My wife and I are travelling through a very small town and stop at a restaurant the hotel staff recommended.

Hostess: “I’m sorry, but we just had a couple of big parties come in. We have a really long wait right now.”

Me: “Well, how long?”

We’re from a city of over one million people, so we’re expecting well over an hour because of her stressed-out look and what she said.

Hostess: “About ten to fifteen minutes.”

Me: *Pauses* “Yeah, we can handle that.”

We waited about seven minutes before we were shown to a table. I guess there are advantages to small-town life.

I work as a chef, and I’m mainly on the salads. I get an order for a salad with added grilled salmon, cooked well done. I call out the salmon, because the grill is on the other side of the kitchen, so I work on the salad.

I get it done, and it’s just waiting on the salmon. Normally, our orders take less than ten minutes, but the salmon takes a while. Eventually, it goes out.

A couple of minutes later, it comes back and the people working in the front of the house say it has too much dressing. Not a big deal, but they want a new salmon, still well done.

Salmon isn’t cheap, so it’s strange that the people in front told us to remake it without them having to pay for the extra. We remake it, but it comes back again with the same problem, and the people in front tell us to just put the dressing on the side… again with a new salmon.

Two weeks later, we had the same issue. I didn’t find out if it’s the same person, but I have a hunch. Each time, the person complained about how the salmon wasn’t well done. The salmon was cooked well done each of the six times that we made the salad!

On Fridays, I do doubles. So, I open the restaurant at 10:45 am and find out I’m also the closer. We close at midnight. I do three doubles a week, so I’m used to it.

I get a six-top of women at nine pm, several of them wearing attire representing a particular political figure. I get them all cocktails, appetizers, entrees, and more drinks all without a hitch. One of the ladies stops me at my point-of-sale station and asks if we do anything special for birthdays. We don’t, but I offer dessert and she orders fried Oreos and ice cream.

I rummage around the kitchen and find birthday candles and light them and deliver the desserts to the table with happy birthday wishes along with plates and spoons. I go by a few minutes later to see if they need more drinks when one of the women aggressively shows me a dessert plate that has a teeny-tiny speck of food on it. Granted, it does look less than clean, and I profusely apologize and let them know I’ll bring a clean plate. She really tears into me.

Woman: “This is appalling. This is the worst dining experience we’ve ever had! I need to see your manager.”

I get my manager and she goes over for more abuse. She comps an entree and the dessert. I drop the bill off, explain the discount, and offer my sincerest apologies. They stick around for another hour or so and then they all head out the front door.

Me: “Thanks for coming in. Goodnight!”

Woman: *Shouting* “You c***!”

And she left. I went to pick up the bill and, of course, they’d stiffed me — no tip on a $200 tab. Wow. Here’s the thing industry people don’t know. If you stiff me, I still have to tip out the bar, the hostess, the expo, and the busser, and I make less than minimum wage.

To all my industry peeps: stay safe and keep your head up. I love you and appreciate all you do!

I am home around Christmas, feeling a little sick, when I get a knock at my door. I open it to see a delivery driver there with some food.

Driver: “I have a gift delivery for [My Name].”

Me: “Yes, that’s me. Who is it from?”

Driver: “I don’t know, I just deliver the food!”

He hands it over to me, and I see a note from a friend who wishes me a merry Christmas and to get well soon. I go ‘aww’, say thanks to the driver, and go to close the door.

Driver: “Ahem, ma’am.”

Me: “Yes?”

Driver: “My tip?”

Me: “Oh… I… it’s a gift.”

Driver: “And I delivered it.”

I am a little flummoxed by this. While I usually agree with tipping drivers, this was an unexpected gift, and I would have assumed the tip was covered by my very generous friend. I manage to find three dollar bills in my wallet and hand them to him.

Driver: “Ugh…”

He tuts and storms off. I shout out Merry Christmas but he ignores me.

 I still don’t know what the proper etiquette was for that situation but I am pretty sure he didn’t meet his end either!

I’m training as a cook in a fine-dining restaurant. The head chef tells me on my first day to take home any leftovers I want that would otherwise get thrown out anyway; everyone in the kitchen does it, and many servers also pack little lunch bags for themselves every day.

I’m surprised, because any other food service place I worked at before was very strict with leftovers and meals for workers, sometimes even making us pay full price if we ate stuff that was going to be thrown out or could not be sold for some reason.

One day, the chefs miscalculate the savoury tarts they need for a special dinner and we end up with two whole trays left over. After everyone has had their pick, I begin stacking the last tarts — at least fifteen or so — in a to-go container.

Head Chef: “Woah, you really like those, don’t you? Are you going to be eating them for the whole week?”

I’m nervous, because I’m still fairly new at this place and wondering if I misjudged the situation and shouldn’t take more than maybe one or two for myself.

Me: “Actually, I had an idea. I walk past [Train Station that is a well-known hangout/sleeping place for many homeless people] on my way home, and I was gonna hand them out to anyone who wants some. They’re good to eat cold, right?”

Head Chef: “Absolutely. That’s a wonderful idea. Here, let’s pack some sweet tarts, too.”

I’m relieved he’s not actually mad, and many of the homeless people are happy about the free food. A few weeks later, I come into work after a big Christmas party booking the day before, and the head chef waves me over.

Head Chef: “So, we have about twenty leftover Christmas dinners in the walk-in fridge upstairs. I told the night crew to keep them for you for the train station. Make sure to tell me before you leave, so we can heat them up and pack ’em to go, okay?”

I was a bit flabbergasted. True to his word, I found several trays of roast goose, sauce, dumplings, veggies, and red cabbage in the fridge, and he helped me with reheating and packaging them after the dinner rush.

Thanks to the attention of a very conscientious head chef, a whole group of homeless people were treated to a first-class Christmas meal. That was the point at which I realised I was quite lucky to get a trainee position at his restaurant and learn from him.

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