I’m working in a small butcher’s shop. A lady comes in.

Customer: “I’d like a piece of the pork belly that’s in the display.”

There’s only one piece of pork belly on display so I go to grab it out for her.

Customer: “Not that one, the other one.”

I start looking around, wondering if have I missed a piece or if there is another piece on display somewhere. She just keeps pointing and saying:

Customer: “That one there!”

After a moment or two, I worked it out: the display fridge has a mirror at the end and she’d seen the reflection of the pork belly in the mirror. After I politely pointed this out to her, she bought the pork belly and was finally on her way.

I work at a fishmonger’s. I always try to be helpful whenever customers have queries. A customer asks for a portion of cod.

Customer: “Where is this cod from?”

I am thinking she is asking whether it’s farmed or wild.

Me: “It’s wild cod.”

Customer: “No, where is it from?”

Me: “Oh, sorry! All our cod comes from the North-East Atlantic, the waters just west of Ireland.”

Customer: “No, specifically where is it from?”

Me: *Thinking she didn’t hear me* “The North-East Atlantic.”

Customer: “Whereabouts in the Atlantic?”

I look confused because I don’t understand what she’s asking. My coworker, who is regularly quite sassy but always gets away with it, sees my confusion and jumps into the conversation:

Coworker: “Do you want the GPS coordinates from the boat, or what?”

The customer mumbled something about where the fish was from, frowned, and walked off.

My friend has German heritage but grew up in a heavily Hispanic neighborhood in Southern California. His mother regularly shopped at a carniceria (butcher’s shop) local to her for unusual cuts she could not get at a regular grocery store. She had a great relationship with the workers and managers at the carniceria, but she also had a wicked sense of humor.

One day she goes to pick up some meat for her family’s dinner.

Butcher: “Hola, Señora [Mother’s Last Name]! Cómo está, and what can I get for you?”

Mother: “Hola, [Butcher]. Could I have [order]?”

She gets what she wants, goes to the checkout, and happily pays for her groceries. The manager of the day is a son of the owner.

Manager: “Hola, Señora [Mother’s Last Name]! Did you find everything you needed today?”

Mother: “Oh, yes. And your butchers are always so nice! It’s great to be a regular in a neighborhood place like this! They always say, ‘Hello, gringa loca [crazy white lady],’ and I just think that’s so nice!”

The manager absolutely blanched, and my friend’s mother had to explain that it was a joke and that the butchers were not unprofessional after all.

I’m Irish. Ireland is going into full lockdown at midnight tonight, so I want to stock up on some essentials before it kicks in. One of those essentials is a couple of sides of very fresh salmon — emergency sashimi supplies.

So, I get to the fishmonger. He doesn’t have any sides cut, but he has a couple of whole salmon — Yay! — so he starts to fillet and debone them. For some weird reason, Ireland, an island entirely surrounded by seafood, isn’t that into seafood, so this is a biggish order. He begins to do his thing, and I wait.

We are interrupted by an “ahem.”

We look up. It is a small shop, with social distancing, one customer inside at a time. The doorway is fully occupied by an Entitled Woman. She has the hair, the stance, the “ahem,” the works.

The fishmonger looks back down at the salmon and decides that it needs to be trimmed some more.

Entitled Woman: *Ahem!*

Better check for bones, too. Again.

Entitled Woman: *AHEM!*

Perfect. Time to start on the second one. Nice careful trim. Check the angles, trim again.

Entitled Woman: *AHHHHEEEMMMM!*

Might be a bone, better double-check.

He kept her hanging on for twenty minutes! It was so funny. Her urgent question? “Do you have any clams?!”

Me: “Hello! What can I get for you?”

Customer: “I’d like six eight-ounce filet mignon, please!”

Me: “Sure thing!”

I start wrapping the steaks individually and weighing them. They all weigh between 0.4 and 0.6 pounds, so around eight ounces.

Customer: “Woah! Those steaks are way too small. Cut me more.”

Me: “I’m sorry, miss, I thought you wanted eight-ounce steaks?”

Customer: “I do! So why does the scale say 0.5? Shouldn’t it say 0.8?”

Me: “The scale weighs in tenths of a pound, so eight ounces would be 0.5 pounds.”

Customer: *Visibly angry* “Do you even know how many ounces are in a pound?”

Me: “Yes. Sixteen. Half of sixteen is eight, so 0.5 lbs—”

Customer: “Fine! It’s fine. These will be okay, I guess.” *Storms off with the steaks*