(I work in a small, four-person office for a restaurant and catering company doing events management. The owner is something of a control freak and tends to micromanage everything, which means that the busier we are, the more stressed out and neurotic he becomes. During our busiest time of the year, the holidays, it isn’t uncommon for him to be more of a hindrance than a help. On this particular day, we have several events happening around town as well as in the restaurant, one of which is a simple delivery. My coworker gets a call from someone at the company with instructions for the day. Unfortunately, the owner is crossing through the room as he rushes around, getting things ready, as she gets off the phone.)

Coworker: *to me* “Hey, who’s doing the delivery today?”

Me: “It should be [Assistant Catering Manager].”

Owner: “No, it’s [Catering Manager]. Why? What’s going on?”

Coworker: “Oh, it’s nothing. The person from [Company we will be delivering to] just called and said that when [Catering Manager] is getting close with the delivery, to call the manager and they’ll get him in the garage.”

Owner: “No no no, we’ll call her, and she can call the manager and tell them to let him in.”

Coworker: “But then, he’ll have to still call us?”

Owner: “Yes.”

Coworker: “So… you want him to call us when he’s getting close, so we can call her, and ask her to call the manager?”

Owner: “Exactly. So, you can just tell him that when he comes to get the food.”

Coworker: *long pause* “Okay.”

(We just gave the catering manager the number we had been given to call in the first place.)

(In college I work for an offshore caterer. It is a Saturday in June, one of the busiest days of one of our busiest months. It’s the kind of day where we are always a little bit behind, simply because we have more deliveries than we have vans to deliver them. I show up to this customer’s house about fifteen minutes late.)

Customer: “Hi! We’ve been waiting for you!”

Me: “Yes, I’m sorry but we are slammed today. I see your guests won’t be arriving for another hour. That’s plenty of time for me to get set up and out of your way.”

(I begin bringing everything in and setting up the chafing dishes. She has a very nice table setting, and I’m very careful not to mess it up.)

Customer: “Are you sure that’s enough water in the pans? Won’t it run out?”

Me: “Yes, this is plenty, especially since all the food trays are deep; if you put too much in it will spill out all over this beautiful table.”

(The real reason is that the water keeps condensing and re-evaporating, but I don’t have time to give her a lesson in thermodynamics. I go out to get the trays of food, and as I am dropping the first one into its water pan, I can feel it hit the water, but it’s too late, and water sloshes out all over her table. I look up, stunned.)

Me: “Oh… um…”

Customer: “Oh, no! I put more in because I thought it wasn’t enough!”

Me: “Well, I did say…”

Customer: “Now my table is all messed up!”

Me: “Yeah, well, I’ll just empty these out and bring in the rest of the food, then.”

(She still tipped me, though.)

(I graduated a few years ago, but due to the “experience problem” still haven’t managed to find a suitable job. Currently, I’m doing uneducated hospitality work, like catering, banqueting, etc. in a congress centre. One morning, I have a conversation about all and nothing with a colleague.)

Me: “Well, I like being treated like an adult, you know? I mean, my age and my master grade might be signs that I am an adult, don’t you think?”

Coworker: “You have a grade?”

Me: “Yes, university.”

Coworker: “Then, what are you doing here?”

Me: “Earning actual money.”

This story is part of the Millennials Roundup!

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(I am working a woman’s 60th birthday at an upscale catering hall, taking dinner orders from my tables.)

Customer: “Filet mignon, medium rare-well.”

Me: “Medium well?”

Customer: *in the most hoity-toity voice imaginable* “Medium rare-welllll.”

(The woman is looking at me like I’m stupid, and I have little-to-no patience, so due to process of elimination, I jot down “MR” for medium rare and move on. [Looking back, I should have just put medium.] After the dinner orders come out, she runs up to me, and aggressively grabs my arm.)

Customer: “My steak is not cooked enough! It has pink!”

Me: “I’m sorry about that. I’m pretty sure you requested medium rare.”

Customer: “Medium rare-well!”

Me: “There is no such thing as medium rare-well, ma’am. I guess what you are requesting is a medium steak. I’m sorry about that, I’ll put it back on the fire.”

Customer: *scoffs*

(I take the steak back into the kitchen.)

Me: *to chef* “Is there any such thing as a medium rare-well steak? Am I missing something?”

Chef: “Nope.”

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(I am a waitress at a very busy Italian wedding. When we start serving the main course, we do the bridal and parent tables first, then we start at table one and work through to the last table. I’m going out to table six with five plates. As I cross the ballroom, one of the guests unexpectedly grabs my arm, nearly causing me to drop a plate.)

Guest: *pointing to one plate* “What’s that, the steak?”

Me: *very aware that seconds are ticking by and stopping to chat will mess up the entire flow of staff* “Yes, sir, the scotch fillet.”

Guest: “Ah, yes, that’s mine.”

(There were two options for the main course: steak or chicken. We had over 100 steak orders.)

Me: “Sorry, sir, these are going to another table. But I can promise that your meal will be ready very soon.”

Guest: “But that’s mine! I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes!”

(We hadn’t even been serving mains for fifteen minutes. I quickly apologise and go to drop the meals at the correct table. On the way back I hear him talking to his friend:)

Guest: “Can you believe it? That idiot waitress gave my meal to someone else!”

(I went back into the kitchen and the entire wait staff had a good laugh about it. Some people are so oblivious!)