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.

My bar is an overpriced tourist trap in the crappy part of a tourist town near the cut-rate motels that aren’t that close to the beach.

A guy comes up to the bar.

Customer: “I’m here for a blind date, but I’d like to order some things before she arrives.”

He pre-orders heavily modified appetizers and drinks.

Customer: “Make sure you make those right! My lady needs to be treated right when she gets here!”

As we’re preparing his order:

Customer: “Hurry it up! You’re all so slow!”

Later, we start bringing his stuff out.

Customer: *Snapping his fingers* “Are you r******d? With all this stuff, you need to move me to a better table!”

He was basically being as annoying as possible without doing anything to get kicked out.

We were rooting for a no-show, but his date arrived… and lasted less than ten minutes.

We were grinning so hard as she marched on out of there with him following and begging her to stay. We intercepted him to discuss the check to allow her a clean getaway. It was so much more satisfying than a tip could have ever been.

I was bartending at a basement bar venue that was a decent-sized place. We had two bartenders and a barback on this particular Sunday. The other bartender was my favorite type of guy to work with: jaded and surly with a sense of humor.

The barback, however, had been setting off red flags since he’d started a few months before. He just kind of seemed like a sketchy druggie. I started hearing that he was asking for advances on his check to buy coke and getting yakked up in the broom closet. I trusted the people telling me these things, but I always verify for myself, so I started paying closer attention to him.

I noticed that [Barback] would sweep behind the bar toward the end of the night, which I would never do when I was a barback. You wash dishes and stock as directed by the bartenders; you generally don’t belong behind the bar unless you are bartending. But I wasn’t trying to be a jerk to the guy for sweeping.

Tips had been feeling light for a little while, but I never had a smoking gun until the night in question. I was counting up our tips to split between [Bartender], [Barback], and myself when I realized I only had four $20s. The problem is that when I adjusted all my credit card tips, I pulled out five $20s, and that wasn’t counting [Bartender]’s $20s.

I announced that something was off. [Barback] started to sweat. The owner went to check the camera and, sure enough, saw [Barback] go in for his signature sweep behind the bar right after we pulled our credit card tips. As soon as our backs were turned, this slimy motherf***er dipped his hand into the tip bucket and took $100 out.

[Owner] told him to give it back now or deal with the cops. He had it stashed away in a shadowy corner like the rat he was.

He got fired immediately. [Bartender], [Owner], and I spent the next couple of hours drinking and cursing [Barback]’s name. Every time the conversation would change topic, someone would bring it back with, “I can’t believe that motherf***er!”

As a bonus, a couple of weeks later, I was taking inventory in the beer walk-in — kegs and over a hundred different bottles and cans — and in a half-empty six-pack, I found a phone matching one that had gone missing from a server’s purse. [Barback] had been working the night the server’s phone went missing, and the stashing behavior matched up, too.

There’s no worse Karma in the restaurant industry than stealing from your coworkers.

I’m at a restaurant and bar where I am a regular. A customer is in there with his two small kids. He’s wearing his server out with requests, getting mad about his kids’ food, and all sorts of crap. He has had about eight or nine beers, along with a couple of shots.

He moans when the server brings the check.

Customer: “I didn’t drink that much, you b****!”

His check was about $80. He did eventually pay, but he left no tip. This was all I needed to see.

I followed him outside, got his car description and tag number, and then called to report him for possible drunk driving. I left my contact details in case they needed to follow up with me.

They did follow up! It turned out there was an officer on patrol just around the corner. They pulled him over before he got two blocks away.

I work as a bartender at a nightclub in New York City. Two fellows with thick European accents come up to the bar, and one asks in all earnestness:

Customer: “Two lines of Coke, please.”

I just stare at him for a couple of seconds. Yup, he’s serious.

Me: “Coke… Uh… cola?”

Customer: “No, to sniff.”

He then does a little mime demonstration for me to really drive home what is by now abundantly clear.

Me: “Ah, I see; you’re an idiot. Go get arrested somewhere else.”