I work in an owner-operated diner. It’s relatively new to the area, so the owner is eager to encourage the community to try out the place. He sets out a free self-serve coffee station at the end of the counter, available in the morning only, to encourage breakfast traffic. A lot of people come in just to get some coffee, but the owner doesn’t mind, as it adds some vibrancy to the place, and other people see a busy diner and come in for that reason.

The first complaints come in that the FREE coffee is boring on its own and needs some extras, so one busy morning, he puts out some carafes labeled Regular, Decaf, Milk, and Sugar.

A man comes up with a scowl.

Customer #1: “Excuse me. Why does this say mil? What even is that?!”

Owner: *A little flustered, balancing trays.* “Oh, it’s milk, sir. I must have dropped the ‘K’ when I was writing it out. My mistake.”

Customer #1: “Hmph. Well, this is what happens when you doze off on the job!”

Owner: *Tight smile, still doing multiple things.* “Yes, sir. I’ll fix it right now.”

He grabs a marker and adds the ‘K’. Done.

The customer pours his coffee, but still with a scowl. 

The Next Day:

Customer #2: “Why is the creamer closer to the sugar than the milk? That’s not logical.”

Owner: “I set it down fast before the morning rush. You can still reach it.”

Customer #2: “Well, it’s confusing. I want it closer.”

Owner: “There’s no set order to them. They’re left in place by the last person to use them.”

Customer #2: “So that’s your answer? You’re blaming the customer?”

Owner: “I’m not blaming anyone, as there’s nothing to blame. You just pick up the carafe you need.”

Customer #2: *Mocking tone.* “So it’s not your fault. Got it.”

The Next Day:

Customer #3: “This coffee isn’t hot enough.”

Owner: “It was brewed five minutes ago. You can see the steam.”

Customer #3: “Well, it’s not hot enough for me.”

Owner: “I’ll brew a new pot for you.”

Customer #3: *Sighs.* “Fine, but I shouldn’t have to tell you and I shouldn’t have to wait.”

The Next Day:

The original complainer is back.

Customer #1: “Your cups don’t fit the lids properly. That’s unsafe.”

Owner: “They do fit, you just need to give them a little press until they pop.”

Customer #1: “Starbucks puts the lids on for you.”

Owner: “Starbucks also charges you over five bucks for a coffee.”

Customer #1: “Whatever. I came back again to give you a chance, but you’re all still so lazy.”

After a week of this happening daily, the poor owner has finally had enough. Still wanting to seem welcoming and good value, but wanting to filter out the complaining freeloaders, he removes the cups from the coffee station. You can buy a cup for a dime at the counter and still help yourself to the coffee. 

The original complainer returns again:

Customer #1: “Where are all the cups? You lazy bums are falling behind with restocking!”

I explain the dime cup policy.

Customer #1: “What?! That’s ridiculous! It used to be free!”

Me: “You know, sir, it was free. But people kept complaining about things that didn’t matter, like simple spelling mistakes, having to put the lids on themselves, and stupid stuff like that. The boss got tired of it, so he started charging.”

Customer #1: *Realizing, going red.* “Oh.”

He quietly slinks out, for once not offering a single word of critique. Sadly, while the number of complaints did go down, they still were frequent enough that they became more effort than they were worth, so we had to start charging for coffee like a regular diner after that, but at least that first customer never came back!

It’s Sunday during the peak “after church” rush at the diner. The after-church crowd is… predictable. High-maintenance, low-tip. Demanding refills before they even order, sending back food that’s exactly what they asked for, treating us like their own personal apostles of breakfast.

I get sat with a table of three older regulars, all decked out in their Sunday best: two women and a man, mid-70s. From the moment they sit down, it’s all “Bless your heart, sweetie,” and “The Lord sure did test my patience waiting on that parking spot!”

They take forever to order, change their minds twice, and call me over four times during the meal. They eat like kings, run me ragged, and leave their plates spotless. 

As they’re getting ready to go, the woman paying the bill makes a little show of patting her purse.

Customer: “Now, sugar, I just wish I could leave you a little something extra, but all I’ve got today is the Lord’s love.”

She places a folded tract, a religious pamphlet, on top of the check.

Customer: “But I do want to leave you with a word from Scripture. Matthew 6:19, ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth…'”

The other two nod approvingly. The man even adds:

Other Customer: “You’ll be blessed in other ways, sweetie.”

I smile, sweet as syrup.

Me: “Well, I sure hope so, ma’am. Because Luke 10:7 says, ‘The laborer is worthy of their wages.'”

They blink. Silence.

The man coughs. One of the women grabs her purse and they stand up and shuffle out, very sheepish and awkward.

I toss the pamphlet in the bin behind the counter, right on top of the last five that have been piled there by other customers to other servers.

Bless their hearts. And bless me too. I still had four more tables to flip.

Related:
About To Get Biblical Over This

I like fresh ground pepper. My wife likes fresh ground pepper. My friends like fresh ground pepper. I particularly like it on my weekly Sunday breakfast, which, as it happens, takes place in the same local neighbourhood diner as it has for ten years.

Alas, this diner deploys simple pepper shakers, inadequate for our tastes, so we bring along our own purse-sized mill. This diner, I should further point out, is generally patronized by regulars each Sunday morning, and we are on a smile-and-wave basis with most of them.

As usual, this past Sunday, we were enjoying our breakfast, talking, laughing over stupid jokes, the usual. At the table to our immediate right was a couple of about mid-50s (same as us), but unfamiliar to us, not regulars, and the man had a loud voice. So loud, in fact, that he made our conversation a little difficult.

