Our restaurant has recently started a “semi-prepared” service. Customers pick up a meal that’s 90% done and complete it at home. This means we can serve dishes that aren’t easy to transport, but it requires that the customers do some work themselves, so we have a “home chef helpline” in case they have questions.

Caller: “Hi. So sorry if this is a silly question, but I’m looking at your menu and I want to make sure I do all the steps I need to at home.”

Employee: “Almost everything on our menu only needs basic kitchen equipment, so I’m sure we can resolve that! Was there a specific item or technique you’re looking at?”

Caller: “I’m looking at [family-sized dish], and I saw on your website that we could substitute in corn on the cob but I didn’t see any instructions on what we need for the corn on the cob.”

Employee: “Good news: the corn on the cob is ready to go. There’s nothing you need to do at home except butter it.”

Caller: “Oh, good! I was worried you were just going to give me corn and I was going to have cob it myself.”

Employee: “You mean… cook… it yourself?”

Caller: “No, no, like… I’ve only ever had just regular corn, you know? So I don’t know how to get it onto the cob.”

Employee: “It’s already… corn is… you don’t… Our corn on the cob is already cooked and you don’t need to worry about that.”

Related:
Diners Of The Corn

I work at a fairly casual restaurant where it is mandatory for everyone to wear masks during the health crisis. It is about ninety degrees Fahrenheit today, which is really hot for where I live. I’m at the end of a long shift, so I am sweating and my face is very red.

I am standing next to an older man who is probably around sixty. He is not wearing a mask. I am a fourteen-year-old girl, which only makes the story creepier. 

The customer looks like he is about to leave.

Me: “Have a good afternoon!”

Customer: “You, too.”

He looks up at me.

Customer: “Wait, where are the napkins?”

It’s a fairly regular question, so I don’t really wonder why he asks despite the fact that he’s about to leave.

Me: “Right behind you, sir.”

He grabs a napkin and then quickly steps forwards and tries to wipe my forehead with the napkin. I instinctively step back.

Customer: *laughing* “Wow, you are beet red! I’m just trying to get some of the sweat off your face.”

He puts his arm on my shoulder and I keep inching backward.

Customer: “Wow, I feel bad for you; you have to spend all day in this heat with a mask on! No wonder you look so red.”

I am still stepping back as his hand is still on my shoulder.

Me: “Heh. Uh, yeah, I guess.”

Customer: “And yesterday must have been much worse; it was so hot you must have been dying!”

Me: “I didn’t work yesterday.”

Customer: “Wow, that’s lucky. Have a good afternoon.”

By this time, somehow we had walked down a hallway just from my inching back. I have no idea why he thought that touching someone’s face with no warning would be okay, especially during the middle of a rapidly spreading health crisis! I spent the rest of my shift being extremely self-conscious of my face.

It’s a dreary Tuesday in South Wales. My wife and I are looking around the local town, and, having had a big breakfast, go for a late lunch at half-past two. We choose a chain pizza restaurant, known for its “express” service, as we have a 50% off coupon. They’re not busy, but it takes five minutes or so to find a host to seat us.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. A waitress finally arrives to take our order. Ten more minutes. I can see our drinks waiting on the bar, no staff around, so I stand up and take them back to our table.

Another ten minutes pass. I manage to flag down a waitress from another section who promises to follow up on our order. She returns almost immediately with our order, which has obviously been sitting under the heat lamp for a while. Too hungry and British to complain about it, we dig in, resigning ourselves to the fact we’ll definitely not be able to order any more drinks to go with it.

We don’t see any more staff for the rest of the meal. Diners from other sections of the restaurant walk past us on their way out, until we’re the only people left.

Twenty minutes since we’ve seen anyone, I get up to look for someone. The place is deserted. There’s not even anyone in the kitchen.

We wait another quarter of an hour, then decide to leave. We’ve got to get ready for an evening trip to the theatre, for one. So, we get up, put our coats on, and have one last check around to see if anyone wants to take our payment. Doesn’t look like it. We don’t have any cash on us, other than change.

Given the poor service and mediocre food, we don’t feel too bad about leaving. I wonder if anyone even realised when they got back to work that we’d gone?

I’m a teller at a bank. It’s the middle of the health crisis, so we don’t have many customers coming in. One coworker and I are sitting behind the counter. The door opens.

Customer: “Oh, sorry. I’m just checking if you’re open.” *Leaves*

My coworker and I shared confused looks.

I am a tomboy in my late twenties. I’m in the backyard, changing all four wheels on my car — jack, tire lever, and all. My aging neighbour is watering the vegetable garden and following my progress.

Neighbour: “You ought to have been born a man!”

He meant it as a compliment.