When Five Is Greater Than Eight

, , , , , | | Right | August 22, 2019

(I am in my second week of starting my new job, so my manager is nearby to supervise and help me. I’ve largely got the hang of it by now, though I do appreciate the occasional help. A customer walks up. I am the most free at the time since my manager is frying chips and my coworker is on break, so I walk up to her.)

Me: “Hello. What can I get for you?”

Customer: “Hi. I would like eight fried chicken legs.”

Me: “Well, it’ll be a lot cheaper to get the eight-piece set, since it’ll have to be rung up as eight chicken legs.”

Customer: “Don’t worry, since it’s the eight-piece on sale.”

Me: “Um, I cannot substitute pieces for a set.”

Manager: *who was nearby with the fryers* “What’s the problem?”

Customer: “I just want the eight-piece on sale with the eight chicken legs.”

Manager: “Ma’am, that does not apply. Look up and you’ll find the eight-piece set on sale.”

Customer: *looks up briefly* “Yeah, but it’s different than what’s on the glass counter.”

Manager: “Look up again.”

Customer: *takes a longer look at the sign above* “It is the same one.”

Manager: “See?” *goes back to frying more chips*

Me: “Okay, shall I get you the eight-piece set?”

Customer: “No. Instead, I want five fried-chicken legs.”

Me: “Um, Okay. But it’ll be cheaper to get the eight-piece set.”

Customer: “Don’t worry. I want the five chicken legs.”

Me: “Okay.”

(I go and get her the five chicken legs and, after ringing it up as five chicken legs, which is more expensive than the eight-piece set by a few dollars, I give it to her and give her my farewell. I then take a few steps back to my manager, who’s frying a new batch of chips.)

Me: “People can be pretty weird.”

Manager: “I hate people.”

Unfiltered Story #160180

, , , | | Unfiltered | August 21, 2019

Me: mid-evening at deli in a grocery store setting, serving a special of roast beef with “two sides”.

Customer reacting to my co-worker getting a potato serving (one “side”) for her customer: “Stop her! She’s taking all the potatoes! You’re just giving me the scraps!”

(Customer clearly feels he has the right to take out his bad mood/frustrations on me.)

Regardless …

Me: “Can I give you an extra helping of roast beef and, instead of charging you $15.99, I’ll give it to you for $10.99?”
(Note: I gave him DOUBLE the roast beef serving, and charged him $10.99.)

Customer: “You’re giving me the scraps! I’ll never come here again!”

Well, he came again … and again …

Greedy, greedy, greedy human being!!!

THE CUSTOMER IS FREQUENTLY NOT “RIGHT” …. THE CUSTOMER OFTEN GETS MORE THAN HE/SHE DESERVES.

Don’t Tell Me To Be Mellow Yellow

, , , , , | | Working | August 19, 2019

(In my department, we have four flavors of rotisserie chicken: traditional, lemon pepper, barbecue, and a seasonal flavor. We identify and often refer to them by the colors of the strings they come tied in: white, yellow, red, and blue, respectively. A normal cook consists of eight birds, two of each color, but we run out of some flavors faster than others, and sometimes the flavor proportions are wildly unequal.)

Coworker: “Can you print me some price tags for these bad boys?”

Me: “Sure. What flavors you got?”

Coworker: “Seven yellow and one white.”

Me: “Seven yellow and one white?!”

Coworker: “Yup. So, it’s like the student body at Harvard.”

Me: *disbelieving Pikachu face*

Mortadella Mortified

, , , , , | | Right | August 14, 2019

(I work at the supermarket deli, and there is a regular I always hated serving. She is a grouchy old fusspot who always seems to find a problem in something. She comes up to the counter and I’m readying myself for another miserable experience.)

Fusspot: “I want some of that meat, sliced.” *points to case*

Me: *trying to see where she is pointing* “The olive mortadella?”

Fusspot: “Yes.”

(In case you don’t know, mortadella is Italian sausage meat that tastes similar to bologna, but is fancier and made of higher-quality meat. The olive mortadella is stuffed with green olives, and the olives themselves are stuffed with tiny pieces of red capsicum, or bell pepper for my American readers. I pick up the opened chub of olive mortadella to bring it to the slicer, but she starts protesting.)

Fusspot: “No! I want the other one!” *points again*

Me: *putting a hand over the chub she’s pointing at* “This one?”