During a lull in our conversation, I heard him say:

Loud Guy: “Pass the pepper.”

My friends then mentioned that they were going for a bike ride later and wondered if we’d like to join them. I thought it over, and just as I was about to answer, I heard a scraping of a chair from the next table. Suddenly, the man with the loud voice was looming over our table.

Loud Guy: “I SAID ‘PASS THE PEPPER’, god-d***-it!”

He barked and reached across the table to grab my pepper mill. A cacophony of protest, surprise, queries, and exclamations followed. I managed to block his hand and looked up at him.

Me: “Hey, what are you doing?!”

My friend, a very mild-mannered and gentle man, jumped to his feet and squared up.

Loud Guy: “PASS. THE. PEPPER! What is so hard to understand?!”

I quickly slid the pepper mill off the table and into my pocket, then I, too, stood up.

Me: “The pepper? You mean my pepper? That isn’t the communal pepper.”

Loud Guy: “What the f*** is wrong with you? I want the god-d*** pepper!”

At this point, his wife/girlfriend/companion, quicker on the uptake, realized his mistake and tried to get his attention.

Loud Guy’s Companion: “Listen!”

She tried, but he’s doubling down and was not to be denied.

Loud Guy: “Get that f****** pepper out of your pocket and hand it over, NOW!”

Eyes were uncomfortably on us. Other tables were watching this play out in surprise and shock. At this point, a server approached with her arms full of someone else’s breakfast.

Server: “Hey, guys, not sure what’s going on, but I have hot food here. Coming through!”

As she passed, he shouted again and this time threw his hands in the air in a “what the h***?” gesture. It all happened in a blur, and before the server could duck, she was covered in sunny-side-up eggs, home fries, and sausage.

“What the h***!” “Hey!” “Watch out!” “Oh NO!” and a dozen other exclamations from the onlookers erupted all at once.

Loud Guy: “F***! See what you f****** did?!”

His companion had scrambled to her feet to assist the server, who dropped the second plate as well. My wife also got up to help, and the owner, a sweet-faced 65-year-old, suddenly emerged from the kitchen.

Owner: *Alarmed.* “What is going on?”

Everyone started talking at once, and the loud guy shouted over everyone, indicating me as he spoke.

Loud Guy: “THIS A**HOLE WOULDN’T PASS ME THE PEPPER!”

The owner gaped uncomprehendingly at him for a moment. She looked at the mess on the floor, the now red-faced and furious loud customer, the other customers, and then at me.

Owner: “He… what? There’s… pepper on your table.”

His companion screamed at him again.

Loud Guy’s Companion: “APOLOGIZE NOW AND SIT… DOWN!”

Me: “It’s my pepper mill, not the restaurant’s.”

Loud Guy: “F****** idiot, why didn’t you say something, a**hole?!”

I laughed out loud and looked with amazed surprise at my friend. He stared straight at him and said in a quiet but firm voice:

My Friend: “Listen to your wife and sit. Down.”

The owner looked around at the mess and confusion. At this point, approximately 45 seconds had elapsed since this loud guy first lurched to his feet to steal my pepper.

Owner: *To the loud guy.* “I think I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I can’t have this in my restaurant.”

His companion, nearly in tears, began apologizing rapidly and repeatedly. He started protesting and demanding that he get to eat his breakfast. The owner, sweet-faced but tough, told him he could leave voluntarily, or she would have the police assist him.

His companion left a wad of money on the table and grabbed his arm, pulling him to the door. She says to the owner and server:

Loud Guy’s Companion: “I am so sorry.”

I guess he loves his pepper, too.

My family and I have just finished dinner while on a road trip.

Waitress: “Can I get you guys any desserts? We do a real good pie.”

Me: “Oh, the pie sounds nice, but no cream, please.”

Waitress: “Oh, but you gotta get the cream! It’s actually illegal not to have cream with pie in Texas!”

Me: “Wait, really?”

Waitress: “It’s a matter of Texan pride! Remember the à la mode!”

There is a brief moment of silence before my wife and I break into a strained guffaw.

Me: “Okay, we have to get the pie after that!”

I couldn’t get the cream because of lactose intolerance, but the waitress got me some lactose-free alternative, so I was able to have my Alamo Pie without breaking any Texan laws!

I’m working at a deli/diner where you can see the kitchen from the seats. We have a new chef in the kitchen. An older regular comes in.

Regular: “Oh… you got one of them… uh… foreigners up in the kitchen?”

Me: “That’s Vasu, and he’s a d*** good cook.”

Regular: “Yeah, but I want some good ol’ American food. I don’t want none of that Indian stuff.”

Me: “[Regular], how long have you been coming here?”

Regular: “Longer than you’ve been alive!”

Me: “And has the menu changed once in all that time?”

Regular: “Uh… not really.”

Me: “Exactly. So, you want your bacon, ham, and eggs?”

Regular: “…yeah. Tell him not to mess it up.”

Our new chef prepares the food and brings it out to our regular.

Chef: “Non-foreign bacon, ham, and eggs for the gentleman, not too messed up.”

Regular: “Now come on, there’s no need to be unprofessional.”

Chef: “And there’s no need to assume I can’t cook your food because of my ethnicity. But don’t worry, Indians are a generous people, so I’ve even thrown in a free side: a local delicacy called a dash of not giving a d***.”

He returns to the kitchen, and the regular decides to complain to the owner. I wasn’t privy to that conversation, but the regular became less regular after that. We got a surprise visit from a government inspector a few weeks later, claiming we were hiring an illegal immigrant chef, which came as a shock to Chicago-born Vasu.