I had just started my first serving job at a chain seafood restaurant. Like many restaurants of this particular stature, we servers carried our own change, cash, and charge slips through the night and cashed out at the end of our shifts. Our managers told us over and over and over to never carry our cash in our order booklets and keep it in our pockets instead, but I liked having everything in one convenient place so I ignored their advice. 

One night, I was about an hour into my shift. I took a table’s order, made their salads, and then went to ring in their food, and noticed my booklet was gone, along with all my cash. I started looking around frantically for it. I got only passing sympathy from my coworkers as they worked their own tables, and I fell into a panic, not knowing what to do.

I eventually got a new booklet, retook the orders I needed to, and then continued as normal. Some coworkers told me that they saw my section partner walking around with her shirt untucked over her apron right about the time I started panicking about losing my booklet, and that a manager called her on it, and she promptly went to the back room to tuck in her shirt. This particular server who was my partner that night had been caught trying to steal other people’s tips a few times in the past. She, of course, denied it.

By the time I was told about this, she had already clocked out and left. I never before nor after saw anyone get their side work done and cash out that fast. I mentioned it to my managers but they just shrugged. What are they gonna do? The end of the night came and, of course, I was short by about $100, despite using all tips earned to make up my loss. I got written up and I went home with nothing but my hourly wage — just over two dollars — for my trouble.

My lesson was learned that night and I never kept my cash in my order booklet again. Despite no one being able to prove anything, I think the managers were fed up with my section partner that night because I only ever saw her partnered in the future with the veterans that she couldn’t pull anything on if she even tried.

Our restaurant has recently started a “semi-prepared” service. Customers pick up a meal that’s 90% done and complete it at home. This means we can serve dishes that aren’t easy to transport, but it requires that the customers do some work themselves, so we have a “home chef helpline” in case they have questions.

Caller: “Hi. So sorry if this is a silly question, but I’m looking at your menu and I want to make sure I do all the steps I need to at home.”

Employee: “Almost everything on our menu only needs basic kitchen equipment, so I’m sure we can resolve that! Was there a specific item or technique you’re looking at?”

Caller: “I’m looking at [family-sized dish], and I saw on your website that we could substitute in corn on the cob but I didn’t see any instructions on what we need for the corn on the cob.”

Employee: “Good news: the corn on the cob is ready to go. There’s nothing you need to do at home except butter it.”

Caller: “Oh, good! I was worried you were just going to give me corn and I was going to have cob it myself.”

Employee: “You mean… cook… it yourself?”

Caller: “No, no, like… I’ve only ever had just regular corn, you know? So I don’t know how to get it onto the cob.”

Employee: “It’s already… corn is… you don’t… Our corn on the cob is already cooked and you don’t need to worry about that.”

Related:
Diners Of The Corn

I work in an international-themed diner popular with tourists. Different tables have different themes from all over the world, and the menu is full of signature dishes from many countries. Our pies are stored in a large glass globe, with the continents etched on to them – very cool-looking in my opinion!

 A tourist family comes in and their young boy (maybe four or five) immediately sees the chocolate pie contained within the globe, and he is transfixed.

Me: “Hi, welcome to [Restaurant] what can I get you?”

Father: “We’re from New York; do you have any dishes from there?”

Me: “I’m afraid not, sir, as the menu theme is international. Was there something specific you were looking for?”

Mother: “This is ridiculous! What about our children? They can’t eat this foreign crap!”

Me: “We do a simple children’s’ menu, ma’am, that contains burgers and fries?”

Mother: “And for dessert? What are my children supposed to be rewarded with for good behavior?”

Weird question, but okay.

Me: “The children’s menu has a chocolate brownie and ice-cream, ma’am.”

Father: *Looking at the menu* “$5.95 for a brownie! That’s highway robbery!”

They continue in this vein for a while, and I finally get their orders down (with half the flavors or ingredients taken out because they sound “foreign.”) They are adamant that they are NOT ordering dessert for their son, even though he keeps whining for some. The parents stay quiet enough throughout the meal, staring at their phone mostly while their son remains generally well-behaved.

I am serving some other customers (we’re very busy) when the father storms up to me.

Father: “You’re trying to poison my son!”

I suddenly fear an allergic reaction and go into medical mode. As I am asking questions he points to his son, who is gulping down ice water and looks very uncomfortable.

Father: “How can you give him something so spicy!”

Me: “Sir, there’s nothing spicy on the children’s menu. I—”

I stop and look closer. The boy’s face is covered in chocolate, as are his fingers. I glance over to the glass globe and realize what has happened.

Me: “Sir, did your son, perchance, eat some of the chocolate pie from the bar?”

Father: “Certainly not, he—”

The father looks over at his son, looking properly as if he’s noticed him for the first time, including all the chocolate smeared everywhere.

Father: “—he… he might… you should have been watching him!”

Me: “Sir, that’s your job, not mine, although I do apologize for not noticing your son helping himself to our Montezuma chocolate pie, a delicious chocolate and chili recipe from Mexico.”

The father huffs and storms off. I got more ice water for the poor boy, but hopefully, that taught him a lesson about stealing food!

I made sure the pie was on their bill.

It’s an abnormally busy dinner rush, and I’m running around when I stop to greet two men that have just sat down in my section. I walk up to the table.

Me: “Hey, guys! How are we d—”

Customer: *interrupting* “What do a couple of guys gotta do to get some service around here?”

Having seen them enter, I know they’ve been in the building for less than two minutes.

Me: “Thank you for your patience. Can I get you something to drink?”

Customer: “I’ll have a [bottled beer].”

