I didn’t have glasses until my twenties. There’s a whole saga behind it, but now that I have them, I’ve found that my ability to tell ages is terrible since I don’t have the experience many others have. So, of course, this involves one of the fan-favourite restricted items: alcohol.

I’m already kind of notorious in the store for calling for more ID checks than others, but I honestly have trouble telling what age someone is. And I had a friend who grew a thick beard at fifteen who I know used that to buy underage, so I have trust issues, too.

I get a customer who is tall, lanky, and most likely of age, but then I try to see his face. Every time I do, he looks away, hiding in the shadow of a baseball cap. I try asking some vague questions, as I would do in normal transactions, to see if I can age him from his voice — things like how his day is, how he’d like his groceries packed, even if he wants boxes, bags, a wine bag for the booze, anything! He mumbles and turns away again from my searching gaze, avoiding me. I try asking him outright to look at me. No dice.

Finally, I have scanned everything, asked every reasonable question — and a few odd ones — and have only had mumbles and avoidance for my troubles. I steel myself and ask in a firm tone.

Me: “Sir, may I see your ID?”

He looks up, shocked. The face is a forty-year-old man, even to my badly trained eye. As we make this eye contact, one supervisor who’s notoriously picky walks past, and I manage to get the ID to confirm the age, with the gentleman mumbling in an unusual accent that doesn’t suggest English as a first language.

After he’s gone, maybe an hour later, the supervisor catches me.

Supervisor: “You don’t ID people who are clearly over the age!”

She absolutely would not listen to how much he’d seemed to be avoiding me before I asked for ID; it was all my fault because I couldn’t see through his hat with my X-ray vision and he wasn’t wearing a badge with his age on it.

I know he may not have understood my questions and may have been mumbling in confusion, but I still tried to be clear about needing to see his face. At least the ID question got me what I needed.

My store has a very strict alcohol policy: no valid ID, no sale. It’s a relatively new policy, so when customers get annoyed, I tell them the truth: Rip van Winkle himself could be in my line and I’d still have to card him.

Enter these two. A husband and wife come through the self-checkout with a bunch of groceries and two kinds of beer.

Me: “Could I see your ID, please?”

Husband: “Sure.”

I take the ID and scan it on the self-checkout machine. It throws up an error message.

Me: “I’m sorry; it looks like it’s expired. Do you have any renewal paperwork with you?”

Husband: “No! When did it expire?”

Wife: “Honey, your birthday was yesterday.”

People will occasionally come in with voided IDs, but if they have the ID and renewal paperwork with them, I’ll usually let it slide and enter the birthdate manually. Since he clearly has no valid ID or the paperwork to prove he’s in limbo, I switch tactics.

Me: “Miss, do you have your ID?”

Wife: “Oh… I left it in the car.”

In the end, I had to confiscate their beer while the husband muttered about being fifty-two years old.

I am serving a table of – for lack of a better term – a bunch of obnoxious businessmen who have time-warped in from the 1960s. They’re loud, sexist, creepy, and only insist on eating the manly things like steak (I know this because they mocked the salad section of the menu and called it “gay.”)

The leader of the obnoxious group, whom I call Mr. ObNox has summoned me with a click of his fingers.

Mr. ObNox: “Why are there only the standard whiskeys on this menu?”

Me: “That’s just the standard drinks menu, sir. We have an extended drinks menu that has more top-shelf—”

Mr. ObNox: “Stop, you’re already talking too much. We’ll take six of your top whiskeys! We’re celebrating tonight!”

Me: “Sir, our top whiskey is the Macallan f—”

Mr. ObNox: “Yes! Macallan! Whatever! Bring us six!”

Me: “To confirm, sir, you want six of our top Macallan?”

Mr. ObNox: “Did I stutter?”

Me: “No, sir, you most certainly did not.”

I am sure you know where this is going. I didn’t get a chance to tell him that our most expensive whiskey is fifty years old, and it was definitely going to stand out on the bill. 

When it came to bill time:

Mr. ObNox: “What the f*** is this? Why is my bill [thousands of dollars]?!”

Me: “Most of that comes from the fifty-year-old Macallan that you ordered six of, sir.”

