We’re holding a late-night Christmas shopping event with a free glass of champagne for customers upon entry and sparkling juice for non-drinkers and children. There’s a sign up stating one per customer, and so far everyone has accepted this.

I’m a supervisor, and one of the only staff members over the age of eighteen, so I am the only one handling the alcohol. A man comes in to browse and takes a glass of champagne. About five minutes later, he comes back to me. 

Customer: “I need another glass of this.”

Me: “Oh, sorry. We’re only allowed to give out one glass per customer. You could have a glass of sparkling juice if you’d like?”

Customer: “But I don’t want juice. There are glasses on the table and no queue, so I’m having another.”

Me: “We can’t give out more than one per customer; otherwise, we would have to charge the minimum unit price, and we’re not licensed to sell alcohol.”

The customer huffs and walks away to keep browsing.

Two minutes pass, and I notice he’s talking to an underage member of staff who joined two weeks ago. He walks back over.

Customer: *Triumphantly* “She says I can have another glass!”

Me: “Sir, I’m sorry but you can’t. I’ve already told you why. We only have a limited amount and it’s not fair on other customers.”

Customer: “But she said I could, so you have to! I’ve just bought £120 of pyjamas, too!”

Me: “I’m her supervisor, and she’s under eighteen so she can’t serve alcohol. So no, you can’t.”

He turns around and storms to the counter and returns the pyjamas. 

He storms back towards the front of the store to leave, and as he walks out, he turns over his shoulder. 

Customer: *Sarcastically* “Merry Christmas!”

The bottles of champagne were literally the cheapest available. He could have bought one from the shop right next to us for under £5 and drunk the whole bottle!

Related:
Forgetting The Juicy Details

My nephew is visiting my home for dinner. I mention my Christmas plans for this year, which prompts my nephew to bring up his misadventure last Christmas.

Nephew: “Did I ever tell you that story where I got into a drinking contest last Christmas?”

Me: “No. What happened?”

Nephew: “Okay, so school had just finished their Christmas party and holidays were about to begin. And a few of my dormmates decided to challenge the rest of us to drinking contests as an after-party.”

Me: “And the teachers allowed you to do that?”

Nephew: “Nope. It was totally illegal. Anyway, [Dormmate #1] somehow convinced me to get into a drinking contest with him. I initially declined, but then he said he’d give me a handicap. For every shot of wine I took, he’d take a shot of vodka, instead.”

Me: “Vodka? Are you serious?”

Nephew: “He’s Estonian! You know, ex-Soviet Union. They can drink.”

Me: “Jesus. Imagine the state of his liver. Anyway, what happened next?”

Nephew: “So, we sat down and started drinking. Loser suffered a penalty. In my case, the loser had to wear [Dormmate #1]’s girlfriend’s prom dress and pose in front of the whole dorm.”

Me: “You’re serious?”

Nephew: “Eh, it wasn’t so bad. My friend [Dormmate #2] had to swallow a morning-after pill when he lost.”

Me: “Oh, my God! Was he okay?”

Nephew: *Shrugs* “He was a lightweight. Went down after only five shots of wine. I went to fifteen.”

Me: “So what happened? Did you win?”

Nephew: “I woke up the next morning with the worst hangover, still wearing that prom dress. I had to ask the cleaning lady to help me out of it.”

Me: “You lost? But he was drinking vodka; you had wine!”

Nephew: “Like I said, he’s ex-Soviet Union. He can drink. I actually still have the prom dress. His girlfriend didn’t want it back.”

I am working in a small English village pub. We’re not the fanciest, but we do quite well.

I am serving a regular when I’m interrupted.

Man: “Excuse me! I was here before that man! I deserve to be served first.”

The man he is referring to has been sat at the bar for two hours, so his statement is unlikely.

Me: “Sorry, I didn’t see you there. What can I get you?”

Man: “What red wines do you have? Do you have rioja or chianti?”

Me: “Unfortunately, we don’t sell rioja, chianti, or pinot noir by the glass; we do sell it by the bottle. If you only want a glass, we do have merlot, shiraz, pinotage, and a malbec.”

Man: “I’ll have a pint of [Italian beer], and I’ll go and ask my wife about the wine.”

Me: “Sounds good!”

I pour his beer and he comes back a few minutes later.

Man: “I’ll have a glass of the pinot, please.”

Me: “We don’t sell pinot noir by the glass. Did you mean the pinot grigio?”

Man: “That’s what I said!”

Me: “Are you sure? If your wife wants a red wine, she might not be happy with—”

Man: “Just get me the sodding wine!”

I pour the wine and take his money. A few minutes later, a red-faced woman comes to the bar.

Woman: “What sort of idiot mixes up a pinot grigio and a pinot noir?!”

I work at a chain liquor store in my state as a wine specialist.

Customer: “So what’s the difference between cabernets and merlots?”

I explain the differences between the two wines, like what they taste and smell like.

Customer: “No, what do they do differently so they’re called cabernet, or merlots, or chardonnay?”

Me: “Oh! That’s easy, ma’am; it depends on the grape used to make the wine.”

Customer: “But… all wine is made from grapes. So what do they do differently?”

Me: *Pause* “Ma’am, they use different grapes to make different wines. Cabernet, chardonnay, and merlot are different types of grapes.”

Customer: “There are more than two types of grapes?!”

I can’t tell you how loud I was screaming in my head.

This story is part of the second Wine roundup!

Read the next Wine roundup story!

Read the Wine roundup!

I’m a hostess working the 11:00 to 4:00 shift with two other hosts. An older guy who was sitting at the bar comes up to the front desk, already day-drunk.

Customer: “Can you call me a cab?”

He tells me his name and destination. Being someone who tends to cooperate, I quickly Google the number for a taxi and tell them our location, the guy’s name, and his destination, and they say they are on the way.

I find the guy still in the bar.

Me: “Excuse me, sir, the cab is on the way.”

I continue my work, assuming that the guy has the common sense to walk OUTSIDE and wait for his cab. I guess he thinks that I’ll go alert him when his ride arrives or something because an hour passes and the guy stomps back up all pissed off and cursing at me.

Customer: “Where’s my cab?! I’ve been waiting in here for an hour!”

Me: “Sir, I did call you a cab and I apologize that there was a mistake. We’ll get the manager to call because we’re super busy.”

He keeps going on and on, yelling about how he can’t walk “more than five miles!” Then walk the ten yards outside the building so you don’t HAVE to!

I’m honestly about to say something snarky because he’s really getting on my nerves. I’m going to say, “I really don’t understand why it’s my job to wait outside for your cab!” but my coworker stops me and tells me to just go get the manager and I can go home since my shift is ending.

The managers are honestly pretty chill, and if you’re not too sassy with the customers, you won’t get in much trouble.

Me: *To my manager* “That the guy who wanted me to call him a cab is mad because I, apparently, didn’t call him a cab.”

Manager: “But you did! I heard you!”

He then went to go call him another freaking cab. I clocked out, and as I was leaving, I saw him outside wobbling around, scanning the cars in search of the cab he was yelling his location to on a cellphone.

Related:
Taxing Taxiing, Part 7
Taxing Taxiing, Part 6
Taxing Taxiing, Part 5
Taxing Taxiing, Part 4
Taxing Taxiing, Part 3