I work at a local brewery. The name of the place is plastered absolutely everywhere: the big sign above the door, the printed hours on the glass, the giant metal cutout behind the bar. There’s no ambiguity: this is a brewery.

We open at noon on Sundays, which is my regular shift. I love it. There’s no kitchen, no spirits, no table service, just a slow, easy solo open. I usually prop the door open when I arrive because our walk-in cooler is outside, and I need to restock sodas, packaged drinks, and our modest snack shelf.

Let me paint the picture: all the lights are still off, and I’ve got ear-bleedingly loud music playing while I count the till.

That’s when a woman strolls in, thirty minutes before opening, with two kids under five in tow. And she’s already angry.

Woman: “This music is entirely too loud and not appropriate for my girls!”

Me: “I’d agree. It’ll be at an appropriate level and on a different station when we open at noon.”

Woman: “Can’t you do that now?”

You know what? Fine. I turn the volume down and switch it to something kid-safe. Then go back to counting the drawer.

Woman: “Excuse me? Where should we sit?

Me: “Anywhere you’d like, ma’am. But I still have to finish opening and won’t be able to get to y’all for at least fifteen to twenty minutes.”

Woman: “IS THERE NO ONE ELSE HERE?!”

I glance around the very empty room, then give her an obviously exaggerated look.

Me: “Sure doesn’t look like it.”

Woman: “Fine. Just give me a coffee and two milks.”

Me: “Ma’am, this is a brewery. I don’t have any of that.”

Woman: “Fine. Just let me see the menu and I’ll decide.”

I point to the draft board.

Me: “Those are our draft selections. The chalkboard next to it has our wine and snacks. We’ve got Coke, Diet Coke, and Sprite in cans.”

Woman: “MY KIDS AREN’T ALLOWED SUGARY SOFT DRINKS! WHERE IS THE KIDS’ MENU? WE WANT BREAKFAST!”

Me: “Ma’am. This. Is. A. Brewery. We don’t have kids’ menus, milk, juice, or breakfast foods.”

She stares, stunned, like I’ve just revealed I’m not actually a waitress at IHOP. Turns out, the whole time she thought she was at the trendy breakfast place around the corner, which isn’t even open on Sundays. 

Why?

I asked one of my coworkers that night. Apparently, during COVID (which at the time of this story was only about a year prior), the breakfast place had so many issues with church crowds ignoring distancing rules that they started closing Sundays just to avoid the drama. And then they liked it so much… they never reopened. 

So now the brewery gets the Sunday after church crowd. Lord help us.

I work at a tiny taphouse that is right next to a very popular small-business wing place.

We only sell beer and pre-packaged foods/snacks (no kitchen) at the taphouse. However, we tell people that they can bring their own food in if they want, which is allowed because we don’t make food ourselves.

Many customers choose to bring wings over from next door. We have even worked out a little discount between both of our places, where if you show a beer receipt from us over at the wing place, you get a discount, and if you show us a wing receipt, you get a dollar off your beer. We share a lot of the same customers, so the owners just thought that would be a nice thing to promote business for both places.

The wing place does serve beer, but only basics like Bud and Coors Light, Corona, etc. We are a craft beer taphouse and sell a lot of different types of beer.

Due to both places selling beer, and our discount partnership, some people get confused and think we are the same business that is separated into two parts. Understandable! But we have signs everywhere saying that alcohol can’t go between facilities. I explain this to customers who say they have never been in before as well.

This guy comes in and says:

Customer: “It’s my first time in the taphouse. I have friends getting wings next door.”

To immediately nip any confusion in the bud, I explain:

Me: “Your friends are welcome to come eat their wings over here, and get beers with you, but you can’t take one of our beers next door, and they can’t bring any beer in here.”

Customer: *Scoffs.* “The kid working at the counter next door told me I could bring it over there.”

Yeah, right.

Me: “Then that employee is mistaken, and it is not allowed.”

He also got mad that I asked for his ID. He decides on a beer, and I pour him a pint.

Customer: “I just want one while I wait for the food to be ready.”

He pays and then proceeds to walk out the door with his beer. I stop him and explain again.

Me: “You can’t bring the beer over there, but your friends can bring the wings over here.”

Customer: *Getting mad.* “I wouldn’t have got one of your beers if I’d known that! But I don’t want any of the s*** beer next door!”

Me: “Sir, I explained it less than five minutes ago. Twice. You said okay. I am sorry for the confusion, but you have to finish your beer here or have your friends come over with their food.”

He starts to chug his beer dramatically, and I resist the urge to laugh. He leaves. Ten minutes later, he comes back in.

Me: “Did you and your friends change your mind about coming over?”

Customer: “No, but I want some beer to-go.”

We offer some cans and 32 oz crowlers to-go. Before I pour the beer, I let him know:

Me: “Just a reminder that you won’t be able to drink this to-go beer next door.”

Customer: *Huffs.* “YEAH, I GET IT!”

Me: “Would you like me to hold the crowler in the cooler for you until you and your friends are ready to go? So it stays cold.”

Customer: *Brushes me off.* “We’re taking our food to-go anyway.”

He closes his tab again and leaves with the crowler. I have an idea of what this guy is trying to do, but I’ll take his money before confronting him.

I wait about two minutes and then ask someone to watch the bar for me. I go next door. I see this guy at a table sneakily pouring beer into a glass from the crowler. Nope. 

I go up to the wing place manager/owner and let them know what’s going on. The manager goes over and tells him and his friends they’ll have to leave. He starts to tell the manager:

Customer: “The other guy said it’s okay for him to bring the beer over!”

