Free Of Gluten, Free Of Thought, Part 19

Bar, California, Crazy Requests, Health & Body, Physical, Reddit, Restaurant, USA | Right | CREDIT: SmiticusMaximus | July 30, 2025

A lady in her sixties, plus her son and daughter-in-law, and their children, came in to eat. There were approximately three hundred people in the place at the time, and eight people working, in total.

Insanely busy to put it mildly, and quite clear to anyone with a pulse that this was verging on the absurd. Most of the patrons were hands down lovely about getting drinks and food thirty minutes or so into their dining experience, and could see that we were basically packed like Wembley Stadium for Aerosmith in ’95.

This lady, however, from the get-go, was unbelievably demanding as though she was dining at the French Laundry. Nutty, but whatever. People, and all.

She was particularly insistent that her granddaughter of four years old had a “severe gluten allergy” but wanted to get her a burger and fries. We explained that the fries go in the same fryers as breaded appetizers, and if the allergy is severe enough, she ought to avoid the fries. We gave her a burger with cheese and nothing on the side.

This created multiple runs back and forth to the kitchen to confirm information I already knew, while young, bloodthirsty Marines were demanding their cold brews immediately, if not sooner.

I got their food out, and the little girl (poor thing) dropped her burger seconds after getting it delivered to the table.

Customer: “Arrrrrgggghhhh Ahooo Abaaa Arghhhhh!”

Frick. I’m in for it, I think.

I turn to check on them, and the woman demands I make her another burger. No sweat, I love kids, and it’s way easier than debating responsibility. So, I rush back and have the cooks make another while we have seventy-eight tickets in the window, and the machine scrolls printing constantly to the floor.

The cooks are p***ed as they go to pan-cook the burger to keep it away from contamination. I ask them to expedite because I don’t have time for debates with the customer. H***, I don’t even have time to take a leak. This is madness. This is war. I’m in the trenches. Spent ammo stacks around the expo station in the form of dropped sauce cups, takeout utensils, chips, and all other manner of foodstuffs.

I take out the replacement burger, and the woman asks me for lime wedges. I rush back with the wedges while fifty or so Marines snarl for beer. And lo and behold, the burger was undercooked.

GAME ON!

The woman swarms towards me like a thirty‑armed Kraken and starts—I kid you not—slam‑poking me with three or four fingers directly in the nape of my neck, screaming:

Customer: “Now I’m going to get really f***ing p***ed!”

Holy moly, Batman! We’ve got a nutter! I think to myself as my pulse hovers around 179 beats per minute, sweat pouring down my face and back, my shirt wet from the nineteen miles or so I’ve run around this bar tonight.

I stare at her, and my vision narrows, and I can’t seem to hear anything. Like, I go temporarily deaf. Just a monster wildly poking me and gesticulating wildly.

I come back to my senses and state firmly but with an overwhelming calm:

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am. The cooks were making every effort to keep your granddaughter alive by not contaminating her burger. They attempted to pan‑cook it rapidly. For this reason, they failed. I failed you as well. And I am sorry.”

She takes a moment, stares at me in silent awe, and says:

Customer: “Well, I like you. You’ve been very helpful. But f*** it, I’m p***ed.”

And then, she tries to hug me or something. Not sure what the heck it was. But it was weird.

I bring out a replacement burger, and all is okay‑ish.

BUT, here is the absolutely spell‑binding kickeroo that I can’t get out of my mind and why I needed to post this story…

They get a to‑go order of fish tacos (battered, fried), and the little girl is eating them as they are packing up to leave…

Amazing… haha. Amazing… just amazing.