I work for a national bank, and as the most senior member of our team, I’m sometimes asked to train our newer employees. I’ll often provide materials to hand out so people can make notes and add them to their files.

One time, I had trained our entire staff on a new process, and afterward, my boss sent me an email saying I needed to be more careful when using actual client names and account numbers in my training materials. I asked my manager to look at the materials again.

“Account name: John Doe. Account number: 12345.”

(There’s a certain restaurant that I always frequent when I want Chinese food, be it for sitting in or taking out. On this particular takeout, among my order is their signature chicken dish, which is served in a sauce and normally comes with, among other things, mushrooms. I can’t stand mushrooms, however, so I always get it without since the sauce makes it hard to tell what’s on my fork. In this particular instance, the order is almost entirely sauce and mushrooms — not one piece of chicken or any of the vegetables to be found, and I dump the whole order onto a plate to check. So, I call up to complain, and by chance, the person who answers is the current owner’s wife, who, for a few reasons, I’m on a first-name basis with. It’s also worth noting that her father was the original owner of the restaurant, and he gave it to her husband when he wanted to retire.)

Wife: “[Restaurant], how can I help you?”

Me: “Hey there, [Wife], it’s [My Name].”

Wife: “[My Name]? Didn’t you just pick up an order?”

Me: “I did. And I hate to be that customer, but I have to let you know about a problem with my [Chicken Dish].”

Wife: “They gave you mushrooms, didn’t they?”

Me: “They did. I wouldn’t have minded so much if there had been some chicken or vegetables in it, though.”

Wife: “You got nothing but mushrooms?”

Me: “Maybe one cashew, but otherwise just mushrooms and sauce.”

Wife: “I’m so sorry. That’s completely unacceptable. Bring it back in, and I’ll make you a fresh one myself.”

(I box it back up and drive down. As it’s rush hour, what’s normally a ten-minute drive instead takes about twenty minutes. In this time, [Wife] disappears somewhere, and instead, greeting me at the counter is her husband. Also of note is that the restaurant is fairly populated, but clearly not in a rush.)

Owner: “How can I help you?”

Me: “I called early to complain about this [Chicken Dish] you prepared for me. Your wife, [Wife], asked me to bring it in.”

Owner: “That’s not our food.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Owner: “That’s! Not! Our! Food! Get out of here! You’re not getting a free meal here!”

(By the time he’s finished, the whole restaurant has turned to look at us. One waitress, his daughter, emerges from the kitchen with a takeout order in hand just in time to hear most of that. She looks like she is about to die of embarrassment.)

Daughter: *hushed* “Dad? What are you doing?”

(I take this opportunity to grab my phone.)

Owner: “I’m putting this scammer in his place!”

Daughter: *puts the bag in my hand* “This is [My Full Name]! His family’s been coming here since before he was born! They’re some of our best customers! He and his dad even know the entire staff by name!”

Me: “I also went to high school with [Daughter] and graduated the same year.” *holds up my phone* “Here’s a photo of us on graduation day posted to Facebook. It was her profile image for a few months after graduation. And when I finally got my black belt from the martial arts school up the road, I had my celebration dinner here. There used to be pictures of that day up on the wall here, along with many stills of the other events this restaurant used to schedule. So, believe me: if I wanted free food, I have a much easier means than faking a screwed-up order.”

Owner: “But that doesn’t look like our food!”

Me: “Y’know, I’ve been saying that for years! Ever since you took over from [Original Owner], you’ve used lower-quality food stuff, the portion sizes have gotten smaller, you’ve fired almost every cook and waitress, and yet you still jacked the prices. I kept coming here out of loyalty to [Wife], [Daughter], and [Original Owner]. And this is how you treat your loyal customers in front of a crowd? [Daughter], thank your mom for this remake, but let her know her husband doesn’t want my business anymore.”

(I held true to those words. I found a new restaurant and I now get my Chinese food there. I work at that martial arts school now, so I drive past this restaurant every day. Business has been going down considerably. I also found out from [Daughter] that a huge part of the problem was that her father lost a ton of money playing the stock market. He even had to sell their house, and they now live on the top floor of the apartment building he also owns.)

Related:
There Is Mushroom For Improvement, Part 4
There Is Mushroom For Improvement, Part 3
There Is Mushroom For Improvement, Part 2
There Is Mushroom For Improvement

(I’m the assistant manager at a pub, working the Christmas party night. We’ve got 150 people, drinks flowing, both a marquee and the main pub open, and a Rod Stewart tribute. Carnage. After a recent scam with £50 notes, we’ve been told by the bank that we can no longer accept them. I’m working the main pub making drinks for a man when I notice the note in his hand.)

Me: “Oh, sorry, love; we’re not allowed to accept £50 notes. Banks—“

Customer: *staring in complete disbelief* “What?”

Me: *internally, “maybe let me finish?”* “We don’t take £50s anymore, mate.”

Customer: “Well, I’ll just go back down and speak to [Owner].”

