B-oyster-ious Behavior

(I work in an Irish pub that is located in a great location, barring one thing: we’re right down the street from an oyster bar. We have the name of our pub — strikingly dissimilar to the name of the oyster bar — plastered in giant letters across the front door, on either side of the door, and above the door. At least four times an hour, we get people who walk in, sit down, and order oysters, at which point I have to inform them that, indeed, their kindergarten teachers have failed them. A woman and her several preteen children come in and insist that they have a reservation.)

Me: “Hi. Welcome to [Pub]! How many?”

Customer: “We have a reservation.”

Me: “Ma’am, we don’t take reservations here at [Pub].”

Customer: “Oh? Then why did your manager inform me otherwise?”

Me: “I’m so sorry, ma’am. He didn’t tell me know you were coming. Let me grab him.”

(Knowing full well she isn’t looking for our pub, considering she’s dressed in her “finery,” I find my manager.)

Manager: “Hi! Welcome to [Pub]. How can I help you?”

Customer: “Your—” *sniffs condescendingly* “—underling here told me that you don’t take reservations.”

Manager: “That’s correct, ma’am. Did you read the sign on the door?”

(The woman is flabbergasted.)

Customer: “How dare you? Of course I read it.”

Manager: “Right. Would you mind taking a look at it again, to humor me?”

(The woman scoffs and saunters towards the door muttering about oysters. She stops dead in her tracks.)

Customer: “This isn’t the oyster bar?

Manager: “No, ma’am. This is a pub.”

(The woman muttered something about fools and ingrates, and some kind of insult to my intelligence, and then proceeded to trip on her way out of our pub. Karma. Sucks, doesn’t it?)