Ordered The Chef’s Special

| Right | January 30, 2016

(I’m working the lunch shift in a downtown farm-to-table restaurant. We get a wide range of customers, from college kids and professors, to ladies who lunch. I’ve seated a normal casually dressed man, and one of my servers goes to help him.)

Server: *to me* “There’s something weird about him. He’s not making sense and doesn’t seem to want to place an order.”

Me: “That’s weird. He seemed pretty normal when I sat him. I’ll go talk to him.” *to customer* “Sir, can I start you with something to drink today?”

Customer: *unintelligible mumbling*

Me: “Okay, then. If you don’t wish to place an order today, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Customer: *more mumbles*

Me: “I’ll have to ask you to leave; the dining room is just for our customers. I’ll give you a moment to collect yourself, but you need to leave.”

(I step away from the table and am walking across the dining room towards the server when she sees something behind me.)

Server: “No, sir! Please be careful! White Coats, I need the White Coats!”

(The customer had picked up a fork and was trying to stick it in an outlet behind the host station. I strong-armed him out of the building while the server got the “White Coats” as backup. The White Coats were our kitchen staff, all wearing chef coats. A wall of them made great backup. The customer wandered away while I called the police. They eventually picked him up; he was off his meds and harassing local shops.)

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