying to do anything nice for customers.

Related:
The Couponator 25: The Cheese Explosion
The Couponator 24: My Funds, My Rules
The Couponator 23: The Time Destroyer
The Couponator 22: Coupons Of Mass Consumption
The Couponator 21: The FINAL Sale

Many years ago, when my now-grown, normally well-behaved children were small, one of them a toddler, we stopped at a small, family-oriented restaurant to eat; the name of the establishment even included the word “family” and the decor and ambiance were heavily child-themed. It was a weekday, between lunch and dinner rushes, and only one other table, on the far side of the room, was occupied, by a single, middle-aged man.

We’d been served our meals and were eating and quietly talking among ourselves. My toddler, to express his pleasure with his food, banged his spoon on the highchair tray a couple of times and laughed loudly, but he quickly settled back down to continue messily shoveling food into his mouth, babbling happily but not excessively noisily.

Suddenly, from across the room, there is a shout.

Customer: “Keep those d*** babies quiet; I came here to eat, not to watch a bunch of kids banging away, screaming, and throwing food!”

Not knowing how to react, I turned to look at the man having the fit as the waiter sprinted in his direction, just in time to see him knock his beverage over onto his plate then into his lap as he tried to catch it, also sending his plate flying off the table onto the floor and noisily shattering.

He then jumped up, slammed some bills onto the table, and bumped into the waiter, nearly knocking him off his feet as he stormed out the door shouting:

Customer: “F****** noisy, messy kids, keep the h***spawn at home where they belong!”

He practically sprinted toward a nearby hotel, flailing his arms and ranting, right by two other restaurants in the parking lot, neither of them particularly family-friendly.

Then, as the waiter apologized for the tantrum we’d witnessed and told the kids they’d done nothing wrong and were behaving better than many adults, I got to explain to my kids, per their inquiries, why a grown man could be so mean, make such a mess, and use “bad” words.

Here’s hoping he was just having a bad day and that wasn’t his usual demeanor!

Me: “Hello, [Chinese Takeaway].”

Caller: “Hi, I have a question. My son is allergic to nuts. He really wants satay sauce. Can you do it without the nuts in?”

I stare at the order screen in shock.

Me: “I’m sorry, but we can’t do it.”

Caller: *Getting angry* “And why not?”

Me: *Slowly* “Because satay sauce is peanut sauce; that’s the main ingredient.”

Caller: *Annoyed* “Well, another Chinese place did it for us! Why can’t you?”

Me: “Ma’am, they lied to you. They must have given you gravy; there is no way you can have satay sauce without nuts in.”