Mr. ObNox: *Going pale.* “You… you never told me it was that much!”

Me: “Do you recall me confirming that you wanted to order the top Macallan we have, sir?”

Mr. ObNox: “Well, yes, but—”

Me: “And did I stutter?”

Mr. ObNox looks like he’s about to go into a rage, but his (slightly less drunk) coworkers start insisting that he not make a scene. The manager is called and facts are confirmed, and my manager stands by my version of events.

Manager: “I’m going to insist that you stand by your bill, sir.”

Mr. ObNox: “But… I can’t afford it.”

Manager: “Then we will have to call the police.”

Mr. ObNox: “Nooo! Don’t do that! This meal was meant to be a company expense but we were given a budget of [one-quarter of what was eventually spent].”

Manager: *Trying to help him.* “That’s a very generous budget for a business dinner! How about I put the food on a separate bill for your business card, and you can split the cost of the whiskeys amongst the six of you.”

This suggestion resulted in protests from the other guys, claiming they can’t afford it, and that they were told the meal would be paid for by the business.

Eventually, Mr. ObNox had to put the whole meal on his business card to avoid getting arrested. We never saw him again, but we would have loved to have been a fly on wall in his office when he had to explain THAT expenses bill!

My sister and I went to a local pub around the corner from our house to have a couple of drinks. I saw what I wanted in the fridge behind the bar.

Me: “Can I have the [Irish Cider], cherry flavour, please?”

Sister: “And can I have a dry white wine, please?”

For those who don’t know much about wine, white wine generally gets kept chilled in the fridge, not just left on the shelf.

Barman: “Eh… what was that, sorry?”

Me: “An Irish cherry cider. Also a dry white wine for my sister, please?”

Barman: “We have cider, but not the kind you want!”

Me: “Yes, you do.” *Points to the fridge* “Over there.”

Barman: “Oh, we don’t have cherry flavour. Also, what colour is cherry, anyway?”

Me: “Cherry can depend on the season, but on this occasion, it’s the dark red on the third shelf up, four in!” *Points*

The barman checked the location for what seemed an eternity.

Barman: “Oh, I did not know we had that…”

He placed it on the bar and went to get the white wine.

Me: *To my sister* “That was interesting. Even [Six-Year-Old Niece] and [Six-Year-Old Nephew] would know the colour of cherry!”

The barman came back from taking a bottle of white wine, not from the fridge beside him, but from a shelf further up the bar, and started pouring.

Sister: “Ehm, pardon me? What are you doing? White wine gets served chilled, unlike red wine. I see you have a bottle of [White Wine]. I will have that, please.”

The barman gave her a confused look.

Sister: “I see you’re still pouring. I won’t be having that. Please get the wine I asked for.”

Grumpily, the barman went and got the wine from the fridge and poured the wine as per request. Then, he left the bottle of white wine, from the fridge, on the bar with the lid off, not closing it or even putting it in the fridge.

Sister: “Can I see your manager, please?”

Luckily for us, the manager just happened to come out of the office at that time and walked past the bar.

Manager: “Hello, I’m the manager. How can I help?”

My sister explained the situation, and the manager, dumbfounded by this, turned to the barman.

Manager: “They are not paying for these drinks. Also, what did we teach in training? Do you not remember the brands we sell or how to store wine? I specifically remember [Other Employee] telling you this. One more mistake and you’re out.”

The manager directed us to a table to enjoy our drinks.

As my sister picked up the wine glass to drink, she noticed a lipstick stain on the rim.The barman sheepishly changed the glass over. We did notice that the white wine got moved to the fridge eventually.

We’ve been there a couple of times since then over the years and have never seen or heard of that barman again.

Customer: “Give me a martini and make it dirty!”

I make the customer her drink and hand it to her. She doesn’t even touch it.

Customer: “I said to make it dirty!”

Me: “That is dirty, ma’am.”

Customer: “But I can still see straight through it.”

Me: “Dirty means we add some olive brine to the drink, ma’am.”

Customer: “Oh.”

Me: “What did you think a dirty martini meant?”

Customer: “I don’t know, I just always see them order them in movies.”

She took a sip. She did not like it. She ordered a rum and coke instead.