I bartend at an extremely large bar in an extremely large restaurant. We usually ran with three bartenders (two regular bartenders and one on “service bar” to make the servers’ table’s drinks) on a Saturday night. There are close to fifty seats at the bar. 

Tonight, we were packed. All the seats are taken, and there are guests standing at the bar. The other bartender had split for quite some time to check on a food order in the kitchen, leaving me with fifty-plus customers for over ten minutes, but I was doing it. I was on fire, taking drink orders, food orders, and slamming out drinks with attentiveness, although it was obviously stressful.

Three dudes come up, I put napkins down, greet them, and tell them:

Me: “I’ll be with you shortly.”

In a proficient tornado, I finish the immediate customers before them who had ordered before the guys showed up, finish making their drinks, putting their food order in, etc.

I spin around to the guys, who have waited no more than two minutes.

Me: “Sorry for the wait, what would you like to drink?”

The guy in the middle looks annoyed and says loudly and angrily:

Customer: “Oh, now you’re ready for us?!”

I should add that I’m extremely affable, friendly, and quick to smile, all of which they had received to this point. My face drops, and I ROAR at him:

Me: “YES! NOW I’M READY FOR YOU!”

His buddies immediately laugh at him and hide their faces with menus. He retorts:

Customer: “Oh, you can’t handle how busy it is?”

I roar back:

Me: “It IS busy, and I AM handling it! Extremely f****** well. Can I make you a drink?!”

They ordered, his buddies snickered some more, no complaint to the manager, and they tipped well.

When I was a kid, my mom’s mother lived outside of Philadelphia, and we would usually go visit her in the summer for a few weeks. Near where she lived, there was a historic sports club known for cricket, indoor and outdoor tennis, squash, and bowling. It also had a fancy dining room, and my grandmother was a member because that was the thing to do if you were a well-off person of her generation.

We often would go there for dinner at least once per visit to my grandmother. On one such occasion, we were ordering dessert, and I chose chocolate mousse, as that was definitely not something I could get at home. When it was brought out, being a kid with a rather dry sense of humor I looked at the goblet and said:

Me: “If it’s a moose, where are the antlers?” 

The waiter laughed at that and produced a pair of lollipops that he stuck stem-first into it, to the amusement of everyone at the table.

Someone told me about a certain story series on this site, knowing I had a perfect experience to add to the collection. A young woman approaches me in the underwear/lingerie section of our large clothes shop.

Customer: “I need to be measured for a bra. I just got some work done, and I’m a few sizes bigger!”

Me: “Oh, uh… congrats? I can put you in for an opening at 4 PM today?”

Customer: “I can’t see someone now?”

Me: “Our fitting expert is with a client at the moment.”

The woman looks over to see our fitting expert with said client, a woman in her sixties, it would seem.

Customer: *Scoffs.* “She needs to be measured for a bra? Like anyone is going to appreciate what’s going on down there!”

This is a large store, but our department is small, so both the fitter and the client have heard every word this woman has just said. The client fixes the woman with a hard stare and says in a thick Scottish accent:

Old Scottish Woman: “You’re one to talk! Like anyone’s ginna look at your droopy chebs when ye hiv a face that wid turn a funeral up a side street.”

Customer: *To me.* “Are you going to let your customers be treated like that?!”

Me: “Ma’am, she’s a customer too, and you asked for it.”

Customer: *Angered, turning back to the older woman.* “Your t**s don’t need a bra, they need a hammock!” *Starts storming out.*

Old Scottish Woman: “And win I was your age. I didna need to get mine all propped up like a melon just ta feel good, ya punched lasagna!”

Me: *To the older woman.* “I’m so sorry about her.”

Old Scottish Woman: “Och, don’t worry about it. Her heid is full o’ wee shops, and they are all shut.”

Related:
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 9
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 8
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 7
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 6
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman, Part 5

I worked my way through college at a pizza chain known for its stores looking like a hut. After a year, I was promoted to assistant manager, a lofty title for a barely nineteen-year-old.

One evening I took a call from two teens who ordered a pizza, and didn’t actually talk to each other prior to calling about what they wanted. After listening to them discuss toppings back and forth for nearly ten minutes, they made their order, and we got it into the oven after they told us the caller’s mom would be by to pick it up.

A little while later, they called back looking to change the order, and I explained that it was just about ready to come out of the oven. So, after using some choice language, they decided to cancel the order. Okay, fine, dinner for our delivery drivers and a note on their account about abusive language.

Lo and behold, two minutes later, I see an order pop up on the printer: same account, completely different pizza. At that point, I had already canceled out the first pizza, so we made the second one.

Enter the mom.

She was very polite and looked like she had just gotten out of work. I pointed to her son’s original order just as it was being sliced and explained that it was SUPPOSED to be hers, and ready to go, only her son canceled, and now she had to wait around twelve to fifteen minutes for the new order.

I also let her know I didn’t appreciate her teen calling me a “stupid f****** dumb***” because I told them it was impossible to change ingredients on a pizza that was already 75% cooked.

She went from “polite” to “p***ed off, mom” in a flash, but not at us. She asked if we had a phone she could use, and dialed her house (this was long before cell phones). She then absolutely REAMED her son for what he did and the language he used.

She also informed him that his friend was no longer staying for dinner, and she was tipping us $10 that was coming out of his money. After telling him she was going to deal with him when she got home and he was lucky she didn’t drag him into the store to apologize in person, she hung up and went right back to polite mom.

She made good on her promise ($10 in 1994 was an amazing tip), my delivery guys had a nice hot pizza for dinner, and I wonder to this day how much more that kid got reamed out when his mom got home.

I’m sitting on a bench near a trail I’m walking, resting my legs for a while. A van pulls up, and the driver steps out.

Driver: “Just to check, are you afraid of dogs?”

Me: “No, I love dogs.”

Driver: “Okay, good.”

He opens the side door of the van and immediately a wall of fur descends on me as no less than seven golden retrievers all storm out to say hi to a potential new friend.

Driver: “They can be a bit enthusiastic at times.”

Me: “No kidding!”