Fusspot: “Yes!”

Me: “Yes, that’s the olive mortadella. The one you’re pointing at is unopened; I have the opened one here.”

Fusspot: “No, they’re different!”

Me: “They’re the same, and I can’t open a new one until we use up the opened one.”

(The deli workers often make an exception upon request, if the chub is very close to the end, but this chub has barely been used; it’s only had maybe a quarter of it taken off, if that.)

Fusspot: “No, the one I’m pointing at has something else in it. It has that red thing in it.”

Me: “That’s the red capsicum stuffing in the olive. This one has the same stuffing, as well; once you slice through the olive you’ll see the red stuffing inside it.”

(After some back and forth, the fusspot stalks off to the customer service desk. She comes back shortly after with the customer service worker in tow, who is a lovely person but doesn’t know much about the deli. By this time, I’ve explained what transpired with my coworkers in the deli.)

Fusspot: *points to me* “This girl refused to serve me what I wanted.”

Coworker: “Which meat did you want?”

Fusspot: *points again* “That one.”

Coworker: “That’s the olive mortadella. This is the unopened one; it’s the same thing.”

(The fusspot starts arguing with my coworkers and me, and we reiterate our policy that we can’t open a new chub when there is so much left on the opened chub, and that we guarantee that the olives in both chubs are stuffed with the same red capsicum, but it almost always falls out when it hits the slicer. Initially, the customer service worker suggests we slice the opened one and discard the first slices until the stuffing appears, but as the stuffing ends up predictably falling out, it just results in a pile of wasted sliced meat. We try to show her this, but she won’t accept this explanation or that the same thing will happen when we open the new chub. Eventually, the customer service worker tells us to just open the new chub anyway and give her what she wants. My coworkers are fed up and comply. As the first slice comes off the slicer, lo and behold, the red stuffing that the fusspot had been coveting falls out, and the slice is identical to the ones we’ve already sliced. I have been teased before by my coworkers for always being “mellow” in the face of problem customers, but at this point, I am well and truly pissed off. I pick up the slice of mortadella from the new chub that she requested, and march over to the customer, displaying it to her in all its stuffing-less glory.)

Me: *not making any attempt to mask the steel in my voice* “There’s the slice from the new chub that you wanted. As you can see, the stuffing has fallen out.”

Fusspot: *looks down meekly and mumbles something*

Me: *unwavering death glare for five seconds before I silently turn around and continue about my business*

(I know it sounds like a minor thing to get worked up over, and maybe it is, but I hate wasting perfectly good food, and I had reached the end of my rope with this crazy lady. To my pleasant surprise, however, the fusspot returned many times after this incident a reformed customer. She never gave me any problems after that. Somehow I must have scared her into being nice.)

The Sensitive White Male Will Go Off Before The Cheese Will

, , , , , , , | | Right | August 6, 2019

(I’ve just opened a new package of white American cheese made by a company whose initials are LOL. I set a large plastic bag on the counter and write on it the date, the product code, and “LOL White” as a scowling old man walks up and sees what I’m doing. For reference, he’s white and so am I.)

Old Man: “What the h*** do you think you’re doing?!”

Me: “Huh?”

Old Man: “Laughing at the white man?!”

Me: “What are you talking about?”

(He slams his palm down on the bag I’m writing on.)

Old Man: “Right there! ‘Laughing out loud at the white man!’ F****** millennial [racial slur]-loving libtard feminist SJW socialist traitor!”

(I groan. Oh, joy, another one of those.)

Me: “That’s not what that means.”

Old Man: “Shut up! I know what all those stupid things your generation write on your liberal chat rooms mean! You millennials almost ruined this d*** country trying to destroy the white man! Well, you ain’t gettin’ away with it ever again now that Trump is in charge! Trump’s gonna send you all to Hell where you belong!”

(I grab the block of cheese and slam it on the counter right in the man’s face. Over the course of about three seconds, the look on his face goes from, “What the hell is he doing?” to, “Uh-oh, is that what I think it is?” to, “Oh, God, I’m an idiot,” to “NO, I CAN’T be the idiot!” to, “ENEMY! DESTROY! DESTROY!”. He slams both hands down on the counter and leans over it to scream in my face.)

Old Man: “TRUMP 2020! TRUMP 2020!”

(He turned around and stomped out of the store muttering about “f*****’ [racial slur]-lovers.”)