Customer’s Friend: “Oh, just a [draft beer]. Tall, please.”

I practically run back to the bar to grab their drinks. When I return, I ask for their order.

Customer: “We’re gonna have a large [specialty pizza]. And make it snappy!”

I plug their order into the computer and continue to run around checking on my other tables, answering the phone, and bussing. As I am cleaning up a nearby table, the man calls out. I don’t know why he is yelling even though I’m only about six feet away.

Customer: “Hey! We need another round!”

He points to his empty bottle and his friend’s half-full mug. I literally drop what I am doing to grab their drinks again. At this point, the two men have been friendly but very curt and demanding. As I walk up to the table, the man decides to include me in the conversation.

Customer: *Eyeing my shorts* “Hey, you ever been tanning?”

Customer’s Friend: “[Customer], she doesn’t need to tan. She’s fine the way she is.”

Me: “No, I’ve never been.”

Smiling politely, I start to step away from the table.

Customer: “You’d look great with a nice tan. Surely you can’t like being that pale! What about a spray tan? Huh?”

Me: *Nervous* “It just seems like more trouble than it’s worth. And it sounds expensive.”

At that, I turn back to the table I was bussing. But the man continues on, loud enough to continue the conversation. I do my best to tune him out. Then…

Customer: “Nah, c’mon! I can take ya for a spray tan. I’ll even go in the room with ya! I’ll make sure there are no lines!”

At the time of this story, I’ve just turned twenty-one. These men are in their mid- to late fifties. As I walk past with an armful of dishes:

Me: “I don’t tan; I burn. I have no interest in altering my skin tone, but thanks for your suggestion.”

Customer’s Friend: *Quietly* “C’mon, leave her alone. She doesn’t think you’re funny.”

Customer: *To friend* “Ah, she knows I’m just messing with her!” *To me* “Dontcha? You know I’m kidding around!”

I’ve already turned my back and started walking away. A while later, I glance up at their table, and to my dismay, I see that the man has about three sips left of his [bottled beer]. I start to walk over to see if he needs another. Before I can open my mouth:

Customer: “I was wonderin’ where you were! We’re about outta beers! You gotta be on top of this! You’re slacking! You’re a slacker! You know what, Imma start calling you Slacker! Hey, Slacker! How’s it going, Slacker! Need some service over here, Slacker!”

I’m pretty shy, and already being uncomfortable, I keep quiet and bring him another beer. His friend just gives me an embarrassed look. I do my best to avoid the table, busy with other customers.

Soon, I’m trying to balance answering the phone and taking care of a line at the register. As I’m cashing the last lady out, I hear the kitchen call, “Order up,” behind me, and see the mens’ food in the window. As the woman is pulling out her payment, I can’t immediately run their food, so I try to get her taken care of ASAP. As soon as she starts to step away from the register, the man from my table is leaning over the counter.

Customer: “What?! Did you guys have to go all the way to [City an hour away] to get our food? This is taking forever! We’re gonna need some more beers for putting up with this s***!”

It’s been twenty-five minutes since they first sat down. I simply nod and ask him to have a seat as I’ll be right over. I scoop up their pizza and take it to them.

Customer: “Slacker! Our beers?”

I am trying to get away as quickly as possible.

Me: “I’ve got two hands; I didn’t want to drop your food. I’ll be right back.”

I fetch more beer, then, aside from giving them their check, I refuse to go back to the table. As the friend heads to the restroom, he wordlessly hands me a card. I take it to the register, swipe it, and loiter for a moment, preparing mentally to go back to the table.

My coworker sees me and asks if I’m okay. Near tears, I tell her that I hate these men and don’t want to interact with them anymore. My coworker — being the angel she is — takes their card and receipts from me and tells me to go compose myself in the bathroom. I do so and emerge feeling a bit better.

About ten minutes later, I see the men gather their things and begin walking out the door. I almost sob in relief. My manager comes out of his office and sees me.

Manager: “[My Name], you all right?”

I feel my face grow hot and a few tears escape; I speak through gritted teeth.

Me: “If I ever have to wait on that table again, I will rage quit and walk out.”

Manager: *Nods* “Understood.”

My coworker then swoops in from nowhere and hands me a cool, wet cloth.

Coworker: “Here, dab under your eyes. We may not be able to get rid of the puffiness, but at least we can blame the redness on the summer heat. You did well handling them; I wish you’d said something sooner.”

Later, after everything calmed down, I explained to my manager what happened. He told me to point them out if they ever came back and he’d handle it. He was surprised at my state because I don’t usually get rattled like that. The man’s friend left me a $10 tip. It wasn’t worth it. Even now, I still think back and get pissed.

My friend and I decide to have lunch at the cafeteria-style restaurant inside one of our local supermarkets. My friend is very allergic to onions, which makes eating out difficult for her.  

Friend: “Do you want to split a wrap if we can find one without onions?”

Me: “Sure.” *To the counter person* “Do your Thai chicken wraps have any onions in them? My friend is allergic.”

Counter Person: “I’ll ask. Hey, [Coworker], do the Thai chicken wraps have any onions in them?”

Coworker: “No.”

Me: “Okay.” *To my friend* “Do you want any soup with it? They have Vegetable Rotini or Cream of Mushroom. The mushroom might be okay.”

The original counter server is busy with another customer so I ask her coworker, who very clearly heard our comment about the allergy.

Me: “So, which of these soups would be good?”

Coworker: “Whichever you want.”

Me: “But do either of them not have onions?”

Coworker: “How should I know?”

Friend & Me: “…”