(I work at an organic fast food walk-up counter at the airport; we don’t really have time to waste with any single customer. Working at an organic restaurant that serves vegetarian, vegan, and gluten-free options, you have to learn all about what goes in the food, so I am pretty well-informed. A man walks up with his young daughter. We don’t have a kids’ menu, but we have some soups that people usually get for their kids.)

Me: “Thank you for coming to [Fast Food Place]! What can I do for you?”

Customer: “Hi. We had a question about the green chicken chili.”

Me: “Absolutely, what would you like to know?”

Customer: “What makes the green chicken chili green?”

Me: “The green chili peppers.”

Customer: *exasperated* “Okay, but what makes those green?”

Me: “Uh… pigment?”

(He looked kind of abashed, but they ended up getting the chili, nonetheless)

(I am seventeen, waitressing for a small-town restaurant run by a family. The only people that work there besides me are the two male owners and their four sons of various ages. I am the only girl. It’s a really small town, full of older people, so I often am requested just because I am female, or given winks and stuff from older gentlemen, which I normally just ignore.)

Male Customer: *in his late 50s* “Nice legs. When do they open?”

(I then “accidentally” spill hot coffee on his leg.)

Me: “Oh! I’m so sorry; let me get you a towel.”

(I run to the back while listening to the guy start cursing loudly in the dining room. Both owners and all the brothers come over and ask what happened. I explain, and they all drop what they are doing and go out to the dining room to the customer. They crowd around him and then tell him to get out. They tell him that they don’t care about what I did because he deserved it.)

My Next Table: “Wow. You must be the sister.”

Me: “Nope.”

(I love that family.)

(I work in a small deli. One particularly busy Saturday, I am running the front of the store by myself, trying to keep up with the rush, while my coworker is busy baking our bread product in the back. About ten people all arrive at the same time, approximately half of whom order sandwiches that take the longest to make. I rush through everything, but I’m sure they still wait in line for close to ten minutes, plus another ten for their food. A customer and her husband both order breakfast sandwiches. I take their food out to them with a smile and while I am there, the wife — who, I happen to notice, is on a website putting up a review — asks me if I am a manager. I am not, I answer, but I tell them my manager’s name and when she’ll be in next. Fast forward a couple days later. I go into work, where my manager ambushes me as soon as I come in the door to tell me about this phone call she got yesterday, on my day off, from the very same customer:)

Customer: “Is this the manager?”

Manager: “Yes.”

Customer: “I want to make a complaint.”

Manager: “Okay.”

Customer: “I was in on Saturday, and it looked like you only had one employee here, and we had to wait for a long time!”

Manager: “So?”

Customer: *huffing* “Well, that’s just ridiculous! We had to wait in line, and then we had to wait for our food!”

Manager: “Was it busy?”

Customer: “Well, yes, but—”

Manager: “And what was my employee doing while it was busy? Was she outside having a smoke?”

Customer: “Well, no, she was helping other people, and making food.”

Manager: “So, what are you complaining about, then?”

Customer: “Well, I had to wait!”

Manager: “And?”

Customer: “You need to hire more people!”

Manager: “Maybe. But we’d rather have ten good ones than twenty mediocre ones. Was your food good?”

Customer: “Yes, but—”

Manager: “So, you have nothing to complain about. The food was good, and you got good service; you just had to wait. This isn’t a fast food place. If you want fast food, there’s a burger place down the street. Next time, go there, so you won’t have to worry about waiting. Now quit wasting my time. I have work to do.”

(And then she hung up. I only wish I’d been there to see it.)

(The customer in front of me at the grocery store has just finished getting his items scanned. This store offers the option of receipts in the usual paper format or by email to save waste.)

Cashier: “Would you like your receipt emailed, on paper, or neither?”

Customer: “No.”

Cashier: “Okay, then, no receipt it is. Please insert your card.”

Customer: *after paying* “Where’s my receipt?”

Cashier: “You said you didn’t want your receipt.”

Customer: “No, I didn’t want it emailed.”

Me: “No, she asked if you wanted the receipt emailed or on paper. You said, ‘No,’ so she said, ‘Okay, no receipt, then,’ and you paid. If you wanted a receipt, you should have said so.”

Customer: “I wanted it on paper, not email!”

Me: “Too bad you didn’t listen, then, huh?”

(The cashier had to call for a manager to get the receipt pulled up and printed — because if anyone could do it, theft would be really easy. There was a ten-minute wait and a long line built up because this guy desperately needed a receipt for his milk.)

I used to work at a popular ice cream-slinging burger joint that sold all manner of ice cream treats, including ice cream cakes. I was working the drive-thru when a coworker informed me that they had a complaint about a cake they purchased.

Turns out they had attempted to bake it, and they were upset that all it did was melt. I attempted to explain to them that ice cream melts when heated, but they refused to accept that a cake would melt in the oven. I told them they were beyond any help at this point, and hung up the phone.