Can’t Cry Over Spilt Milk When It Hasn’t Been Poured Yet

, , , , | Right | June 22, 2018

(I work as a barista at a British cafe chain.)

Me: “Hello there! What can I get for you?”

Customer: “Tea. Two.”

Me: “Would you like those in large mugs or teapots? It’s all the same price.”

Customer: “Small! All you big chains are just out to scam people all the time, pretending like there isn’t a smaller size; it’s disgusting!”

Me: “Ma’am, all the sizes of tea are the same price so I just thought—”

Customer: “No! Small!”

Me: “Okay, ma’am, regular milk or skimmed with that?”

Customer: “No.”

Me: “All right, anything else for you today?”

Customer: “I SAID NO ALREADY!”

Me: “Okay, your total is [total]. Thanks very much, enjoy!”

(I go off to clear a table quickly before serving the next customer. When I come back, the customer is still standing there.)

Me: “Everything okay, ma’am?”

Customer: *looking at me like I have a screw loose* “Erm, MILK?!”

Me: “Oh, yep, sure!”

Customer: *to the next person in line* “Jesus, where do they find these people? It’s like the light’s on, but nobody’s home!”

Surely Those Kinds Of Sports Are More Downstairs?

, , , , | Healthy | June 20, 2018

(A few months ago I had a stupid sport accident resulting in a hurt knee. To fight this, I wear a knee support. It’s a brand professional athletes use; it’s bright blue and covers my leg from mid-calf to mid-thigh. A regular about the same age as my grandfather comes into the café where I work and sees my leg.)

Regular: “What happened to you?”

Me: “Sport trauma.” *it’s the fastest and least descriptive way to say it*

Regular: “Oh, too much upstairs sports, is that right?”

Take Your Skinny Soy Mochaccinos Somewhere Else

, , , , , | Right | June 18, 2018

(I work in a small cafe in Los Angeles. My husband and I own it. I am working the morning shift and a rather upper-class-looking man comes in.)

Me: “Hello, sir! Welcome to [Cafe]. What would you like today?”

Customer: “I want the [drink that a major coffee shop has].”

Me: “Sorry, but we don’t make that.”

(He shoves a piece of paper at me, and it has instructions for creating said drink.)

Me: “Sir, I can’t make this for you. Sorry.”

Customer: “I want to speak to a manager.”

Me: “Sir, I own the cafe with my husband. I cannot make this for you!”

Customer: “Well, let me speak to your husband. Women are useless.”

(I am considering kicking him out, but I yell for my husband, who comes out from the back room. I tell him what the customer said.)

Husband: “Get out.”

Customer: “Excuse me?”

Me: “You heard him. Get out.”

Customer: “No. You can’t make me. I’ll call the police for harassment!”

Husband: “Get out, or I will assist you in exiting myself.”

Customer Behind Him: “Get the f*** out. No one wants to hear your stupid-a** comments. Go home to your sad little life.”

(He then grabbed the man by the collar and shoved him outside. He got free coffee.)

Friends Without Benefits

, , , , , | Working | June 17, 2018

(I have gone into the café my family owns for a quick bite to eat while I’m on break. I have never met the cashier before, so I assume she’s new.)

Cashier: “That’s [amount], please.”

Me: “I also have the family and friends discount. My name is on the records.”

(She rolls her eyes and holds out her hand.)

Cashier: “Nice try. [Amount], please.”

Me: “No. You will get the record book, verify my name — [My Name] — and give me the discount.”

(She looks me up and down, still with her hand out.)

Cashier: “So, what are you supposed to be? Cousin? Daughter? What’s the owner called?”

Me: “That’s none of your business. Please do as I ask and get the record book. Oh, and [Husband].”

(She snorts.)

Cashier: “Impressive. I guess scammers really come prepared these days. You can either pay, or I’ll call security and have you removed.”

Me: “Security? Really? This is a small, family-owned café. We don’t have security.”

Cashier: “No, but I can get the chef. He’s beefy!”

Me: “The only chef here is [Nephew], and he’s so thin a gentle breeze could knock him over. But please, by all means, get him.”

Cashier: “Oh, um… What was your name again?”

(I give her my name again and she leaves for the kitchen. My nephew comes out and makes small talk while applying my discount and getting my change. I see the cashier poking her head above the window in the kitchen door occasionally, and I smile and wave. Later that evening when I get home, my husband talks about her.)

Husband: “She took off with the record book during her first shift. She’s adamant that she didn’t take it, but [Brother-in-Law] saw her stuff it in her bag while he was in.”

Me: “Why the hell haven’t you fired her?”

Husband: “Because I want the book back. She’ll bring it back eventually, and I can guarantee we’ll have more friends in it than before.”

(A few weeks later, the book appeared again, with 62 new names added to it. The cashier tried to act like they had always been there, but the change in handwriting and six of the names having the same surname as her was something she couldn’t argue with. We contacted her parents, who confirmed she had added their names, but under the pretense that it was family and friends of employees who also got the discount. She was promptly fired; however, her parents requested she volunteer to work for us for a month as punishment. My husband agreed and has her working with stock. Our son works in there, so hopefully she won’t think to try anything.)

Let The Right One In

, , , , | Right | June 14, 2018

(I work at a cafe that opens early in the morning. We often get people hanging out outside the doors before we open, waiting to get their coffee before going to their jobs. The supervisor usually locks the door, so they can’t get in, as they always try to get in early even though it isn’t time for us to open yet. One morning, however, the supervisor must have forgotten to lock the door; as I’m setting out the pastries, I look up suddenly to see a customer off to the side in front of the register. I stare at him with wide eyes, shocked that he’s in there before we’re open, and he just smiles at me, a bit condescendingly.)

Customer: “It’s 6:30; you’re open.”

Me: “Is it really?”

(I’m skeptical because I know how long it takes me to put out the pastries in the morning and there was no way it is 6:30 already.)

Customer: “Yes, see?” *looks at his phone* “Oh, wait. You have ten minutes. That’s okay; I’ll wait.”

(And then the customer steps back near the windows to wait. I’m speechless at this point, so I just sort of make an agreeing noise and go back to putting out pastries, as I can’t think of a polite way to tell him to get the hell out until we’re supposed to open. Naturally, my supervisor decides to come out right then.)

Supervisor: “Sir, you can’t be in here.”

Customer: *points to me* “Oh, it’s fine; she let me in to wait.”

Supervisor: *looks at me and frowns* “Oh, you can’t do that. We’re not allowed to do that; don’t do it again.”

(I just sort of nod, pissed at this point that the customer is trying to pin this on me and that I might be in trouble now. Naturally, two other customers slip in, since they see the original customer, and now we have three people waiting in the shop and we’re not ready to open yet, but the supervisor isn’t telling them to get out so I stay silent and finish. We officially open a few minutes later and take care of them before sending them on their way.)

Me: “You know I didn’t let him in here, right?” *explains what happened*

Supervisor: *in disbelief* “Seriously, man, that’s messed up. That’s not your fault. though; I guess I forgot to lock the door. I’ll have to be more careful next time.”

(Thankfully, I didn’t get in trouble, as she understood, and we both had a laugh over it, and I have yet to see that particular customer in the morning again, thankfully. I guess some people just don’t know how to be patient.)


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