I jump into the conversation.

Me: “NO, I did not!”

The guy looks a little sheepish and starts to sputter a bunch of angry toddler sounds. They all start to leave while the guy starts yelling about how we’re all idiots. His friends look embarrassed, and one of them says:

Customer’s Friend: “Dude! What the h***! Why are you always an a**hole?”

The manager actually ended up letting the guy’s friends stay, because they didn’t do anything wrong. The guy was mad that his friends wouldn’t leave with him. 

I get it, I don’t really drink certain beers either. But you could have just come over and had your wings and watched the same exact game on TV, and had good beer at our place. Instead, now neither place wants to serve you ever again. How did that work out for you?

I work in the store component of a local brewery. A man walks over, looking mildly confused.

Customer: “Hey, do you have anything normal? You know, like just a regular beer?”

Me: “We’ve got some lighter lagers if you’re looking for something more traditional.”

Customer: “I mean like… Bud Light. Or Heineken. This stuff’s all weird and got animals.”

Me: “Those are the local breweries. The moose is a brown ale, and the raccoon’s an IPA.”

Customer: “I just want to drink something… normal.”

Me: “Well, you’re in a craft beer shop. We kind of specialize in weird and wonderful.”

Customer: “You’re not any cooler just by drinking weird hipster beers, you know that?”

The next customer in line starts to speak up in a mocking voice.

Next Customer: “My name is Mr. Dude McBro! Give me whatever tastes as boring as I am and doesn’t challenge my masculinity!”

Customer: *Swinging around.* “Mind your own business!”

Next Customer: “I want a beer, and your fragile-ego dithering is delaying it. Now go find a local Walmart and buy something that’s as bland as you are and let me order my beer!”

Customer: “F****** hipster douchebags!” *Storms out.*

Next Customer: *To me.* “Your most emotionally complex beer, please!”

I am bartending at a small brewery. We only sell beers from our brewery. A couple comes in and sits at the end of the bar.

Customer: “Which of your beers are local?”

Me: “Pretty much all of them, since this is a brewery.”

Customer: “Yeah, but which are the most local?”

I usher them to seats at the other end of the bar, closer to the brewhouse, which can be seen behind some large glass panels from this viewpoint.

Me: “All of our beers just got fifty percent more local.”

Customer: “…huh?”

Me: *Pointing to the brewhouse.* “All of the beers come from right there.”

Customer: “I don’t get it.”

Me: “We brew all the beers right over there in that room, behind that glass.”

Customer: “Oh… okay. I get it now.”

Me: “That’s good. So what would you like?”

Customer: “A Bud Light.”

Related:
Trouble Brewing, Part 13
Trouble Brewing, Part 12
Trouble Brewing, Part 11
Trouble Brewing, Part 10
Trouble Brewing, Part 9

For most of my life, I’ve struggled with my weight and with body image issues. While I’m finally on my way to a healthier me today, both physically and mentally, this occurred a few years ago. This is important to know in terms of mindset. The key point of this story is that I just got a large tattoo on my upper arm – I find tattoos to be immensely positive in terms of loving my body. 

This first story occurs at a brewery that is holding an event in the month of June. To one side is a sweet little art market. I’m wandering the stalls and come up to one manned by an elderly woman. My tattoo is on full display.

We talk about the pieces for a bit and how her granddaughter roped her into helping out, and then she points at my arm.

Let’s call her Grumpy Old Lady:

GOL: “Why would you do that to yourself? My granddaughter does it, too. Why would you ruin your beautiful skin?”

Me: *Caught off guard.* “Oh, uh… well, it makes me happy.”

She puffs up. 

GOL: “Back in my day, we kept our bodies pure.”

Against my better judgment, I laugh. I have never heard that line outside someone painting a caricature of the typical “boomer”. This obviously does not do wonders for the conversation – she is edging towards furiously annoyed, expression-wise – but I try to smooth things over.

Me: “Well, that made you happy. This makes me happy.”

GOL: “Yes, well, what will a future husband think of it?”

At this, I drop all pretences of being nice. 

Me: “Lady, you’re at a Pride event. What makes you think I’m looking for a husband?”

I’m sure this would have gone downhill further, but at that moment, the granddaughter in question returns, and all signs of vitriol are gone from GOL. I make some polite conversation with the granddaughter and then escape.

Now, for the positive side of this story: that same weekend, I attended church with my parents (they wanted me to meet some of their community). I’m dressed in a knee-length, short-sleeved dress with a sweater over it, but by the end of mass, I’m sweating buckets because they don’t have air conditioning, so I take my sweater off. We’re mingling with other parishioners when a tiny octogenarian marches up to me, grabs my arm, and pushes up my sleeve to see the whole of my tattoo.

Let’s call her Nina. Think of her as your typical black southern grandma, drawl and all. 

At first, I think this is round two of judgment, but no.

Nina: *Now pulling me towards her family.* “Oh, isn’t this just lovely? Look at this beautiful art!”

Woman: *Who I later learned was her sister.* “Nina! Stop dragging that poor girl around.”

Nina: “But isn’t it gorgeous?” *She turns to me, keeping a grip on my arm and rubbing my tattoo lovingly.* “I wish I had been brave enough to do this myself! I’m too old now, but it’s just stunning!”

I’m laughing at this point and thank her. We have a conversation about how you’re never too old while she tells me about all the tattoos she’s ever dreamed of getting. Just goes to show!