(I’ve had enough; we’re heaving and I’m already sick of dealing with pretentious assholes when this customer decides to stare into space and ignore everything coming out of my mouth.)

Me: “[Owner] will just tell you the same thing… Sir? Sir, do not ignore me… Sir. We have been told by the bank after a recent slew of scams not to accept £50s… aaaaand you’re walking away.”

(My colleague catches my eye, as do a number of regulars after my outburst — I’m known for being the welcome party and having a smile ready for everyone — as the customer proceeds to bump into the other manager, a person notorious for bending the rules, and inform him that I’m “refusing to serve” him. I don’t hold my breath; I know what’s coming after many years of customer service and on Not Always…)

Other Manager: *accepting the £50 note* “Well, we can’t accept these; if we put this in the till it’s breaking the rules.”

Customer: *smiling happily as he gets his own way* “That’s what she said, but it’s a good note.”

Other Manager: *aka the one who got scammed by the fake £50 which wouldn’t have fooled a toddler* “I can see that. Here you go.”

(I watched in calm fury as the £50 was exchanged — not from the till, but the safe where the money from tonight’s tickets was being kept — before returning to making drinks. In total, the bill came to less than £10 and I bit my tongue. It’s common for customers to buy staff drinks, and I’ll admit I took no convincing in accepting multiple drinks tonight. Proof that even managers get screwed over by management.)

(I am a customer witnessing this epic exchange. My tire goes flat in rural Florida. I get it to what has to be the only shop in 50 miles. I sit down to wait while the shop owner talks to another customer getting an oil change.)

Customer: *looks through the window into the work bay* “Hey! I don’t want that [Religious Slur] working on my car.”

Owner: “Excuse me?”

Customer: “I said, I don’t want that [Religious Slur] working on my car!”

Owner: *after a pause* “Well, you’re in luck. Today at [Auto Shop], we’re giving out free life lessons. Today’s lesson? Don’t piss off the man who owns the lift your car is sitting on top of.” *opens the window to the bay* “[Mechanic], drop the [Car].”

Customer: “Hey! What the h*** are you doing?”

Mechanic: “It’s not done, boss.”

Owner: “Drop it anyway and push it to a parking spot.” *closes window*

Owner: “You see, that is [Mechanic]. He’s worked with me for ten years. He’s my best and fastest guy on oil changes. Given how long he’s had your car, I can say with complete certainty that your vehicle doesn’t have a drop of oil in it. And it’s not going to… not from my shop.”

(The owner hands the customer a business card.)

Owner: “That’s the number for the only tow truck that doesn’t charge extra for coming out this far. But I’m not sure he can help you once I call him. His kids are in little league with [Mechanic]’s kids. Given how long it takes other tow companies, I’m going to give you 45 minutes to get your vehicle out of my parking lot. Then, I’m going to call the sheriff’s office. [Deputy] is on shift today and his mom plays bingo with [Mechanic]’s wife every Saturday. I’m sure he’ll be willing to tow it to an impound lot for you. You’re also banned from my store, which makes you standing there trespassing. Feel free to wait outside, no closer than fifty feet from the building.”

Customer: *looks like he might say something, but just stands there, silent*

Owner: *steps forward, leaning into the customer’s face* “Thus endeth the lesson.”

Me: *applauding as the customer heads out towards his car*

My brother’s birthday is coming up and he wants a certain big-ticket item concerning a certain boy wizard. It’s an exclusive product found only at a certain store.

I’m determined to get it for him, so I sign up for email alerts that will let me know when it’s in stock. When the alert comes in, I snag it to buy online and pick up in the store and mentally congratulate myself.

Suddenly, I get three emails in rapid succession: “Your item has been delayed,” followed by, “Your item is ready for pickup,” and then, two minutes later, “Your order has been canceled.”

I decide to swing by the store and see what’s going on. I find the pickup counter and tell the employee my tale. He responds with, “Oh, your order got canceled because you didn’t pick it up in time.”

Oh, no, you didn’t.

I ask for a manager and tell her the same tale. I also show her the time stamps on the emails that prove there was a two-minute difference between “Ready for pickup” and “Canceled,” and they know from the order that my name is not Barry Allen, thank you very much.

Her response is, “Well, sometimes we get a lot of items in the shipment and don’t feel like looking for all the pickup orders, so we cancel them sometimes. Sorry about that.”

Oh, no, you didn’t.

I probably could kick up a fuss, but I don’t want to make a scene. And clearly, if they don’t “feel like” doing their jobs, it’s not going to help.

Instead, I resolve myself to spending the weekend online and hoping some scalper has it on Amazon or eBay.

However, when I get home, there’s an email asking how my “buy-online-pick-up-in-store” experience was.

Oh, no, you didn’t.

I proceed to detail everything to that little comment box and send it off to cyberspace. I’m surprised my keyboard doesn’t catch fire. The next day, I receive a very apologetic email about my experience, offering a frantic dance of appeasement and free stuff.

They offer to ship the product to my house, free of charge, so it doesn’t have to get lost by the incompetent store employees.

Oh, and my brother loved it, too.