(I’m eating out at a fairly fancy restaurant when a couple gets seated at the table behind me.)

Lady: *holding up her menu* “EXCUSE ME?”

Waitress: *who is standing right next to her* “Yes?”

Lady: “Your [dish containing chicken] is listed as being 17.99, but your [same dish with steak] is listed at 20.99. Why are they different?”

Waitress: “Because the first uses chicken, and the second uses steak.”

Lady: “Yes, but why are they different prices?”

Waitress: *sounding a bit confused* “Because the steak costs more than the chicken.”

Lady: “But why?!”

Waitress: *still sounding confused* “Because those are the prices the restaurant set?”

(At that, the lady let out a dramatically disgusted and prolonged huff, before snapping her menu shut, slamming it on the table, standing up, and walking off. After a moment, the man she was sitting with let out a long and tired sigh, stood up, picked up the bag the woman had left by the table, and followed her, while the waitress stood there looking lost.)

(I work at a sushi bar. I notice a customer picking at a roll with her chopsticks. My server senses were tingling so I immediately went to check on the table.)

Me: “Everything tasting good?”

Customer: “Well, my roll just wasn’t exactly what I was expecting.”

Me: “I am sorry that you are not enjoying your roll. I can have another made for you. What is it about this one that you are not fond of? ”

Customer: “The texture is just way too crunchy for my liking.”

Me: “So, your super crunch roll was too crunchy?”

(I work at a coffee shop known for their tendency to take unheard of amounts of abuse from customers. Their motto is “the customer is ALWAYS right,” even when they’re very, very wrong. A serious-looking man in business attire comes in and approaches my till.)

Customer: “I’d like a grande Americano misto with no water.”

(For those who don’t know, an Americano is espresso shots and water. An Americano misto is espresso shots with half water and half steamed milk.)

Me: “Oh! I think you mean a latte. Lattes are espresso with just milk and Americano mistos are espresso with half water and half steamed milk.”

Customer: “No. Lattes only have two shots of espresso. I want an Americano misto with no water. It has three shots.”

Me: “Okay, so that would be a triple grande latte.”

Customer: “Are you deaf? I want an Americano misto with no water. Just f****** do your job and make what I ordered.”

Me: “Okay, one triple grande latte.”

Customer: “No! I’m not paying for a latte! I didn’t order a latte! This happens every time! This is why you work here, because you’re too stupid to get a real job!”

Me: “Misto means ‘mixed.’ As in water mixed with milk. You want a latte, which is just espresso and milk. I can’t charge you for an Americano because your drink is using literally double the amount of milk that would be required for an Americano misto.”

Customer: “Listen, little girl, I want three espresso shots. That makes it an Americano misto. I’m not paying for a latte.”

Me: “Actually, water would make it an Americano misto. So you can either pay for a latte or I can make you an Americano misto. With water.”

Customer: “It has three shots! IT’S NOT A F****** LATTE BECAUSE IT HAS THREE SHOTS!”

Me: “So adding an extra shot of espresso to a latte transforms it into an Americano misto?”

Customer: “F*** YOU! GIVE ME MY DRINK!”

Me: “Certainly. That’ll be $5.25 please.”

Customer: “NO! YOU’RE NOT CHARGING ME FOR A LATTE!”

Me: “Okay. I’ll charge you for an Americano misto. But I have to charge you for the extra milk. So that will be $5.25 please.”

(Obviously seeing he wasn’t going to win, he threw a gift card at my chest. It bounced off me and landed on the counter. I swiped it and handed it back, and then moved to the bar to make his drink. When it was done I placed it on the end of the bar and called out, “triple grande latte!” The man came to collect his drink, looked me square in the face, and yelled, “It’s a f****** Americano misto!”)

(The way the store is set up, when you walk in the front doors, registers three through six are immediately along the front wall to the left, with the customer service station and registers one and two in front of them. There’s one line for all registers starting just behind the customer service station and snaking toward the side wall and back to the opening between registers one and three. I am on register one. A woman walks in with a return when I happen to be away from my register cleaning, but mine is the only one with a light on.)

Security Guard: “She’ll take you on register one, ma’am.”

(The woman looks around at all the numbers, confused, and walks up to register three.)

Security Guard: *pointing* “She’ll get you on register one.”

(As I thread my way back around toward my register, the woman walks up to register one, looks up at the lighted number, PASSES IT, and starts winding her way down the line from the registers to the start of the line.)

Me: “Ma’am, I’m on one, right over there.” *points*

(The woman continues down the line to its start, getting to the “enter line here” sign just as I get behind my register, then turns and looks at me expectantly.)

Me: “I’m on register one, right here.” *indicates the counter in front of me*

(She looks like she finally gets it for a second and starts to walk out of the line around the customer service station, which is the shorter way to go, but halfway around starts looking confused again, checking the numbers above the registers. But since there’s really only one way to go at this point, she ends up in the right place in front of me, which was exactly where she had started when she walked in the door.)

Customer: “Oh, THIS is where it is. I didn’t know that. Someone could have told me. I wouldn’t have had to walk all around if someone had told me.”

Me: “…”

(My dad owned an independent gas station. When he passed away, I ended up taking it over and running it. In comes a man that anyone in retail can identify as a troublemaker. He comes up to my register.)

Customer: “Hey, I’m a good friend of [Dad], and he always gives me a discount on my gas.”

(All professional pleasantry drains from my face and I give him an ice-cold look.)

Me: “You’re a liar. Please leave.”

Customer: “How dare you call me a liar! You just lost your job, little lady!”

Me: “First of all, I own this gas station, so no, I won’t be losing my job. Second of all, [Dad] was my father. Third of all, my father died four years ago, and all of his friends attended his funeral. So, no, you are NOT his friend and you will NOT be getting a discount.”

(He flashed between red and white a few times, and then fled. I haven’t seen him since.)