I’m working in a bar, and I have this guy come in and sit at the bar with me. He is drinking Bud Light and double shots of whiskey back to back. He is on his third whiskey.

Me: “Can I refill your glass instead of using a new glass every time?”

Customer: “That’s fine.”

I take his glass to remake his drink.

Me: “Can I put some more ice in it for you?”

Customer: “Yes, but can you use your hands to put the ice in my glass?”

I look at this man like he has three heads.

Me: “Sir, we have an ice scoop for sanitary purposes. I don’t want to put my hands on your ice.”

Customer: “If you grab the ice with your hands, I’ll give you fifty bucks cash.”

Then, he pulled fifty dollars out of his pocket and slammed it on the table.

I don’t know what kind of weird thing he had going on, but… I got that fifty bucks!

Like many a millennial, I work multiple jobs to make rent. I am a cashier and a customer is purchasing some alcohol. Due to some incidents in the past, we have to card everyone, no exceptions, even if they look like they’re a hundred years old.

Me: “Can I see some ID please, sir?”

Customer: “Seriously? I’m old enough to be your daddy!”

Me: “Be that as it may, sir, I need to see ID for all alcoholic purchases. It’s company policy.”

Customer: “What a stupid f****** policy!”

Me: “Can I see your ID, sir?”

Customer: “No you may not! This is a stupid libt*rd policy and it’s people like you making this country all woke and pathetic!”

Me: *Ignoring the rant.* “I’ll just put your whiskey aside then.”

Customer: “You stupid f****** b****! Go back to your commie country you f****** [racial slur]!”

He storms off. I guess he didn’t like me being Asian? Anyhoo, water off my back at this point.

I finish my shift and start my next job, which is an evening shift at a nearby bar. I’m serving drinks and who should turn up and order a round of beers?! Now, our bar isn’t as strict with the ID policy as my grocery store is, but I am feeling petty.

Me: “Can I see your ID, sir?”

Customer: “No, you cannot—”

His eyes widen, as he finally recognizes me.

Me: “I denied you alcohol before because I had to, sir. This time, it’s because I want to.”

Customer: “F*** you! Where is your manager!”

My manager comes over as he has overheard us.

Manager: “Sir, it is our policy to stand behind every refusal of alcohol where our bar staff see fit. You will not be getting a drink tonight.”

Customer: “You f****** woke [racial slur]-loving a**hole!”

Manager: “And now you won’t be getting anything. Leave now or I call the cops.”

He slams the bar out of frustration and storms out.

Manager: “A nicer person might just think he really needed a beer, but nah, he’s just a racist a**hole. Anyway, as you were!”

The rest of the shift went as smooth as the whiskey he didn’t get to drink.

I’m a barback in a busy upscale restaurant, so my responsibilities are basically running drinks, clearing tables and resetting them, stocking booze when we run out mid-service, etc. I run a drink over to a lady wearing pearls, a designer dress, etc., and she is shocked to see it.

Customer: “What the h*** is this?”

Me: “Your drink, Miss.”

Customer: “Well, I thought I ordered a white Chianti.”

Me: “Umm…”

Customer: “Take it back right now! I didn’t order this! I wanted a white Chianti.”

I’m thinking, “Dear God, how do I tell this stupid person that there is no such thing?” Usually, when this happens, I just bow my head and run back to the bar to let the bartenders sort it out — in other words, comp this dumb diner’s fifteen-dollar, perfectly fine Chianti and pour her an eight-dollar Pinot Grigio). For some reason, instead, I decide to educate.

Me: “I’m terribly sorry, Miss, but I should let you know that there is no such thing as a white Chianti. Chianti is made primarily from the Sangiovese grape, which is a red grape, and Chianti is always a red wine. This one, in particular, is pretty fruity and has a light to medium body, so you might actually like it.”

Customer: “No! I want a white wine!“

I brought it back to the bar, downed it, and asked the bartender for the worst white wine that was cheapest by the glass, which I took to the customer. It’s the little victories that matter in the service industry.

Related:
I’m Drawing A Blanc, Part 2
I’m Drawing A Blanc

I’m in a sports bar, and playing on one of the screens is a show called “Toughman Contest.” The premise is novice amateur boxers competing against each to test their skills.

One of the contestants is a Black man in magnificent physical shape with amazing brute strength, plowing his opponents over like a tank and scoring knockouts in the first minute. It’s amazing that boxing promoters aren’t beating this guy’s door down!

A trio of guys is standing next to me, watching as well. One of them speaks up.

Guy: “Bulls***! Put the [racist slur] up against an in-shape and well-trained white guy and let’s see how long he’d last! Guarantee you, it’d be over by the second round!”

Me: “How about you step in the ring with him, call him that to his face, and see how long you’d last?!”

Other Patron: *Chiming in* “Guarantee you, it’d be over by the second punch!“

Other patrons glared at the guy. It quickly became obvious that they’d just made a frosty environment for themselves; they took the cue to quietly slink over to a table in the back and shut up for the rest of the time they were there.

I used to bartend at a gentleman’s club. I had a regular come in who was well-known for pregaming beforehand. One time, he overdid it and could barely pull his wallet out to pay the door cover before weaving his way to the bar. I immediately placed down a glass of water once he managed to climb up into the seat.

Me: “Hey, man. I’m glad you’re here—” *I wasn’t* “—but you’ve clearly had some drinks before you got here, and I legally can’t serve you anything alcoholic right now. So, if you want to order some food—” *we had a full kitchen* “—or have a soda with the girls and hang out, that’s perfectly fine. In fact, the sodas are free if you want to order from the kitchen.”

He immediately got pissed and started demanding a beer. I shut that down.

Me: “Stop. Look at me. You’re drunk right now, and we both know it. I’m not risking our liquor license or getting fined my d*** self if word gets out that I served someone who almost fell trying to sit at my bar. So, you have two choices. Calm the f*** down and sober up for an hour or so, or leave right now.” 

Yeah, I probably could have been more tactful but this wasn’t exactly a high-end place.

Instead, he chose violence. He tried to reach across the bar and grab my shirt. I stepped back and flagged the two bouncers nearby who were doing a good job and keeping an eye on things. They secured him.

Me: “He’s out, guys. Just give him back his door cover and put him outside, please.”

They did, and he was shoved unceremoniously out the front door, which was locked behind him.

He was stupid, but since he arrived by taxi, he had to wait for another one to take him home or wherever he went, so at least he was smart enough to not drive drunk.

The owner talked to me about it at closing.

Owner: “I hate pissing off a regular, but I know he’ll eventually be back, hopefully having learned a lesson. I’m proud of you for protecting the club and following the law.”

The man was a huge pervert, but he protected and backed all of his employees, so some credit is due there. I gave both bouncers $20 and a handshake for having my back, which they weren’t expecting. But that was the first time something like this had happened, and I wanted them to know how much I appreciated it. They were even more protective — of everyone — after that.